The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

by Lesley Allen

  The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

  Lesley Allen

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1: the birth (and near death) of a weirdo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part 2: a death and a rebirth, of sorts

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Part 3: an ending and a new beginning

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Aimee

  ‘It’s weird not to be weird’

  John Lennon

  Prologue

  A phone call – Cove Cottage, Ballybrock, July 2000

  It was the claws, digging at her chest, pulling her upwards, yanking at her pyjama top, that finally dragged Biddy from her sleep. That and the noise: the steady humming. She thought it was the falcons to begin with, come to rescue her again, lift her up and fly her to safety. But the sound confused her, displaced her. It wasn’t their normal keck-ing call. She had never heard this sound from a bird before. And then suddenly she was aware of the weight. Something was pressing on her chest, pushing her down while the falcons tried to lift her up. Was it Alison? Was Alison trying to stop them? Would she never leave her alone?

  ‘Go-way,’ she mumbled, slightly panicked. ‘Go-way. Leave-me-lone.’

  The claws plucked again, this time piercing her skin, shocking her into consciousness.

  ‘Bertie!’ she squealed at the black, fluffy mass perched on her chest. The startled cat rolled onto the bed beside her as she sat up, rubbing at her eyes. The bedroom sparkled with warm speckled sunlight filtering in through the blue gingham curtains, bouncing off the gleaming white furniture. It was such a contrast from her bedroom at home, dull and heavy even on the brightest summer mornings.

  The little blue clock on the bedside table said 10.35 a.m. ‘No,’ she gasped aloud. She never slept in, ever. Then again, it had been almost 6 a.m., her normal rising time, before she’d finally climbed back under the duvet after the dream and gone back to sleep. She checked her watch, but yes, the clock was correct. Bertie meowed loudly, obviously irritated at having to wait so long for his breakfast. She wondered how late in the day she would have slept if he hadn’t jumped on top of her, demanding to be fed.

  As she began to prepare herself for the day ahead, Biddy’s mood was buoyant and resolved, but tinged with nervous disquiet. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth. Although she was becoming more accustomed to her reflection, she still avoided close-up eye contact. But today she brought her face as far up to the mirror as her focus would allow. She noticed with surprise how green her eyes were. They looked exactly the same colour as the green-eyed double-breasted cormorant’s. How come, in all her thirty years, she had never noticed that before?

  She made herself a bacon and tomato sandwich: it was too late for porridge, but too early for lunch. Brunch, she thought, as she munched it on the patio, I’m having brunch. She thought about Penny Jordan and smiled a great big beaming smile at Bertie, who was sitting on the outdoor table staring at her, waiting patiently for some scraps of bacon.

  It was another warm day and the light was perfect. But she wouldn’t go down to the beach to paint today as she had previously planned. No, she mustn’t tire herself out, or worse, lose track of time. She would still do Terri’s painting, but it could wait until tomorrow. Today she had something else to do. Something much more important. So she stayed on the patio and sketched Bertie. He’d fallen asleep after feasting on her leftover bacon, and was now comfortably curled up on one of the patio chairs, drenched in a shaft of sunlight. There was something irresistible about his easy contentment and the soft curve of his body, and though she’d never drawn a cat before, never drawn any creature other than a bird, Biddy was pleased with the likeness. She’d give this to Terri too. She liked Bertie. He was good company, and he was too old and too fat to chase birds. She decided she wouldn’t mind having a cat like him at home. Maybe Terri could help her find one.

  Around 3 p.m., Biddy began to feel properly agitated. Butterflies as big as bats flapped ferociously in her stomach, thrashing against her ribcage, soaring into her chest. And a nagging doubt drummed in her head, spawning questions she didn’t want to hear and was afraid to answer. What if it all goes wrong? What if they catch you out? What if you mess it up? What if you get into trouble? She tried to ignore the crescendo of what ifs and focus on the dream instead. She couldn’t let herself give up now. She just couldn’t. If she did, then she’d be exactly the same person she had been her whole life long: a worthless weirdo. Better to be a weirdo who had done something, who had stood up for herself at least once in her life, than a weak, pathetic, gutless one, who couldn’t even be brave for just one single day.

  She decided to write down the words she needed to say, like a script. That would help her to concentrate. When she was finished, she made herself a cup of tea and managed a bite from one of Terri’s oatmeal biscuits.

  Then she waited.

  At ten minutes to five, Biddy went into the living room and sat down on the edge of the red velvet chair. She didn’t want to slouch right back into it as she had yesterday afternoon, as she couldn’t be too comfy. She had to stay focused and alert. Maybe the leather sofa would be better? But then she wouldn’t see the screen quite as well, and she needed to. Even though she would have to turn the sound down, she absolutely must be able to see the screen. She settled on the chair, flicked onto the right channel and turned down the sound straightaway so that the last few minutes of the previous programme, a children’s show, didn’t distract her. The notebook she has used to write the script in sat on her lap and she held the telephone in her right hand. Perhaps she should have contacted Terri and asked her permission to use the phone? The call might be expensive. No, she dismissed the thought, Terri wouldn’t mind. She was sure of it. Terri was going to be proud of her. And anyway, she’d pay her for the call.

  Then another thought triggered a new panic. What if she didn’t get through? What if she’d got herself all geared up for this, the bravest, most courageous, most outrageous thing she’d ever done in her whole life, and she didn’t get through? She decided to dial the number there and then, before the show had even started. She knew it off by heart. Even though she’d never considered calling before, she’d heard that number repeated so many times that it was etched in her brain.

  ‘Good afternoon and welcome to Hone
y’s Pot. My name’s Miranda. What can I do for you today?’

  Biddy couldn’t speak. The shock of actually getting through and hearing someone’s voice, a real member of the Honey’s Pot team who was right there in the studio, somewhere in the background, almost made her hang up.

  ‘Hello? Hi? Hello? Anyone there?’

  Biddy managed a noise. It wasn’t decipherable, but it was enough to stop Miranda from hanging up.

  ‘Are you calling about today’s show?’ Miranda asked softly. She sounded kind, thought Biddy. Sincere.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Please don’t be shy. I know it’s a tricky subject today, one of the most difficult issues we’ve covered actually, but we all feel it’s really important. Do you have personal experience?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’

  Biddy was sweating so much now that she was worried the phone might slip out of her hand. She didn’t know what to do next. She hadn’t rehearsed this bit in her script, hadn’t really thought about this part of the procedure. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  On the other end of the line, Miranda Moore waited patiently. She hoped to be in front of the camera herself someday and was using her researcher job to learn how to talk to people, how to coax them into telling her their problems and reveal their secrets, just like the show’s famous host did. But unlike her boss, she definitely wasn’t going to be a bitch to her team off camera.

  ‘Listen, why don’t I ask you a couple of questions,’ she said gently, ‘and if you feel like answering them, fine, and if you don’t, fine. And we’ll take it from there. Will that do?’

  ‘Yes,’ Biddy managed a whisper this time. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good. Great. OK. Now then, first of all, can you tell me your name?’

  Biddy panicked again. Her name! Of course they would want her name. Now what was she going to do?

  ‘It doesn’t have to be your real name,’ Miranda had guessed her dilemma. She was used to it. ‘You can use any name you like, really. It’s your story, your experience we’re interested in anyway, not your name.’

  ‘Bridget,’ Biddy said quickly, remembering the first day she had met Terri and she’d asked if that was her real name. ‘Bridget . . .’ she hesitated, what surname would she give? ‘Just Bridget.’

  ‘OK, Bridget. That’s fine. Great. And where do you live? Again, you don’t have to say the exact location, just the area, really, is all we need.’

  ‘Erm, Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Thought so,’ Miranda sounded almost delighted. ‘Love your accent. So, Bridget, were you bullied yourself?’

  Biddy swallowed hard. What on earth was she doing? She hadn’t thought this through at all. Who the hell did she think she was?

  ‘Bridget?’ Miranda’s voice was low, concerned. ‘Please don’t be frightened. Maybe if you told your story it would help, you know. Kind of get rid of your demons, so to speak.’

  Biddy let out a half gasp, half laugh. Get rid of your demons, this Miranda with the kind voice had just said. Face your demons, Terri had said. This was a sign. Surely, this was a sign that she was doing the right thing after all.

  ‘Bridget, are you still there? Are you OK? Look, there’s no pressure. You don’t have to do this, rea—’

  ‘No,’ Biddy interrupted. ‘No, I do. I do. I want to. I have to.’

  ‘OK,’ said Miranda, ‘OK. Well, we’ll take it slowly, and any time you want to stop, that’s fine. So, Bridget from Northern Ireland, what happened to you, then? You were bullied, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At school? Or work? Or somewhere else, perhaps?’

  ‘School. At school.’

  ‘And how long did it last, Bridget?’

  ‘Seven years,’ Biddy swallowed.

  So did Miranda.

  ‘Seven years! Right.’ She hadn’t expected that. She had assumed people were only bullied for a little while. A year or two at most. And then someone would stop it. She hadn’t thought this through either. ‘So, what did they do to you, Bridget, these bullies?’

  ‘Things,’ said Biddy tentatively, realising it would take all day to tell Miranda her full story. She saw from the TV screen that the programme had already started. She had to move quickly now, as other people would now be phoning in. ‘Lots of things.’

  ‘Was it physical, or psychological?’ Miranda was aware that she needed to get a move on too. Between her and the other operators, Michael and Holly, they needed to select three callers and she had a hunch that Bridget would be a good one.

  ‘Mostly psychological,’ replied Biddy. ‘But the main one, Al . . .’ she hesitated, ‘the main one, she shoved me a few times. And it was because of her I hurt myself.’

  ‘You self-harmed?’ Miranda was even more certain now that this caller would be excellent live, if she could just boost her confidence a little. She fitted the criteria exactly.

  ‘Uh . . .’ Biddy’s voice trailed off. That wasn’t exactly what she meant; she’d been referring to the fall on the mountain, but now she realised with a jolt that yes, the pins and the biting were indeed harmful and not the comfort mechanisms she’d believed them to be for years.

  Miranda asked another couple of questions. Were the bullies ever reprimanded? Did she still see any of them? Did what happened still affect her? As Miranda talked, Biddy’s breathing regulated and the thumping noise in her chest eased. She managed to give clear, if brief, replies to each query.

  ‘OK, Bridget. I think you’ve been very brave calling us today, and I think we’ll be asking you to speak live on the programme in a little while. Do you think you can do that?’

  Biddy breathed in deeply.

  ‘Yes,’ she exhaled.

  ‘Great. Fab. You’ll be great. Now, just two more questions, Bridget, and then we’ll get your number and phone you back in a minute or two. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Great. I think you’re very brave, Bridget, I really do, as I sense how difficult this is for you, and I’m so sorry to have to ask this, but can you tell me one really bad thing that this girl did to you? The main one you mentioned earlier. Or something really terrible that happened because of her?’

  Biddy swallowed hard and ran her tongue over her dry lips.

  ‘Well . . .’ she paused and breathed in again. ‘Well, I suppose I nearly died because of her.’

  Part 1: the birth (and near death) of a weirdo

  Ballybrock, November 1979

  1.

  Biddy Weir was two months shy of her tenth birthday when she discovered she was a bloody weirdo. The awful revelation was a shock, to her at any rate, and from that fateful day Biddy’s life was defined not by her religion, the colour of her skin, or her sex; nor by what school she went to, her political persuasion or even which side of town she lived in: but by her oddness, by the undeniable, irrevocable fact that she was a weirdo, and a bloody one at that.

  As far as Biddy knew, she was the only weirdo who lived in Ballybrock, a small quiet seaside town with church spires and hilly streets and seven fish and chip shops. And lots and lots of seagulls. There were others, of course, like the old lady with wispy pink hair and bright red lipstick who pushed her pet poodles around in a scruffy old Silver Cross pram. And the tall young man with the long wild beard who called himself The Poet. He walked up and down Ballybrock High Street fifty-one times each morning before going into Josie’s corner shop to buy a quarter of midget gems and a packet of Rizlas. Josie always wondered where he bought his tobacco, but she never dared to ask. Then there were Billy and Ella, Ballybrock’s resident drunks, who loved each other with a passion often openly displayed in public and lived for half of the year in the town’s decaying bandstand. Nobody knew where they went for the other half.

  But Biddy didn’t know that these people were weirdos, for no one ever told her. They probably didn’t even know themselves. For although the people of Ballybrock would snigger and whisper and look
at each other knowingly when they passed them in the street, recoiling and pulling faces and talking about how ‘bloody weird’ they were, nobody actually called any one of them a bloody weirdo to their face. Not once.

  But Biddy knew that she was one, for Biddy had been told.

  Ballybrock was a nice enough kind of a place, not picture-postcard pretty, but generally pleasing. There was a rough pebble beach which ran the whole way along one end of the town and was shaded by a big stone wall. People would sit on the wall in summertime, eating their chips from crumpled old newspapers or licking their ice creams, shooing away the hordes of greedy gulls. Further along the promenade stood the bandstand where Billy and Ella lived, and a big old cannon sat proudly on the end of the pier. Right in the centre of Ballybrock was a small park with swings and a pond with a little island in the middle where peacocks and caged coloured birds lived.

  There were never any bombs or shootings in Ballybrock, not like lots of other places in the Northern Ireland at that particular time. In Ballybrock ‘The Troubles’ rarely troubled anyone. The people were mostly friendly and, on the surface anyway, didn’t seem to care if their neighbour was a Catholic or a Protestant. They looked out for one another and smiled and nodded as they passed each other on the street. And each year on the 12th July, regardless of what church they did or didn’t go to, most of the residents of Ballybrock lined the High Street to watch the bands parade in all their finery.

  Most folk who passed through Ballybrock concluded that it must be a pleasant place to live. And all things considered, it was. Just as long as you weren’t a bloody weirdo like Biddy Weir.

  Biddy had always known that she was different from the other girls at school. Her appearance, for a start, was a bit of a giveaway. Throughout her years at school, her uniform was either far too big or much too small. Regardless of her age, there never seemed to be a time when it was just the right fit. Her socks, which were supposed to be beige, were generally a strange colour of puce, and sometimes didn’t even match. And her scruffy shoes were often laced with scraps of coloured wool from her grandmother’s needlework box, which had sat on the sideboard since the old lady’s death. But it was Biddy’s hair that really made her look, shall we say, unusual. She was the only girl in her class who didn’t have long glossy plaits or swishing pigtails tied at the top with shiny blue bows. Biddy’s hair was copper and curly, neither long nor short, and it stuck out in every direction. But Biddy wasn’t interested in pigtails or plaits. Looking pretty as a concept, or even an objective, never crossed her mind.