Biddy's Diary Entry (Great Expectations)

Biddy's Diary Entry

Dear Tomorrow’s Biddy,

   I’m sure you will not forget today. Yet in the case you ever end up like poor Mrs. Joe, I’ll record it for you.
   Pip . . . My former student . . . He’s leaving. For England. A place very far away. Too far for him to visit very often.
   I’ve heard men talk about England. It seems a loud, dirty, despicable place full of the worst sort of men. I don’t see why he has to go, nor why he wants to, outside the money. Why be a gentleman in a place so stuffy and crowded? Wouldn’t it be easier and more convenient for him to stay here and have the conniving rats of men admire him more than the “gentlemen” of England ever will?
   Then again, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he really has warped himself into this cocky, prideful character I simply don’t know. In that case he shall certainly fit in well in England. Birds of a feather.
   I fear he is doomed. He certainly has puffed himself up as one of his newfound “station” usually does. He even fails to comprehend Joe’s humble pride, his contentment to fill his place in life and fill it well.
   My heart breaks for Pip. Not half as much for missing him—though I will miss him greatly—as much as it does for the man he seems to think he is. I don’t even fear his destruction so much as I hope it despite myself. He already looks down on me, and even Joe!
   Poor, poor Joe. I sorrow for him as well. He seems to have lost both a wife (if she could be called that then, or even now) and a brotherly son in such a short time. I shall not leave him.
   Some time after Pip spoke to me in the garden, I had unknowingly brought my hand to the side of my cheek to slip a wisp of hair behind my ear. In that simple gesture, I could still smell the black-currant leaf I had crushed between my fingers.
   I stopped. Stopped so suddenly Joe gave up his fascination with the fireplace to look at me.
   Memories came flooding back. Memories of Pip, not as who I thought he was, but as I knew him to be before. Memories of us in the disorganized little band of imps somehow mistaken for a school. Memories of the days he was my student and not my better. Memories of my moving in the event of Mr. Wopsle’s aunt’s death. Memories of our recent talks together. Memories of our kiss.
   With this fresh wave of hurt, tears found their way to my eyes for hardly the first time on the subject of Pip. I began to sob horribly, and, from the look on Joe’s face, unexpectedly.
   He made his way to me from across the expanse that had divided us. He kneeled to my level, wrapping his arms around me. Once I had calmed (and that took a while) he leaned back, lifting my chin with the crook of his finger and making me look into those deep, knowing eyes.
   “Biddy . . .” His voice was smooth and even. Unwavering.
   “J-Joe?” I stuttered and began to blush. How could I stutter in front of Joe like that?
   “You were crying for Pip . . .” His perception was incredible, or maybe I was just too busy admiring his sideburns to notice I’d given it away.
   I looked down timidly with my eyes. “Yes . . .” My voice is so small . . . Why is it so small? Speak up Biddy!
   “Please look at me Biddy,” and I did, “It’s alright. Pip will visit us some time. Let’s not waste our tears on such a boy as ‘im, eh?” ‘Our tears’? Had he been crying too?
   Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the slight accent Joe picked up at the end. He smiled wide at me and gave my shoulder a playful smack, “’Atta girl Biddy! We won’t cry for him no more will we?” I shook my head, rubbing the moistness from my eye with my palm, “No Joe.”
   His expression softened and there was something deeply comforting in it. We sat quietly for a time, smiling wider than either of us should have.
   This time it was my turn to wrap my arms around the gentle, loving Joe. He wrapped his arms around me too. His strong, safe, warm, comfortable all-at-once arms. I’m sure he muttered something under his breath to me, but I was too focused on the steady beating of his sweet heart to comprehend it.
   The salty tears will probably keep coming, for the both of us. But right now, Joe’s arms are the only place I need to be.

            With All Her Beating Heart,
                                     Yesterday’s Biddy