The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(20)

‘Really?’ Mum says. I can see she’s trying to choose what to say next. I imagine her bypassing ‘about bloody time’ and pausing to consider ‘thank God for that’, before finally settling on what actually comes out of her mouth: ‘Are you sure you’re ready, love?’

I shrug and half shake my head, even though I’m trying to nod. ‘I can’t stay at home on my own for much longer without going round the bend, Mum. And I’m sleeping better now with the tablets.’

What I don’t say is that I need to give myself something to do; something tangible to focus on in the real world. My job as events manager at the town hall isn’t rocket science, it’s mainly desk-based, but I work with a good bunch of people and the pay is decent. They’ve been kind and allowed me the time off so far as paid sick leave, but it can’t go on indefinitely.

Mum comes and perches beside me on the sofa, her hand on my knee.

‘You could always come back and stay here for a while. If it’d help?’

I feel my bottom lip begin to tremble, because we both know she’d hate it, but she loves me enough to say it anyway. It’s not the first time she’s offered; she’s said it at least once a week since Freddie died. I’d hate it too. I like to eat stain-inducing curry off a plate balanced on my knees in the living room and falling to pieces when no one’s watching.

‘I know,’ I say, covering her hand with mine and giving it a squeeze. ‘But it’s not the right thing to do, you know that. I have to “pass sentiently through my grief”, and I don’t think that means moving back in with my mother.’

She snorts a little bit; it’s fast becoming a stock piss-take phrase in our family.

‘I’ll pack your lunch for you then. Just for the first day or two.’

I expect she’s still got the clear pink lunchbox she used to send me to school with. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘that’d help, Mum.’ Though I suspect it’ll help her more than me.

She nods, fast. ‘I’ll get those mint biscuits you used to like, the ones with shiny green wrappers.’

I swallow around the lump in my throat, feeling fifteen again, back to the days when I slept upstairs in a single bed in the room I shared with Elle.

‘First Monday in June, then?’ she prompts, and I think about it, wondering if I can. We’re in the last week of May now; she’s only giving me a few days’ grace to get myself together. I expect she’s keen to catch the wave in case the next one pulls me under and I change my mind, and because I can’t promise that won’t happen, I nod slowly.

‘First Monday in June, then.’

‘Good girl.’ She pats my knee as she stands up. ‘I’ll just nip into the kitchen and add those biscuits to my shopping list.’

I watch her go, wondering if she knows she’s one of the guardians of my sanity. My mum and her lists used to crack Freddie up – he used to add random things to them when she wasn’t looking, hosepipes or doll’s houses or nasal trimmers. The memory makes me smile and then ache, because I’ve reluctantly decided to try to ration my visits to once a weekend. It’s too much of a good thing, as unsustainable as eating tablespoons of sugar. The problem with addiction is that at some point you have to give up whatever it is that’s taken you over, or else give yourself over completely to it. I don’t want either of those things to happen. I want both of my lives, and for that to happen I need a secure footing here in the real world. Time to lace up my walking boots.





Saturday 2 June


I guess it should come as no surprise that I find the cemetery a peaceful place to be; I can almost hear Freddie cracking a horribly lame joke about the residents keeping themselves to themselves. I’ve been sitting here long enough to get a numb bum and as I look at Freddie’s headstone, I notice a white splatter against the grey granite; the pigeons around here clearly have no respect for the dead. Rummaging in my bag for the wipes, I find them missing and sigh, irritated. I can’t leave it like that.

‘Back in a sec,’ I say, picking up the old flowers I’ve removed and my rubbish to ditch in the basket in the car park. ‘The wipes must be in the boot.’

At the car a couple of minutes later, I find I’m right. Locking up, I amble back slowly in the sunshine, taking the long way round because the cemetery is in full bloom and I could use a few minutes to catch my breath. It’s just about the only place I can feel truly still. I value that now more than ever, a chance to step out of my smoke-and-mirrors double existence.

When I draw nearer to Freddie’s grave again I realize that someone else is sitting on my recently vacated spot in front of the stone. Jonah Jones, his knees pulled up in front of him as he speaks. As I step closer and try to decide what to say, he clears his throat and coughs as if preparing to give a speech to the English class he teaches at the local secondary school.

‘I’ll try, but no promises,’ he says quietly. I pause, wondering what he’s told Freddie he’ll try to do, unsure whether to interrupt because his eyes are closed. Perhaps he’s doing that thing I do, imagining they’re somewhere else right now. At the pub maybe, or about to watch the game, feet up on the coffee table in our living room.

‘Saturday again already,’ Jonah says. ‘Stressful week at work. Ofsted are in, staff shortages, the usual crap. I had to take a PE lesson last week and we all know how shit I am at sport. You’d have pissed yourself laughing.’