Page 18 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

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.’

Freddie and Jonah were at opposing ends of the sporting spectrum; if there was a chance of winning something, Freddie was all over it with his arms outstretched for the trophy. Jonah, on the other hand, doesn’t mind a kick-about, but he doesn’t have that competitive fire in his belly. He’s content to be an armchair sportsman, finding his passion in music and books. They were unalike in lots of ways. Freddie was a doer, Jonah more of a dreamer, a stargazer. For his fifteenth birthday a group of us camped out in Freddie’s back garden to try to catch a glimpse of a passing comet, or perhaps it was an asteroid shower. Either way, Freddie snored through the entire thing while Jonah and I sat huddled under blankets with our eyes glued to the heavens in the hope of an astral show.

‘Could have used a beer with my old mucker last night,’ Jonah says. ‘Nothing drastic, just kids winding me up and classroom politics pissing me off. Not to mention Harold giving me a dressing down for not wearing a tie in assembly yesterday.’ He laughs, his eyes still closed. ‘Can you believe it? Ten years since we left that place and old Harold’s still on my back.’ He pauses as if listening to Freddie’s reply. ‘Oh, and I won at darts on Wednesday. Duffy was bloody furious. Lost his bet. Had to buy a round, and you know how tight he is. Everyone ordered a whisky chaser just to wind him up.’

I can’t help but smile a little at this. Listening to Jonah’s recollection of antics in The Prince is strange but kind of warming; I know I would have heard these same stories first-hand from Freddie had he been here still.

Jonah falls silent, absently picking at the frayed knee of his faded grey jeans, frowning, searching for more words, I expect. Then he opens his eyes and sighs, leaning forward to lay his hand flat over Freddie’s name on the cold granite for a few quiet seconds.

‘Till next week, mate.’

It’s as close as he can get to laying his hand on Freddie’s shoulder. I know, because there have been times when I’ve wrapped my arms around the sharp-edged damn thing and laid my cheek against the golden etched words. Not too many times though. We’re Brits after all; there’s a certain cemetery etiquette to be observed and it doesn’t include having a full-on breakdown every time you rock up.

Much as Jonah did earlier, I clear my throat. He looks my way and double blinks, surprised. ‘Lydia,’ he says, and then he frowns. ‘How long have you been there?’

I hate the idea of anyone overhearing me talk to Freddie, so I lie. ‘Just a second or two.’ I pause. ‘I can come back in a while, if you need more time?’

He gets to his feet, brushing grass cuttings off his jeans. ‘No, it’s okay. I’m done here.’

I haven’t seen or spoken to Jonah since that afternoon in the pub three weeks ago, and I know I need to make things right. Jonah was Freddie’s right-hand man, but in actual fact he was my friend before Freddie even shot into my orbit. His quiet sarcasm aligned with mine when we were forced to partner up on a chemistry project at twelve years old; I think the teacher held vain hopes that some of Jonah’s logic might rub off on me. It didn’t. We quickly gave up any hope of me ever learning the periodic table, but we fell into the habit of spending our lunchtimes together with our backs against the old oak tree trunk to watch the school comings and goings, the flash-in-the-pan romances, the occasional overspill of teen temper amongst the older kids. Our friendship came at a time when I needed it, when most of the girls in the class had decided I wasn’t cool enough to hang out with them. Grateful, Mum would sometimes pack an extra mint biscuit for Jonah. He’d always try to refuse it out of politeness, but I knew he liked them and it was a welcome addition to the curling-at-the-edges cheese-spread sandwich his mum sent him with every day. This isn’t a cute boy-meets-girl story though; we struck up a genuine friendship, as in ‘oh, you’re someone like me’ rather than ‘oh, you make my stomach feel like a washing machine’. I liked knowing he’d be waiting for me come lunchtime, that I could rely on him to make me laugh even if I’d had a crap morning. And then Freddie joined the school, Jonah’s new desk neighbour because their names followed each other on the register, and within a couple of weeks two became three around the oak tree at lunchtime. Freddie Hunter blew into my life and swept me up in his carnival of colour and laughter and noise. And with him my cool rating went up and I no longer needed so many of my lunchtime conversations with Jonah. Which is a good thing, really, because three is inevitably an odd number, and never more so than when two of the three become romantically involved. Freddie probably felt caught between us sometimes; both of us vying for his attention and resenting the other when we didn’t get it. We made it work though, somehow, over the years, because our friendship mattered too much to lose. And now it’s just the two of us again, and I honestly don’t know how we work any more. I’ll always care for Jonah – he’s been part of my world for too many years to not be important to me. But the accident sits between us, the elephant always in the room.

‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ He digs his car keys out of his jeans pocket. ‘See you around.’

I watch him silently as he nods at Freddie’s headstone and strides away along the avenue of gravestones. But just as I’m about to sit down, he swings around and comes back.

‘There’s this thing tomorrow morning at the school,’ he says. ‘You could, you know, come, if you like.’

I stare at him, perplexed. ‘Thing?’

He shrugs. ‘You know, a workshop type of thing.’

‘You’re not selling it very well,’ I say, half smiling because I don’t know what else to do.

‘It’s a grief workshop, okay?’ His words come out in a rush, scorn-laden, as if it pisses him off that they’re leaving his mouth. ‘Mindfulness, that sort of stuff.’

‘A grief workshop?’ I say it in the same tone I might use if he’d asked me to bungee jump or sky dive. Jonah isn’t generally the type to focus on his inner chakras, or whatever they do at mindfulness workshops. I expect this kind of stuff from Elle; it’s a surprise from Jonah.

‘It’s being run in the main hall.’ He couldn’t look more uncomfortable if he tried. ‘Dee, one of the new supply staff, is a trained yoga and mindfulness teacher. She’s offered to run a session if there’s enough interest.’

Dee strolls into my head, shiny-haired and bendy with an ever-ready smile that borders on pious. I catch myself being unkind for no reason and wonder if that is who I am now, bitter like over-brewed coffee.

‘I’m not sure it’s my kind of thing.’ I soften the rejection with an apologetic smile.

‘I’m not sure it’s mine either,’ he says, sliding his sunglasses on. ‘It was just an idea.’

I nod, and he nods, and after an awkward moment of silence he turns to walk away again, but then he stops and turns back for a second time.

‘The thing is – I think it might help.’

‘Help with what, exactly?’ I ask slowly, even though I think I know what he means. I wish he’d carried on walking rather than coming back a second time, because I can feel this conversation straying towards dangerous ground.

He looks skywards, thinking before he speaks. ‘This,’ he says, stretching his arm out towards Freddie’s headstone and beyond. ‘Help with handling all of this.’

‘I’m handling it my own way, thank you,’ I say. The last thing I want to do is sit in a room full of strangers and talk about Freddie.

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