The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(10)

‘Don’t be so hard on him,’ Freddie tells me.

I sigh because it’s easy for him to say. ‘I know, I know. It’s just …’ I open the pack of wipes as I pause, because even speaking the words out loud feels too much. ‘It’s just that I sometimes wonder if you’d only let him drive himself for once …’ I huff, wiping the headstone a little too vigorously as I finish the sentence inside my head.

‘He was my best friend,’ Freddie reminds me. ‘And your oldest friend too, remember?’

I push the dead flowers into the rubbish bag, breaking the brittle stems as I shake my head. ‘Of course I remember,’ I say. I’ve known Jonah even longer than I’ve known Freddie. ‘But things change. People change.’

‘Jonah doesn’t,’ Freddie says, and I don’t tell him he’s wrong, even though he is. A light went out in Jonah the day of the accident, one I’m not sure he’ll ever find a way to reignite. I sigh and look to the skies, aware that I’m adding to Jonah’s burden by distancing myself, and feeling shoddy for it.

‘I’ll try, okay?’ I say. ‘Next time I see him, I’ll make the effort.’ It’s a deal I make with the knowledge that Jonah isn’t someone I run into very often.

‘I guess I should get going,’ I say, gathering my things back into the bag. I subconsciously trace my eyes around the golden letters of Freddie’s name. Freddie Hunter. His mum wanted to put Frederick – we came as close to rowing as we ever have about it. I stood my ground. He hated being called Frederick, no way was I having it etched on his gravestone for all eternity.

I linger beside the stone, ready and not ready to go. This is the worst bit about coming here: leaving. I try not to think about it too much, about the reality of what is left of him beneath the ground. There were times in the darkest nights just after his funeral when I seriously contemplated vaulting the cemetery gates and scrabbling in the dirt until my fingers closed around the unassuming black pot that holds my life as well as his inside it. It’s a bloody good job we didn’t have Freddie buried; I cannot be certain I’d have been able to stop myself from turning up with a torch and a spade and burying myself beneath the dark earth with him.

I sigh heavily as I push myself up from the ground and peel the damp plastic bag from the back of my jeans, then kiss my fingertips and lay them silently on his stone. ‘See you later, I hope,’ I whisper, crossing my fingers on both hands as I turn away and walk towards the car park.

I stow my bags in the boot and slam the lid, startled by the vibration of my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. Elle’s name flashes up when I click the screen.

Meet me at The Prince for an hour? I’m already there, new job jitters! I’m sure you could do with a drink too?



I look at her message curiously, no idea how to respond. I haven’t set foot in our local pub since the day of Freddie’s funeral. She knows that, of course; I’ve turned the idea down every time she’s suggested it in recent weeks. And it’s not just the pub – I’ve pushed away all suggestions of going anywhere. Then I think back over the course of this morning. Elle’s probably taken the fact that I’ve brushed my hair and put on a little make-up as a sign of my progression from red-hot-poker grief to whatever the next stage is. I don’t know the name for it: battleship-grey grief maybe? I know the stages have been given actual names by psychologists, but I think of them in terms of colours. Angry red. Endless black. And now, here, hinterland grey as far as the eye can see. I think about Elle’s suggestion. Can I face the pub? I don’t have any other plans; my Saturday is a blank sheet and I know how nervous she is about her new job. She’s given so much of her time to me since the accident – perhaps I can give a little back.

Okay



I fire it off quickly, before I can let myself say no.

See you in ten.



I feel as if everyone is staring at me as I walk into the pub, like one of those saloon bars in the Wild West where everyone pauses when the doors swing open and glares at the stranger who’s dared to enter their midst. I’m probably over-egging it; in fact, I definitely am, given that there’s fewer than twenty people in the place and half of them are pensioners nursing pints of mild and watching the snooker on the tiny TV up in the far corner.

The Prince of Wales is a proper pub, complete with ill-advised green-and-brown carpet and beer mats from the seventies. Not a gastro menu in sight: Ron behind the bar runs to crusty cheese rolls and pickled onions on match days if you’re lucky. But it’s our local, just around the corner from home, with little appeal to the hipster crowd, beloved by the patrons for exactly that reason. I’ve never once felt nervous coming in here, but I do today. Sickly nervous, in fact, and very alone as I scan the room in search of my sister.

I spy her before she sees me. She’s standing with David and a few others over by the fruit machine, her back angled towards me, wine glass in hand, as she leans in to listen to the guy next to her. I swallow hard as I recognize Freddie’s drinking mates, people we went to school with, guys who’ve been on the fringes of my life for ever. David spots me and lifts his hand, nudging Elle to let her know I’m here. She’s by my side in a flash, her hand sliding into mine.

‘Good girl,’ she says. It could come over as patronizing from someone else, but not from Elle because I know she gets how difficult this is for me, and I also know how much she misses the things we used to do together. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’ She squeezes my fingers, a subtle gesture that I appreciate as we make for the bar.