The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,12

the injustice of it all. Freddie should have come straight home on my birthday, not detoured to Jonah’s. My logical brain kicks in most of the time and tells me that it’s hideous to lay even a speck of blame at Jonah’s door, but sometimes, late at night, I can’t stop the thoughts. I’ve pretty much avoided him since the funeral; texts have gone unanswered, missed calls not returned. I know he doesn’t deserve such treatment, but I can’t help it.

‘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?