4.

Now and then Alison came up with a really awesome idea, a cracking plan that would mortify Biddy even more than usual, and reaffirm her own popularity. And the older she got, the more inventive she became. Like the time she persuaded Georgina to accidentally spill a jug of cold custard over Biddy’s hair in the canteen, and the day Jackie agreed to hide Biddy’s vest and pants during an outing to the local swimming pool. Biddy, as usual, said nothing and put on her uniform, minus her underwear, while the others whispered and sniggered behind her back. And oh how they laughed later in the playground when, to chants of, ‘Biddy’s got no knickers on, Biddy’s got no knickers on,’ Jackie pulled up Biddy’s skirt to reveal her pale, bare bottom.

But the best idea by far, the one that really worked a treat, and actually made Biddy cry, right there in the classroom in front of everyone and doddery old Mr Hendry into the bargain, was the one which became known as ‘Red Paint Day’.

 

Alison matured quickly in every way – but particularly in the physical sense. In Primary 6 she was the first girl in the class to swap her plain white school vest for one of those pretty cropped bra tops with a hearts and flowers pattern and matching pants. The bra top wasn’t strictly necessary to begin with, but Alison knew she had to make the first move towards grown-up underwear before anyone else from school pipped her to the post. That would have been humiliating. And anyway, by the time the autumn term of P7 arrived, the bra top most definitely was required. During that summer break, when Alison had turned eleven (she hated having her birthday during the school holidays, as she missed out on the fuss that would have been made of her at school, and there was always someone who couldn’t come to her party because they were away on holiday somewhere or other, which meant fewer presents), she began to blossom from a girl to a young woman. Her pert little breasts started to push out the bra top, which was replaced by two tiny cotton triangles held together with pink satin straps. Her limbs appeared to lengthen overnight, she went up two shoe sizes, her long honey hair grew longer and glossier than ever before, and on their family holiday to France, her mother allowed her to wear blue eye-shadow for the very first time in public. Alison didn’t miss for a second the admiring glances of the local boys in the village. She was in heaven. She took to wearing ‘4711’ cologne. She also took her period.

When the new school term started, Alison wasted no time in telling the other P7 girls her wonderful news. She began with the disciples who, on her nod of approval, started to pass the word down the girls’ line at assembly. From the top of the row, Alison watched with glowing pride as the news was greeted with gasps of awe and glances of respect. She was greatly relieved that this first and fundamental step to womanhood had not been experienced by anyone else that summer. Biddy, as always, stood at the back of the line, slightly apart from the rest of the class. No one had spoken to her, acknowledged her, or even noticed her. When Stephanie Hall, the last girl in the line before Biddy, turned to pass on Alison’s news, she appeared to look straight through her and, apparently seeing no one, hastily turned back to discuss the exciting event with little Jill Cleaver. But Alison noticed Biddy, all alone, completely unaware of what the others were talking about, oblivious to their excitement. And it suddenly occurred to Alison that even if Biddy had been let in on the not-so-secret secret, she wouldn’t have had the foggiest notion what they were talking about. Alison was as sure as she could be that Biddy Weir had never heard of ‘periods’, so there and then she dreamt up a plan to deliver the Weirdo’s first ever sex education lesson.

Georgina, Jackie and Julia agreed that the plan was brilliant, Alison’s best yet. The rest of the girls knew that something big was going to happen at Friday afternoon’s Art class, but they weren’t privy to the details. It was to be a surprise. Naturally, the boys were told nothing. There was no way that any of the girls were going to talk to them about periods and stuff, and anyway, keeping them in the dark would ensure maximum impact.

 

Biddy liked Friday afternoons. Art class was her favourite lesson, as she loved to draw, and because she was so good at it – by far the best in the class – no one ever made fun of her. They didn’t praise her work or compliment her talent, and now and then a jar of water was ‘accidentally’ spilt over her compositions, but mostly they just ignored her. To Biddy, this was bliss.

But Alison was ragingly jealous of Biddy’s artistic talent, as it was the only gift she apparently hadn’t been blessed with herself. Since her arrival at the school, she had been waiting for an opportunity to humiliate Biddy during an Art lesson, and, at last, that day had come.

That first Friday afternoon of the Primary 7 term, the atmosphere in the Art lesson was charged with excitement. Even old Mr Hendry, not noted for his powers of observation, sensed that something was up, but lazily put it down to the buzz of being in Primary 7, or the set task, which was to paint a scene from their summer holiday. And so, at the first opportunity, he went back to his copy of Catch-22, hidden inside the Headteacher’s Prospectus for the new school year.

Alison gave Julia the nod. Julia put up her hand.

‘Please, Mr Hendry,’ said Julia sweetly, ‘could you give me some help with my picture? I’m not sure how to paint the sand.’

Mr Hendry, irritated by the interruption to his reading, put down his cleverly disguised book and reluctantly began to show Julia how to mix yellow, brown and white, and speckle it on the page for the desired effect of sand. You’d never have known that he had once loved art himself. While he was otherwise occupied, Jackie, on Alison’s next nod, walked to the back of the class, on the pretext of washing her paint brush, and carefully tipped a tiny jar of dark red paint onto the back of Biddy’s chair. She glanced down briefly and watched the liquid run down the seat and soak into the desired area of Biddy’s grubby school skirt before returning to her own chair, smiling sideways to Alison as she sat. As they had anticipated, Biddy was so immersed in her artwork that she neither noticed Jackie standing behind her nor felt the wetness of the paint on her bottom.

Next it was Georgina’s turn to wash her paintbrush, but by this time Mr Hendry was seated and reading once again.

‘Please, Mr Hendry, Sir, is it OK if I wash my paintbrush, please?’

‘Yes, Georgina,’ grunted Mr Hendry, without looking up. ‘Quick as you can, then.’

Georgina moved slowly to the back of the class, glancing at Alison, holding her brush, thick with green paint, very deliberately out in front of her. She ran the brush under the tap for a few seconds too long for Alison’s liking.

Come on, come on, just get on with it, Georgie, thought Alison, giving a little cough to remind Georgina she had a job to do.

Georgina obliged by tapping the paintbrush three times on the edge of the sink to get rid of the excess water, turning round to face the class, pausing for the tiniest second, then screaming at the top of her voice.

‘Aaahhhhh! Aaahhhhh! Blood! Blood! Aaahhhhh! Biddy’s covered in blood!’

Right on cue, Alison leapt up from her chair and rushed to console her frightened friend. Then, looking at Biddy with feigned horror and mock concern she shrieked, ‘Oh, Mr Hendry, Mr Hendry, come quickly. Poor Biddy’s got her period.’

The startled teacher, who was already halfway up the classroom to see what blooming fuss was disrupting his reading this time, stopped in his tracks. Sure enough, Biddy Weir’s skirt and chair appeared to be covered in dark red blood, and the girl’s face was as white as his chalk. She looked like she might be about to pass out. Oh shit, he thought. What to do? What to do? There was no way he was touching her or cleaning her up or even going any damn closer to her for that matter. Why in God’s name did this bloody weird little girl have to go and take her bloody monthly thing in the middle of his class? This was a job for a woman.

‘Julia!’ he yelled.

‘Yes, Mr Hendry?’ said Julia, smirking over at Alison and Georgina.

‘Go to the office. Get Mrs Martin. Tell her what has happened and say that we need some . . .’ he paused, not quite sure what it was that they needed, ‘things. And hurry, Julia, hurry.’

‘Yes, Mr Hendry.’

Julia scuttled off to get the help that wasn’t actually needed, wondering if they’d maybe gone a step too far this time: not out of any concern for Biddy, but fearing that they might get caught out. Still, Alison had promised them everything would work out fine. And Alison was never wrong.

Back in the classroom, mayhem had erupted. Georgina was still in full-blown melodramatic distress at the sight of the ‘blood’. Alison was still feigning sympathy and concern for the girl everyone in the class, apart from Mr Hendry, knew she actually despised. Mr Hendry was still stuck to the spot, completely at a loss about how to handle the situation. The rest of the class started to join in the fun.

‘Biddy’s got her period. Biddy’s got her period,’ chanted some of the girls.

‘Aw, gross! Disgusting! Yuck!’ shouted the boys.

Most of them hadn’t a clue what was going on, but it didn’t matter. This was brilliant.

Biddy felt sick. She had no idea what was going on either. What on earth were Alison and Georgina shouting about? What had she done? What blood? What was her period? Why were they saying that?

WHAT IS A PERIOD?? she silently screamed.

Biddy looked round at her chair and saw the ‘blood’. She put her hand down and felt the back of her skirt. She brought her fingers up to her face and examined the reddish liquid.

‘Oh, double gross,’ shouted Dennis Bailey, ‘I’m going to puke!’

It’s just paint, thought Biddy. It’s just red paint. Why do they think it’s blood?

But she couldn’t say it out loud. The lump was there again, blocking her throat, stopping her words. She instinctively knew that this period business was something big, something important. Something not nice, but something significant. Something to do with being a girl. She looked around at the class. It seemed as though everyone was pointing at her and laughing at her and despising her even more than usual.

They all know, she thought. They all know what it is, and they know that I don’t.

She ran her hand down her face, smearing it with dark red paint, which was soon dripping onto her shirt, helped on its way by warm, wet tears. And as the tears fell from Biddy’s eyes as they never had before in public, she suddenly knew what she needed. The shock was overwhelming. ‘I want my mummy,’ she sobbed for the first time in her life. ‘I want my mummy.’

 

Mrs Martin, the matronly school secretary, took Biddy to the office, where she cleaned her up as best she could and called her father. It took twenty-two minutes for him to walk to the school, as there was no one he could call on for a lift.

For twenty-two minutes, Mrs Martin battled with her conscience. Should she try to talk to the girl about what had happened: tell her that the incident had been an unfortunate misunderstanding? Explain why? Perhaps even run through the rudiments of puberty? After all, the poor wee mite had no mother of her own to do the job. But then again, maybe it wasn’t her place to get involved. Surely there was an aunt or grandmother or some female member of the family who was a substitute mother figure? And anyway, Mrs Martin only had sons herself. Four of them. What did she know about sex education, as it was now called, for eleven-year-old girls? Besides, the child was obviously too distressed by the whole thing. Probably best not to get involved. She’d wait and see what the father had to say. And she’d say a prayer for the child tonight at bedtime. Bless her.

For twenty-two minutes, Biddy thought about her mother. She stood in the office with its salmon-pink walls and cream lace curtains and imagined that the plump, middle-aged woman with soft peachy skin and apricot lips, who was wiping down her skirt with a damp linen tea towel, was her mummy. She could smell her sweet scent and feel the warmth of her body as she busied around. Is this what her own mother looked like? Smelled like? Moved like? She’d never seen a photograph, never asked, never even really wondered. But now she did, and more than anything she wanted this lady to hold her, hug her, stroke her hair, kiss her forehead, tell her that everything would be OK, pretend to be her mummy for a minute.

‘Mummy, what’s a period?’ she silently asked.

A knock at the door jolted Biddy, and for a split second she almost believed that her mother had come to save her.

‘Oh, Mr Weir, she’s fine. Come in, come in,’ said Mrs Martin as she ushered Biddy’s breathless, worried father into the room. ‘It’s all been a dreadful misunderstanding, Mr Weir. Somehow Biddy managed to spill some paint over her skirt, red paint, and some of the girls panicked. They thought she’d taken her, well, you know, her, ahem, monthly’s, you see. Anyway, Biddy got a bit upset, and there were a few tears and . . . well, you’re all right now, aren’t you, Biddy?’ she said, rather too loudly, rather too brightly.

Mr Weir nodded and looked at his daughter, standing by the window, a halo of sunlight highlighting her wild copper curls, her pasty cream skin sinking into the lace curtain behind, her pale green eyes glistening like slivers of broken glass. She looked like a miserable angel. She looked just like her mother.

‘All right, lass, let’s go home,’ he said softly, reaching out for Biddy’s hand. Biddy desperately wanted to be hugged. She couldn’t remember having had a hug, from anyone, ever, not even her father, and it had never occurred to her to want one before. But suddenly she longed to escape to the shelter of someone else’s arms, to feel protected from all her pain. But she took her father’s hand, knowing it was the best that he could do.

‘Mr Weir,’ said Mrs Martin hesitantly, taking a book from the solitary thick shelf in her office that constituted the school’s library. ‘I hope you don’t think it’s out of place, coming from me, but perhaps you might find this useful,’ she said, handing him a small hardback Ladybird book.

Mr Weir glanced at the cover. ‘Your Body,’ he read and stared at the drawing of a human male skeleton alongside a sketch of a muscular man in a running pose. How could this help his little girl? ‘Page forty-two,’ whispered Mrs Martin, her smile oozing pity. ‘All she needs to know.’

A flush rising in his cheeks, Mr Weir nodded and slipped the book into his inside coat pocket. He took Biddy home via the park, stopping at Mrs Henderson’s corner shop to buy a packet of Kimberley biscuits and a sherbet dip. And when Mrs Thomas, their new neighbour at number 21, who was brushing down the path outside her house, asked if everything was OK – was Biddy ill, or had the whole school been sent home early and should she run now and get her boy Ian who’d be fretting if he was left standing at the gate? – he simply tipped his cap and ushered his daughter into their house without so much as a word.

 

The day after the ‘incident’, Mr Weir bought his daughter a packet of Dr. White’s.

‘You, ah, you can put this away for safe keeping,’ he muttered, handing her a white plastic bag as she hung up her coat, shattered from enduring the relentless jibes and sniggers of her persecutors at school. It was the one and only time she had pleaded not to go, but her father had insisted.

She looked at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation as to the contents of the bag. Her father did not give gifts freely. It wasn’t her birthday and Christmas was ages away. But he wouldn’t meet her eyes and turned away, embarrassed and uncomfortable by this necessary gesture. ‘I’ll be in the shed if you need help with your homework. My tools need sorting.’

Biddy sat on the end of her creaking bed and removed the packet of sanitary towels from the bag, noticing they had been purchased in the big chemist store in town and not from their local pharmacist round the corner. It must have been the first time her father had broached its doors, and would probably be the last. She hugged the packet to her chest, wishing all at once to have a mother, to really have her period and to be normal like the other girls. Then she put the packet in her bottom drawer, tucked in beside the Ladybird book, where it would stay, untouched, for over four years, until her period finally came.

‘Thank you, Papa,’ Biddy said quietly to her father that evening at dinner. He nodded, knowing what she meant. ‘Just let me know when you need some more, lass. I’ll give you the money.’

And that was the last that was said about it. She often wondered if he wondered whether she had started. He sometimes thought that maybe she had, but was too shy to say. And as that first packet lasted for two whole periods, and Biddy started getting twenty pence a week of pocket money when she turned thirteen, she never did ask him for the money to buy some more.