The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(13)

‘Shall I get you a mixer?’ Elle pretends solicitousness. ‘Two litres of Coke should do it.’

‘You’re going to have to drink one for me,’ I plead quietly.

‘You know I can’t mix my drinks,’ she laughs. ‘It makes me insane.’

David nods, backing her up, fear in his grey eyes, for ever #TeamElle. I can’t rely on him to help me out either, he’s strictly a three-beers man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him get stupid-drunk. He isn’t dull though: his pithy sense of humour can make me cry laughing and he loves the bones of my sister, which makes him a superstar in my eyes.

I pick up the gin and remind myself that it’s famously known as mother’s rescue. Or is it mother’s ruin? I’m going with rescue, because that’s what I need: rescue from my relentless sorrow. My eyes slide to the window, watching a street-sweeping machine trundle slowly along the gutters. I wish it could sweep out the dark corners of my mind, the dusty rooms at the back stacked with memories of holidays, lazy mornings in bed and late nights drinking Calvados by the lake in France. Would I really erase Freddie from my memory if I could? God, no, of course not. It’s just hard to know what to do with all the stuff in my head now he isn’t here. Perhaps in time those memories will be precious and I’ll be able to draw pleasure from taking them out one by one and laying them around me like a carpet. Not yet though.

Wine, vodka and gin. It’s not a great combination in quick succession. ‘I think I might need a lie-down,’ I say.

‘You’re hammered, kid. Time to go home, I think,’ David says, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll walk back with you.’

Elle checks no one is looking and then downs the brandy with a shudder.

‘Things I do for you,’ she says under her breath.

I appreciate the gesture because it would have been rude to leave any of the drinks on the table.

Ron lifts a hand in my direction as we make for the exit and the boys around the fruit machine all fall silent and bow their heads as I pass, as if I’m Queen Victoria, for ever in my widow’s weeds for Prince Albert.

We blink as we spill out into the weak early-summer sunshine and David catches my elbow to rein me in when I almost veer off the edge of the pavement.

‘Tough gig, that,’ he says. ‘You did well, Lyds.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, a little overwhelmed and a lot tearful.

Elle and I link arms as we head towards home, swaying in gentle tandem, David a step behind, no doubt to keep a safety eye on us.

‘Bloody hard work, grieving,’ I say.

‘Takes it out of you,’ Elle agrees.

‘Will it always, do you think?’ I ask her.

She squeezes my arm against her side. ‘Your life is still your life, Lydia. You’re still here, inconveniently breathing, watching the sun go down and the moon come up regardless of whether you think it’s got a damn nerve showing its shiny face every day.’

She props me up as we walk the last few steps to my pale turquoise front door. We all have different-coloured woodwork in our row, a pastel paint-box chosen to add to the wow factor of the cottages. It was already turquoise when we bought it; one of the super-organized people further down sent a paint chart round and everyone got to choose their shade.

‘Need some sleep,’ I mutter.

David reaches over and takes the keys from my hand, opening the door for me.

‘Want us to come in for a while?’ Elle says.

I look from one of them to the other, knowing full well that if I said the word they would. They’d come in, make sure I sleep, make sure I wake up again, make sure I eat, and tempting as it is to let them take care of me, I shake my head. Something shifted inside me when I walked into the pub alone today. Perhaps I was bolstered by my sleep encounter with Freddie, or maybe I discovered a small well of untapped bravery somewhere deep inside, I don’t know. What I do know is that the people who love me have been holding on so tight to my hands that I haven’t yet had to walk alone. But sooner or later, I have to. Today, now, is as good a time to start as any.

‘You two carry on, I’ll call you later,’ I say, giving them both a quick, on-your-way-now hug. ‘I need a glass of water and a lie-down.’

I see Elle open her mouth to argue, but David lays a hand on her arm and speaks instead.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Can I suggest a headache pill too?’

I nod, salute, find a smile from the bottom of my boots. ‘Good call.’

I watch them for a few seconds as they strike out towards home, David’s arm around Elle’s shoulders. I hold silent the part of me that wants to call out for them to come back and instead I step inside and close my front door.





Saturday 12 May


‘Lydia?’

You know that kind of sleep you fall into after a bout of daytime drinking, the sleeping at the bottom of the sea kind? I’m fathoms below when I hear Freddie say my name, and it takes all of my concentration to push myself off the bottom, kicking furiously upwards to get to him before he goes away.

‘Jesus, Lyds, you were dead to the world.’ Freddie’s hand is on my shoulder, shaking me lightly. ‘Did you and Elle go shopping?’

I scrabble to sit up straight in the corner of the sofa, rubbing the crick in my neck where I’d slumped over. I can’t gauge what time it is, if I’ve been out for five minutes or five hours. My head is pounding, my heart too, at the sight of Freddie.