The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

by Lesley Allen

  ‘What a vile girl, utterly vile,’ she sighed, shaking her head. ‘I truly hope she got her just deserts. Thank you so much for your call, Bridget. I think we’ll ask Amand—’

  ‘B.W.,’ interjected Biddy. ‘My “special” name.’

  Honey shifted in her chair, momentarily losing her focus, her smile slipping ever so slightly. Then she laughed, a flaky, nervous laugh. She had to get this crackpot off the line. What the fuck was Phil doing?

  ‘OK, OK, well, ah, thank you, ah, Bridg—’

  ‘B.W.,’ said Biddy, again, slowly, flatly. ‘Bloody Weirdo.’

  Honey Sinclair froze. She was flummoxed. Paralysed. Is this a fucking joke? she thought. Is that arsehole Phil winding me up here? What the fuck? What the fucking fuck? She looked at Amanda, and then at Karinda, then back to Amanda. Karinda giggled a little, squirming on the bright red sofa, visibly uncomfortable. Amanda’s eyes widened in question, her head shaking slightly in surprise. The audience held a collective, anxious breath.

  Amanda waited another two seconds for Honey to speak, then, sensing an opportunity she decided to take control.

  ‘Oh, Bridget,’ she said, quickly, her voice high-pitched and shrill. ‘How awful for you. Did you . . .’

  ‘Alison,’ Biddy interrupted.

  ‘Ah, erm, no, Bridget.’ Amanda was smiling now, tilting her head to one side. ‘I’m Amanda. But that’s . . .’

  ‘Alison Flemming.’

  Amanda now looked to Honey for help, who by this time was as white as her own teeth.

  ‘Her name was Alison Flemming,’ Biddy continued, her voice steady now, assured almost.

  Honey’s face contorted. The notes she was holding slid from her hands. Phil ordered camera three to zoom in for a Honey close-up. He knew he should cut the caller off, that Honey could have him sacked for this, that she’d hate him even more than ever now, only for once, she’d have a reason. But something was up. Something was definitely up and he had an overwhelming feeling that this could be his moment. Payback time to that bitch, for making what should have been a dream job such a misery. He really didn’t know what was coming next, but hey, whatever the hell was going on, this was great live TV.

  Honey didn’t let him down.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Bloody Weirdo. Bloody Biddy Weirdo – my God, it’s you, isn’t it?’ she whispered. It was barely audible, but loud enough for the mike to pick up and transmit to the nation, along with the close-up from camera three, which showed a face so unlike that of the Honey Sinclair everyone knew and loved. A face contorted with hate and revulsion. And, once she realised what she had done, terror.

  49.

  It was all over the papers for days to come. ‘Honey’s not so sweet after all’; ‘Honey’s sticky situation’; ‘Queen Beetch’, ran some of the headlines. Terri came home the next afternoon, a day early, but Olivia and Benjy had agreed she should go. They’d never been able to abide Honey Sinclair themselves, and were delighted to have had an inside angle on the story. When Terri returned to Cove Cottage, she persuaded a shell-shocked Biddy to stay with her until the dust had settled, rightly predicting that certain members of the tabloid press would try to track her down. By the next morning Biddy had been identified, mostly thanks to two of her ‘old school friends’, Georgina McMinn, née Harte, and Julia Gamble. They regularly witnessed Alison Flemming’s – a.k.a. Honey Sinclair – torture of poor Biddy Weir, they said in the exclusive interview they gave to the Sun. They had often tried to intervene, but were powerless against the wrath of Alison. She was ruthless, unstoppable. Whenever they had tried to help poor Biddy, Alison would turn her rage on them. It was simply awful. They only wished now that they could have done more to help. But they were here for Biddy, whenever she needed them.

  Another woman came forward who claimed to know Alison Flemming from her first primary school, before she moved to Ballybrock. She sold a story about Alison cutting off her friend, Selina Burton’s, long blonde hair in a fit of jealous rage. All of her hair. The papers tried to track down this Selina Burton, but it turned out she now lived in Texas and ran a successful stud farm. Her family had no comment to make.

  Within days, the press had discovered Biddy’s address and virtually camped out on the doorstep of number 17, Stanley Street for a couple of weeks, until it dawned on them that she wasn’t coming home any time soon. Ballybrock had never seen anything like it. Most of the press had never seen anything like Ballybrock.

  Biddy was bemused by the turn of events. She hadn’t given any thought as to how her plan might actually play out. Her priority had been to face Alison head-on, tell her what damage she had done, not to actually expose her true identity. That had been an unavoidable coincidence. The fact that Alison’s career and glamorous life as Honey Sinclair seemed to have been destroyed by her actions didn’t make Biddy happy. But the fact that she had exorcised her demon did. At last, she felt free.

  Eventually, when things settled down, Terri popped back to Stanley Street to check on things and lift the mound of post that had built up in the hallway. She had gone on a shopping trip to M&S on her return from London to buy some new clothes for Biddy (which Biddy loved – they were so much more stylish and comfortable than her usual charity shop garb) so there had been no real reason to go to Stanley street before that. She threw out the junk mail and the heap of scribbled notes from some of the more desperate hacks who had loitered in vain outside the house, offering various sums of money for Biddy’s exclusive story, and returned to Cove Cottage with a couple of bills and a handful of letters. Some were more official requests for an interview from magazines, newspapers and television shows, including one from This Morning, the show that Biddy genuinely did love to watch. For a split second, Terri thought that she might accept, and worried about the fallout if she did. But Biddy just ripped it up as she did with all of the others and dropped it into the wastepaper bin, which Terri had placed beside her.

  But she did keep two letters, one with a local postmark, and one which had come from Edinburgh. The local letter, which was handwritten, came from Ruth Abbott, who told Biddy that this was the first time she had ever written to any of her former pupils. She had seen the programme by chance, she said, as it wasn’t something she would normally watch. But during the summer break she had been tasked with drafting a new anti-bullying policy for the school and a colleague had called to tell her it might be useful.

  Yes, Biddy, she wrote, I’m still here. Head of the senior school now, for my sins. For my sins. Biddy read and re-read the words several times. For my sins. What an odd thing to write, she thought. Of course I was already aware that Ms Sinclair was actually Alison Flemming, but as soon as I heard your voice, Biddy, I knew it was you. Where is this going? Biddy thought. Why is she writing to me? The letter rambled on a bit about school and how much it had changed in recent years and how important they now knew it was to identify bullies and provide support for pupils who suffered at their hands. And then came the punch line:

  I am sorry, Biddy. I know now that we let you down, that I let you down, and I am truly, truly sorry. I should have read the signs better on that fateful trip to Innis. I should have been more alert. There were rumours afterwards about Alison’s ‘inappropriate behaviour’, in more ways than one. Is she referring to Mr Patterson? Biddy thought. But I chose to ignore them, because it was easier to do so. I have learnt a valuable lesson, and as well as offering my apologies, I would like to say thank you, Biddy. In truth, writing this policy was an irritant to me, a task I could frankly have done without on my summer break. But you have made me realise just how important it is to root out bullying in our schools: in this school, in particular. I promise to give this policy my full attention, and to never turn a blind eye again.

  I would also like to apologise, Biddy, for not visiting you in hospital after your accident. I could give you a host of excuses, but the simple fact is that I should have, and I am truly sorry.

  The letter ended with Mrs Abbott inviting Biddy to visit h
er at the school in September when the new term started. Biddy knew she wouldn’t. She could never set foot inside that building again, ever. But the letter left her with a curious lump in her throat, a different one to the lump she’d been forcing down for years.

  The second letter, with an Edinburgh address, was typed.

  Dear Biddy,

  You probably won’t remember me, but I was in your class at school. I heard about what happened with Alison Flemming and I just felt compelled to write to you. My mum still lives in Ballybrock and she gave me your address. I hope you don’t mind! Believe it or not, I have thought about you often over the years, always with a feeling of guilt that I didn’t intervene when Alison was tormenting you. We all knew what she was doing, we all knew what a horror she was, but for some reason no one had the guts to stand up to her – and I for one am truly ashamed. Please forgive me, Biddy.

  I now live in Edinburgh and run a small advertising agency with Tom, my husband. (We married last summer.) If you are ever in Edinburgh, Biddy, I would love to see you. I’ll treat you to lunch in my favourite Italian bistro! You’ll see my address, my email and my mobile number at the top of the letter, just in case. Or maybe, when I’m next home, we could grab a coffee? We’re definitely coming over for Christmas this year. You don’t have to reply – just send me a text so I have your number, then I’ll text you when I know my dates. Of course if I never hear from you, I completely understand.

  I hope you are well, Biddy, and that however tricky your life has been lately, the sun will shine again soon.

  With very best wishes,

  Karen Best (Robinson) X

  Sitting in Terri’s yellow kitchen, Biddy read and re-read each letter several times. She moved out to the patio where Terri brought her a cup of tea and a scone, and she read them again. She did remember Karen Robinson; the only person she had ever seen remotely try to challenge Alison. She looked out at the bay, the midday sunlight bouncing off the water, and smiled. Maybe she would meet her for a coffee. Some day. Maybe not at Christmas, but some day, and she would tell her that, yes, the sun was shining. Finally.

  50.

  Biddy was surrounded by pots of paint samples when the phone rang. She was selecting colours for the kitchen and the living room: tones of yellow and shades of cobalt blue. She had laid out a huge white sheet of paper on the kitchen table and was testing out the various samples. She planned to redecorate the whole house from top to bottom, gradually and carefully. She didn’t want to make mistakes. It had to be right. When her father’s estate was finally settled, she’d been shocked to discover that he’d had money tucked away in a couple of savings accounts. It wasn’t a huge amount, but there was enough to do up the house, buy a new television, and frame some of her paintings. And even then, there would be some left over for safekeeping. Biddy had never known, never suspected that her papa had savings, and she wondered time and time again why he had kept it hidden from her. Had he simply forgotten it was there? What would their life together have been like if only he’d used the money to buy things for the house: furniture, or a car, perhaps, or central heating? Or even to have taken them on a holiday?

  ‘Perhaps he felt you didn’t need it while you were still together,’ Terri had suggested. ‘Perhaps he knew you would need it now.’

  Biddy decided to look at it that way. Her father’s final act of love. That, and the hoard of her old sketches and paintings which she had found in his shed when, on her return from Terri’s, she had finally found the courage to venture inside. There were more than one hundred of them, carefully catalogued and stored in hand-made boxes. The first box contained a series of pencil sketches of birds, mostly seagulls, which she had drawn when she was just six years old. She knew this because of the date – 1976 – scrawled on the back in her father’s handwriting. Every single piece of work was dated in some form, with either the year, or the month and year, or, on a few, the full date. All that time he had kept her work, and she had never noticed. He must have retrieved all the sketches she put in the bin, and siphoned off some of the ones she kept under the bed. All of those years, he had been proud of her, and she had never known. She had wept that morning, sitting in the shed, surrounded by her life. She wept with grief for her father, with regret that she hadn’t made more of her life and shared more of his, but most of all, she wept with relief.

  ‘Hello,’ Biddy answered the phone after just one ring. It was sitting on the table beside her, as she’d been expecting Terri’s call. She was going to take Biddy to B&Q to buy the first supply of paint. She’d taken her the week before to get the samples.

  ‘I still haven’t decided,’ she carried on talking, before Terri could respond.

  ‘Ahh . . . hi. Hello. Is that Biddy?’

  It was a male voice, deep and velvety, with a hint of a local accent. Biddy froze. She didn’t know any men, apart from Dr Graham and Dean the gardener and Ian Thomas, and this one certainly wasn’t any of them. Had someone from a newspaper found out her new number? She went to hang up but the voice stopped her.

  ‘My name is Marcus, Marcus Baxter,’ it said quickly. Marcus, she thought and a memory jolted somewhere within her.

  ‘You won’t remember me, Biddy, but I met you once, very briefly, on the beach at Ballybrock, many, many years ago. You were sketching the seagulls.’ A flash of a black and green stripy scarf. The Collingsford Boys’ School scarf.

  ‘I was with –’ The man hesitated. ‘I was with someone we both knew.’

  A vision of blond floppy hair and deep brown eyes like chocolate buttons, and Alison screaming at him to get a move on flashed before her.

  ‘Look, I really don’t want to alarm you and I’m sure you’re wondering how on earth I got your number and you’re probably just about to put down the phone,’ he spoke quickly now, a sense of desperation in his voice, ‘but please, please just listen to what I have to say. It’ll be worth it, I promise. Well, I hope so. My wife saw the programme. She already knew who Honey Sinclair was. I’d told her all about my fleeting romance with Alison Flemming, including the day we’d met this shy girl on the beach, a girl who was sketching the most amazing drawings of a seagull, and what an utter cow she had been to her. I have thought about that incident almost every time I saw Honey Sinclair on TV or in a magazine. When my wife saw the programme, she guessed the girl was you and she suggested I track you down. It’s taken me a while, but finally I’ve found you.’

  Finally, he stopped talking.

  Biddy was utterly perplexed. She remembered the incident clearly now. The boy on the beach had been nice to her. Kind. She remembered him complimenting her drawing, and how Alison had then screamed at him. And she remembered what happened afterwards. She shuddered. She didn’t want these memories back again. She didn’t need them anymore. Why was this Marcus doing this? What did he want from her?

  ‘Yes,’ was all that she could muster in reply.

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry, Biddy. Actually, this has nothing at all to do with Al – with her. It’s your art. That’s what I want to talk to you about. Do you still draw?’

  Biddy was even more confused.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And birds, do you still draw birds?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Fantastic. This is fantastic. OK, bear with me. Will you bear with me for a minute? Please?’

  ‘OK,’ she managed this time.

  ‘So, I run a publishing company which specialises in children’s books. We’re based here in London. You may have heard of us. Marshmallow Moon?’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. That’s not important. Anyway, the thing is, one of my authors has written this fabulous adventure story about a little boy and a bird. A seagull. It’s called The Adventures of Timothy Tindall and Silas Gull. It’s fabulous. You’ll love it, I’m sure. It’ll be a bestseller. All her books are. She’s a brilliant writer. Actually, she’s a B.W. too.’

  Biddy gasped. Her stomach somersaulted. This was all some ki
nd of sick joke. Alison had found her and put him up to this. She was back. She was getting her revenge. Oh please God, no. No. She would hang up. Now. She would never answer the phone again. Ever. Not even to Terri.

  ‘Bunty Walker,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Pardon?’ whispered Biddy.

  ‘The author. Her name is Bunty Walker. Biddy Weir, Bunty Walker. Two B.W. initials on the cover.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked again. She was completely lost. Totally bemused. She didn’t have a clue what this man was talking about.

  ‘God, I’m not making sense am I? I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m so excited. The thing is, Biddy, I wondered if you would be interested in doing the drawings for the book?’

  Epilogue

  A dedication – 17, Stanley Street, Ballybrock, October 2001

  Biddy stood in the hallway and held the package in her hands. It was finally here. She breathed in and out slowly and deeply, savouring the moment. This could well be the best day of her life. There had been several occasions over the past twenty-one months since meeting Terri when she had had that very same thought, but this one, surely, surpassed them all. Outside, a man from the estate agency was sticking a ‘SOLD’ sign across the ‘FOR SALE’ board in the garden. Tomorrow, Terri would be leaving for Greece. Biddy had already booked her ticket to visit in March. Her first trip abroad. And this time next week, Cove Cottage would be hers, and Bertie would be her foster cat.