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 her 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.