47.

Biddy’s first night at Cove Cottage wasn’t as restful as she had hoped. She couldn’t eat the leftover lasagne as she’d planned, as her tummy felt queasy. There was nothing on television she really wanted to watch, and though using the remote to flick through all the various channels was a distraction, the novelty soon wore off. She was agitated, uneasy, and cross with herself for feeling that way. Her leg and hip ached, probably from sitting on the stool for such a long time, and rather than take a bath as she’d wanted to do earlier, she decided just to go to bed. It must be tiredness, she thought, the excitement of the day. She’d feel better in the morning after a good, long sleep.

But even when she lay down on the soft, springy mattress and pulled the duvet, which smelt of fresh flowers, up to her chin, she couldn’t get comfortable. No matter how hard she tried to push the thought of tomorrow’s Honey’s Pot out of her head, it followed her around like a menacing shadow. She tried to hum it away, she tried biting her knuckles, she tried to think about what she would paint the next morning. Nothing worked. Sleep, she begged the ceiling, I want to go to sleep. She tried counting sheep. She tried recollecting every single colour palate in her new paint set. She tried counting backwards the number of weeks she had known Terri Drummond. Still nothing worked. Honey’s Pot was all she could think of.

Then, suddenly, she found herself high up on Mount Innis, higher even than she’d been the night she had tried to fly. She was standing on top of a sharp rigid turret, balancing on one leg, her good leg. The other leg wasn’t there at first, and then it was, only it wasn’t a human leg, it was a falcon’s, adorned with soft brown and white feathers, bright yellow feet and black claws. A sense of elation engulfed her: she was turning into a bird, a falcon. Then two peregrines arrived and perched on either side of her. She recognised them instantly as the falcons who had been with her that night on the mountain many years before. They were strong and sleek and held themselves with pride, but when she looked down her own bad leg was back, and it started to wither, right in front of her. Then she heard shouting.

‘Over here, Biddy, come to us. Over here!’ She turned to her right and saw a group of people standing on top of another turret, calling at her, waving, beckoning her over. She could make out Terri, right at the front. Then Penny Jordan appeared. She cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, ‘You can do it, Biddy. I know you can do it.’ Her father was there too, standing behind Miss Jordan. He didn’t speak, or motion, but he smiled at her; he smiled right into the back of her eyes and all the way down her skull and her neck until he reached her heart. He looked so young and healthy. He was holding something. A sheet of paper? No, a painting. Her painting, the one of Cove Cottage.

Then she heard another voice, a shrill familiar voice which almost made her lose her balance. It was laughing and then it began to sing. Other voices joined it. She didn’t want to look. She tried to stay focused on Terri and Miss Jordan and her father, who by now were joined by Dr Graham and someone else, a man she didn’t recognise. He wore a uniform. He nodded his head at her and then she realised: it was the bus driver, the one who was nice to her and spoke to her now every time she took his bus. Then Terri was there again in the forefront, shouting at her.

‘Face your . . .’ something. She couldn’t hear properly, as the singing was getting louder and louder. She had to look round. She couldn’t stop herself. On another turret to her right, but slightly lower, was Alison Flemming, dressed in the Ballybrock Grammar School uniform. Georgina, Jackie and Julia crowded in behind her. There were others, she couldn’t remember all their names, but she knew their faces. Vanessa Parker was one of them. Jill Cleaver too. Not all of them were singing, though, just Alison, Georgina, Jackie and Julia. She recognised the tune, but she couldn’t quite hear the words at first. Then the rest of them joined in the chorus:

 

Oh yes she’s a weirdo

And she freaks us all out,

She’s ugly and creepy,

There ain’t no bloody doubt.

 

Biddy remembered now.

‘Don’t listen to them, Biddy,’ someone shouted from the other side. She thought it might have been Miss Jordan. But the singing grew louder. It was echoing around the mountain:

 

There she goes again talkin’ to the birds,

She’s a definite nutter, she’s a total nerd.

 

Someone else appeared. A woman. Tall and slim with long golden hair. She was laughing and hugging all the singers, telling them how funny and wonderful they were and how much she loved them. We love you too, they chorused. The woman turned around and smiled at Biddy, the glare from her pure white teeth was almost blinding. It was Honey Sinclair.

Biddy woke up with a jolt, her breathing rapid and heavy, her body drenched in sweat. It took her a few seconds to work out where she was, especially as the room was so dark and heavily quiet. The streetlight outside her bedroom window at home in Stanley Street threw a haze of grubby light into her bedroom and there was generally some kind of noise drifting around throughout the night, especially on weekends. Cars speeding around the nearby Clanmorris estate, dogs barking, cats crying, drunks stumbling home from the clubs and pubs in town, effing and blinding as they bounced off walls and collided with lampposts. Here there was nothing. Total, absolute silence. The stillness would have been pleasant, welcome even, had it not been for the fact that there was nothing to distract her from the dream. It kept replaying in her mind, over and over again. She knew she wouldn’t sleep again for a while – she didn’t want to anyway, in case it started again – so she pulled on the fluffy dressing gown and went into the kitchen to make a hot drink.

Biddy stood for a while, staring out through the glass doors, watching the lights of a lonesome vessel twinkling on the water in the distance. As she sipped her creamy hot chocolate, the distress of the dream, and the agitation which had been bothering her since the previous evening, finally began to dissolve. She felt strange, but not in a bad way. It was hard to describe. Lighter. Yes, that was it. She felt lighter.

She thought about the dream again, but now she wasn’t frightened. She rarely dreamt so lucidly and usually couldn’t remember the details of her dreams in the morning. But every detail of this one was vividly, powerfully clear. Bertie roused himself from his basket and meowed loudly. He wasn’t used to being disturbed in the middle of the night. Biddy poured some milk into a saucer and placed it on his mat.

‘What do you think it means, Bert?’ she asked the cat, as he lapped at the milk. ‘It definitely means something. I’m sure of it. What were they all trying to tell me? What was Terri shouting?’

The cat looked up at Biddy, licked his lips and sauntered back to his basket. He curled up and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was fast asleep, but Biddy lifted the mohair throw from the small sofa in the kitchen, and went out onto the patio. Wrapping the blanket around her, she snuggled down into the wicker armchair. The trawler disappeared into the night, the dancing stars guiding its way. Biddy wondered if she had ever seen such a beautiful sight as this black night sprinkled with starlight. And then she remembered that of course she had; but on that occasion she had been cold and frightened and obviously delirious as she’d believed that the falcons could show her how to fly, and that Paddy Joyce was with her on the mountain, there to keep her safe. Now she felt soothed by the warm night air, calmed by the silence, and inspired by the star-spangled sky.

‘Face your demons,’ she whispered, as she gazed up at them. ‘Face. Your. Demons.’ That was what Terri had been trying to tell her in the dream. Of course it was! Terri had said that very same thing to her on the beach a couple of weeks back; the day she had told her all about the school trip, and the dull, fuzzy weeks spent in hospital afterwards: the pain, the fear, the confusion – but the relief she’d felt every night that another day had passed without Alison. Terri had listened without interrupting, as she always did. When she was done, when the whole story was out and her words had run dry, they sat in silence for a while, watching a cormorant dive from the rocks. Eventually Terri had taken her hand and squeezed it hard.

‘One day soon, Biddy, you’ll be strong enough to face your demons,’ she had said, ‘and then, puff, you’ll be able to blow them all away.’

‘Well, I’m ready now,’ she said aloud, breathing in deeply as she headed back indoors. ‘I’m ready.’

For hours she wandered around the cottage, formulating her plan. She sat down; she stood up; she drank three mugs of tea. She made toast. She made more toast. She ate three Kimberley biscuits. She talked to Terri’s plants; she spoke into mirrors. She even had a chat to Harry. She watched the sun come up, and almost cried with joy at the beauty of the dawn breaking over Cove Bay.

Finally, exhaustion hit. Her head throbbed; her legs wobbled; her eyes drooped. She slid under the soft, fluffy cloud of a duvet, hugging it into her chest like a cherished treasure, and sleep took her in a second.