The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

by Lesley Allen

  ‘Can’t work this out, Bertie,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘As Biddy’s mother was absent from the home, you’d think her father would have been even more reliant than normal on his GP.’ She took a sip of wine and swished the pale red liquid around the glass. ‘Of course, it doesn’t mean that he was a bad father, Bert. Perhaps he simply didn’t know what to do. Perhaps no one ever told him.’

  The most detailed notes in Biddy’s file concerned the aftermath of the accident. The multiple injuries which Charlie had mentioned included a broken arm, several broken ribs, a fractured hip and a shattered knee cap. And then there was delirium and hypothermia to deal with too. It was, as Charlie had said, a miracle that she had survived the night, let alone the fall, or whatever it was that had caused the accident. It appeared the girl had spent several weeks in hospital recovering from her injuries and had been left with a permanent limp. She now suffered from associated arthritic pain in several of her damaged bones. The state of her mental health just after the accident was described as ‘disturbed’ and ‘possibly psychotic’, but a subsequent psychiatric appraisal one year after the event concluded that, while Biddy was withdrawn and possibly depressed, she was not mentally ill.

  Terri finished her glass of wine and poured another. She closed the folder and put it on the table, a tingle of excitement vibrating in her spine. This was the most alive she’d felt in months.

  31.

  Terri Drummond didn’t look like a real person to Biddy. She seemed more like a fantastical character from a children’s television programme. Biddy didn’t draw people, but as soon as she saw Terri Drummond, she thought she’d like to draw her. She was a very large lady, with enormous bulging breasts that looked like two extra stomachs on her chest. She wore a long, rusty brown, layered cotton skirt which came right down to her feet, just skimming a pair of purple suede boots with very pointy toes, and a wildly patterned shirt with more colours on it than Biddy could count. Huge gold loopy earrings hung from her ears, rings adorned almost every finger, and several wooden bracelets dangled on each wrist. Her eyelids sparkled with bronze eye-shadow and her orange lipstick matched the colour on her long, pointy fingernails. But the most striking thing about Terri Drummond was her hair. It was red – not copper, like Biddy’s own hair, but a bright, flaming red – and pinned up at the back of her head with bits sticking out, like feathers. Biddy was mesmerised. Terri’s hair was exactly the same colour as the feathers of the scarlet ibis, Biddy’s favourite tropical bird, just as Dr Graham had said. Biddy had never seen anyone remotely like Terri Drummond before, and she liked her immediately. She was certain that anyone who looked like a tropical bird would be a good, nice person. Yes, she decided, Dr Graham was right, and as Terri extended her ring-clad fingers to grasp Biddy’s hand and usher her into the house, Biddy was so unexpectedly glad that she’d come.

  Dr Graham had been trying to get Biddy to visit his friend Terri ever since that wet, stormy evening he’d visited just after her father’s funeral. Her interest had initially been sparked; how could it not have when she lived in Cove Cottage? Dr Graham couldn’t have known just how much she loved that little cottage; that when she went to Cove Bay to paint she would pretend that she lived there. So when he said he thought Biddy would really like Terri, and that maybe she might like to visit her at the cottage sometime and take the painting with her, she almost shouted her reply: ‘When?’

  She couldn’t believe what she’d said. She wasn’t normally eager to meet new people and, as far as she could remember, she’d never actually been to visit anyone. But the thought of going inside Cove Cottage, actually right inside it instead of just standing on the beach staring at it, was stronger than her natural instinct to say no.

  But then Dr Graham had ruined it all by saying that Terri was actually a counsellor, albeit a retired one.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to see a counsellor,’ she had said, quietly, and stood up to move the teacups from the kitchen table to the sink.

  ‘You know, counsellors can help with all kinds of things, Biddy,’ Dr Graham had replied.

  ‘Like what? Like . . .’ Biddy caught her breath. Like being a weirdo? She had wanted to ask, but of course she couldn’t.

  ‘Well, like relationship problems between married couples, or stress at work, or trauma following, say, a car accident or an attack,’ Dr Graham had paused. ‘Or loneliness, or grief.’

  Biddy had dug her scraggy, ragged fingernails into the palms of her hands to distract the tears she felt stinging at the back of her eyes. Dr Graham obviously wanted her to see this Terri person because he thought she might be able to cure her of her weirdness. Well, it was too late for that. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. ‘Will you please go home now?’ she’d whispered, staring at the floor. So he did.

  But he hadn’t given up. Over the next month or so, he popped in if he was ‘just passing’ a couple of times a week. To begin with she was irritated by his visits. Now that her father was dead, there didn’t seem to be any real reason for this contact. At first, Biddy would barely speak to him at all, just nod or shake her head. But she gradually became used to his visits, looked forward to them even, and found herself feeling a twinge of disappointment if he didn’t stay for a cup of tea and a Kimberley biscuit. Dr Graham was the only real human contact she had now that her papa was gone, apart from shop assistants and bus conductors. He never stayed long, but most times he did drop his counsellor friend’s name into his conversation.

  ‘Terri saw a seal in the bay the other day.’

  ‘You know, I brought Terri a packet of Kimberley biscuits yesterday and she loved them too.’

  ‘Guess what? Terri swears she saw a heron on the rocks by Cove Cottage on Sunday.’

  But the comment that finally did it was the one about Terri’s hair.

  ‘Heavens,’ Dr Graham said one morning, a few weeks after his visits began, when he glanced at Biddy’s large encyclopaedia of birds which lay open on the kitchen table. Staring up at him from the open page was the resplendent scarlet ibis, which, next to the seagull, was Biddy’s favourite bird. ‘What a beautiful creature,’ he exclaimed in awe. ‘It reminds me of Terri. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a scarlet ibis,’ she replied bluntly, holding his gaze, ‘a tropical bird.’

  ‘Well, it certainly is magnificent and its feathers are exactly the same colour as Terri’s hair.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘OK,’ Biddy had said, surprising herself, not quite sure how the word had popped out of her mouth. ‘OK. I’ll go to see her.’

  And now here she was.

  ‘Biddy,’ beamed Terri. ‘Biddy, Biddy, Biddy. What a beautiful name. Is it short for Bridget?’ Biddy was startled. For a start, nobody had ever told her that her name was beautiful, and secondly, she wondered why it would be short for anything.

  ‘Erm, no, Miss Drummond,’ she stuttered, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. ‘I don’t think so. I’m just Biddy. Just Biddy Weir.’

  ‘Well, I’m Terri,’ Terri smiled. ‘Might as well start off on first-name terms. Much easier, don’t you think?’ Biddy nodded, but Terri barely stopped for breath. ‘None of this Miss or Ms or Mrs clap-trap here. Anyway, Biddy, the reason I ask about your name is that I had an aunt called Biddy. Mad as a bat she was. Bonkers. Kept chickens in her kitchen. Always knew exactly who was who. A chicken is a chicken to me, but not to Aunt Biddy. Loved that woman. Still miss her.’ She paused momentarily and shook her head, then launched back in again. ‘Anyway, point of the matter is, she was a Bridget, but everyone called her Biddy. Hadn’t heard the name again, until now. Isn’t it great to have a name that’s a little bit different? Makes you stand out from the crowd. I’m Theresa by birth. Never liked it. Couldn’t stand the name. Shortened it to Terri when I was nine, and I haven’t looked back since. Causes some confusion, mind you, as most folk think I’m going to be a Mister.’ She paused again, this time to chuckle. ‘Anyway, Biddy,’ she continued
to a transfixed Biddy, ‘you didn’t come here to listen to me rambling on about names. Here, let me take your coat. And what about your stick? Shall I pop it into the umbrella stand?’

  Biddy winced and shook her head, tightening her grip on the stick. She did like this lady, was immediately fascinated by her, but she wasn’t letting go of her stick, just in case she needed it. When she felt dizzy or sick or panicky, holding onto her stick as tightly as she could helped her to focus. She didn’t actually always need it for walking support, but it had become something of a safety net for her over the years. ‘You’d rather keep it?’ asked Terri brightly, apparently not in the least bit perplexed by Biddy’s behaviour. Biddy nodded. ‘Not a problem,’ Terri almost sang. ‘Not a problem at all. Now Biddy, come on into my office-cum-snug-room-cum-pile-it-all-in room.’

  Terri ushered her into a small, cluttered, brightly coloured room, and guided her towards one of two battered leather armchairs beside a big roaring fire.

  ‘I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you, Biddy. I hear from Dr Graham that you’re quite a talented artist and that my little cottage actually makes an appearance in one of your masterpieces.’ Biddy felt her cheeks flush with heat. She wished for a second that she hadn’t brought the painting. What if Terri didn’t like it or thought it was stupid? She tightened her grip on the parcel under her arm.

  ‘Oh, my, is that it?’ Terri gasped.

  Biddy blinked and swallowed. What on earth was she doing here? Why had she ever agreed to this? How had she ever thought this colourful lady would like one of her stupid pictures?

  But Terri was beaming broadly and nodding at the parcel.

  ‘I’d really love to see it, Biddy. May I?’

  Biddy nodded slowly, and Terri gently removed the package from under her arm. It was wrapped in several layers of Tesco bags.

  ‘Oh, my word,’ Terri gasped as she pulled off the last plastic bag. Biddy looked at her. She couldn’t quite work out from Terri’s facial expression whether it was a good ‘oh my word’, or a bad one.

  ‘It’s fabulous, Biddy. Truly fabulous. I love it. When did you paint this? Was it recently?’

  Biddy shook her head.

  ‘A-about three years ago, I think,’ she said quietly.

  Actually, she knew exactly when she had painted it. It was the summer her father had become properly ill, just at the point when his mind became sick too. Her papa’s body was already poorly, but when his mind stopped working, Biddy had to spend all of her time looking after him. Every second. All of a sudden there wasn’t any time to go to the beach and paint anymore. Since the fall, her art and her father were all that she had in life; not that she’d had very much more before. But there was no more school, as she simply hadn’t gone back. It had taken many months to recover from her injuries, and by the time her body had healed enough, it was too late to catch up in time for her O Level exams, and nothing more was said about school. If her father had ever had a conversation with Mr Duncan, or the education authorities, she never heard about it. So she drew, and then she painted, discovering that water colours were even more to her liking than pencils. The beach was her solace, and once she got used to it, the stick didn’t hinder her treks along the mile or so of coast down towards Cove Bay.

  But once her father’s illness properly struck, she would only leave him alone briefly to nip to the shop, or to pick up a prescription from the health centre, and even then only if he was asleep. That painting was the last one she had done. She hadn’t even been to the beach since. It also represented the last glimmer of sanity and lucid affection she had received from her father. The day she painted it, she had come home and left it propped up against the teapot on the kitchen table to dry. Then she went to the bathroom to wash the paint stains from her hands. When she returned, she had found her father standing in the kitchen holding the painting, just staring at it. As she walked into the room, she was sure she saw him wipe a tear from his eye.

  ‘It’s beautiful, lass, so beautiful,’ he had said. ‘You’ve a talent. A rare talent indeed. I should have . . .’ he trailed off, not finishing the sentence, and put the painting back on the table. Biddy stared at him, willing him to say whatever it was he was going to say, to tell her what he should have done. Even now, all these years later she still thought about it and wondered. But he’d simply turned around and shuffled into the sitting room where he’d spent the rest of the evening staring out of the window until Biddy brought him his meal on a tray. But later, when she took the usual nightly mug of Ovaltine and concoction of bedtime tablets up to his bedroom, there was the painting propped up on top of the tallboy. And that is where it had stayed, until this morning, when she had brought it downstairs, blown the dust off it, and wrapped it in several layers of Tesco bags.

  Terri was saying something else now, and Biddy had to force herself to focus. She thought she had just asked if she would paint one for her someday, but she wasn’t sure. So she said nothing and stared blankly at Terri, who was holding the painting at arm’s length, beaming at it, waiting for her to speak again. She had a genuine smile; like Judy Finnigan from the television. Not a fake one, like Honey Sinclair.

  Terri beamed again at Biddy. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ she said, propping the painting up against some books on her desk. ‘I’ll just set it there so I can admire it while you’re here,’ she clapped her hands together. ‘Now then, make yourself comfy, while I go and put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ Biddy whispered.

  ‘Fabulous. Tea it is.’

  32.

  Biddy sat down on one of the leather armchairs, her mind spinning as she looked around the room. It was as colourful as Terri herself. The walls were adorned with framed certificates and child-like paintings in bold colours and patterns. On one wall hung lots of photographs, maybe twenty or thirty of them, all in different, colourful frames. There were several of young children – laughing, pulling funny faces, eating ice cream. There were lots of group shots with too many people in them for Biddy to make out, a few weddings, and three bunched together of the same dark-haired man. He was holding a tabby cat in one, bent over a desk writing something in another, and sitting on a whitewashed wall with a deep blue sea behind him in the third. Biddy wondered who all these people were: if the happy children belonged to Terri herself, if the man was her husband, or her brother. There was only one photograph in her own house: the hazy, faded, brownish one that sat on the mantelpiece, of her grandfather and grandmother on their wedding day. There were no photographs of her. And none of her mother.

  She had never been in a room like this one before. There were books bulging off shelves and stacked up in uneven piles all over the floor. On a desk in the corner, which was littered with papers and files, sat a computer and an old typewriter. Candles of all shapes and sizes perched on the desk, the windowsill, the mantelpiece and the shelves. The wall, which was visible beneath the paintings and photographs, was painted in a vibrant shade of turquoise blue. Every room in Biddy’s home had been decorated in the same flock wallpaper, which had once been cream but was now more like pale yellow. Her father had always been meticulous about tidiness, so there were never any books – or anything else for that matter – lying on the floor. Biddy didn’t have a computer, and the only pictures on the walls in the house were two faded reproduction prints by some unknown artist which had belonged to her father’s grandmother. Apart, of course, from the watercolour which her father had kept propped up on the chest of drawers in his bedroom, the painting which had brought her here. Biddy hadn’t thought it possible to have a room as colourful and manically chaotic as this one. She liked it. And, as she watched her swish back into the room carrying a tray with a teapot, two bright orange mugs and a plate of biscuits, Kimberley biscuits, Biddy decided that she liked Terri Drummond too.

  ‘Milk?’ asked Terri.

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Biddy, although she couldn’t see a milk jug.

  ‘Crumbs! I’ve forgotten i
t. Just be a jiffy.’ Terri pulled herself out of the chair opposite Biddy with obvious effort and disappeared again into the kitchen. Biddy could hear her humming as she returned.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Terri exclaimed, as she re-entered the room. ‘I didn’t ask if you take sugar.’

  Biddy shook her head.

  ‘Good. I take three spoonfuls myself in coffee, but loathe the stuff in tea. Biscuit? One of my favourites, these. Love them.’

  ‘Me too’ nodded Biddy, smiling, as she took a Kimberley from the plate.

  ‘One of the best things about coming home. Kimberley biscuits. Could hardly get them in London. Oh, damn. I’ve forgotten the napkins. Won’t be a tick.’ Up she struggled again and bustled off into the kitchen, returning with a roll of kitchen roll.

  ‘Can’t find the napkins. Heaven knows where they are. Will this do?’ Biddy nodded as Terri tore off a couple of sheets and handed them to her.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Terri, sitting down in the armchair again and reaching over to take a biscuit herself. ‘Shall we get . . . oh bugger!’ She set the biscuit back on the tray. ‘I meant to switch my answer machine to automatic pick-up, so we don’t get interrupted by the telephone. Now, where is the blessed thing? Bear with me Biddy, and have another Kimberley.’

  Biddy was becoming more fascinated by Terri by the second. She munched on another biscuit and watched, intrigued, as Terri shuffled around the room, lifting books and boxes and cushions and magazines, looking for the answer machine. Finally she found it, flicked the appropriate switch and once more sat down in the armchair. ‘My tea will be cold at this rate,’ she laughed, manoeuvring her ample behind back into the chair. ‘Gracious,’ she exclaimed, shoving her right hand underneath her bottom and pulling out a pair of glasses, ‘my specs. I wondered where these had got to.’ She smiled at Biddy and shook her head as she finally picked up the Kimberley. ‘I do apologise, Biddy. I’m such a scatterbrain!’