The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,16
both stare down at our drinks. Elle is rummaging in her bag for something to do and David is far too nice to laugh at my embarrassment.
‘I can’t drink these,’ I say, changing the subject, and then I groan under my breath as yet another of Freddie’s friends brings me a short. Duffy, the tight accountant. The fact that he’s so tight makes the gesture somehow even more significant.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says, funeral-director formal. It’s a phrase I’d happily petition to have struck from the English language, but I know he means well.
‘Thank you, that’s kind,’ I say, and he melts away, his duty done.
I get it. They’re paying their respects. These were the guys who cheered beside Freddie at the football and who formed an unofficial guard of honour outside the church at his funeral. These drinks are for Freddie Hunter rather than me.
I line the drinks up, wondering in desperation whether it would be a terrible plan to put them all in one glass and down it in one go. When I look up, I catch Jonah’s eye across the pub and he holds my gaze for a few seconds, whether in amusement or sympathy, I can’t tell.
Thankfully, the free-drinks parade seems to have ended; the fruit-machine crew have probably realized that a girl has her limits, or perhaps they’re worried I might get overemotional and make a scene.
‘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.’