Page 6 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘The shopping channel again?’ Elle asks, dropping her bag by the kitchen table.

Mum shrugs. ‘It just happened to be on. You know I don’t usually buy off the telly, but Kathrin Magyar was so impressed by it, and the handle had just fallen off my old frying pan, so it seemed like it was fate.’

I suppress a smile and Elle looks away. We both know that Mum’s kitchen cupboards are stuffed with unnecessary purchases the super-glam TV presenter Kathrin Magyar has convinced her will revolutionize her life.

‘Want me to chop the onions?’ I say.

Mum shakes her head. ‘Already done. They’re in the mini-chopper.’

I nod, noticing it on the kitchen surface. I don’t ask if that was from the shopping channel too, because of course it was, along with the motorized cheese grater she’s used for the Cheddar.

I make coffee instead, thankfully unaided by superfluous gadgetry.

‘Did you try the pills?’ Mum asks, cracking eggs into a bowl.

I nod, winded by the reminder of Freddie.

She rifles through her jug of kitchen implements until she finds the whisk. ‘And?’

‘And they work.’ I shrug. ‘I slept through.’

‘In bed?’

I sigh, and Elle shoots me a small smile. ‘Yes, in bed.’

Relief smooths the lines from Mum’s forehead as she whisks the eggs. ‘That’s good. So no more sleeping on the sofa, okay? It’s no good for you.’

‘No, promise.’

Elle lays the table, three place settings. Our family swelled to five, and now it’s reduced to four, but in its purest form it has always been three: Mum, Elle and me. We don’t really know our dad. He walked out five days before my first birthday, and Mum has never really forgiven him. Elle was a lively three-year-old, I was a handful, and he decided that life with three females wasn’t his gig and moved to Cornwall to take up surfing. He’s that kind of man. Every few years he sends news of where he is, and he even turned up on the doorstep unannounced once or twice when we were still at school. He’s not a bad person, just a flighty one. It’s nice to know he’s there, but I’ve never really needed him in my life.

‘I’m thinking of buying a new kitchen table,’ Mum says as she places our plates down and takes her seat.

Elle and I both stare at her. ‘You can’t,’ I say.

‘No way,’ Elle says.

Mum raises her eyes to the ceiling; she’d obviously anticipated resistance to the idea. ‘Girls, this one’s on its last legs.’

We’ve sat around this battered, scrubbed wooden table our entire lives, always in the exact same spots. It’s seen our school-morning breakfasts, our favourite weekend bacon and beetroot sandwiches and our family rows. Our mother is by and large a creature of habit; her home hasn’t changed much over the years, and Elle and I have come to rely on it staying more or less the same. Come to think of it, you could say the same for Mum – she’s had the same ash-blonde bob for as long as I can recall. Elle and I inherited our heart-shaped faces from her and we all share the same deep dimples when we laugh, as if someone screwed their fingers into our cheeks. She is our safety net and this house is our sanctuary.

‘We did our homework on this table.’ Elle lays a protective hand on it.

‘Every Christmas dinner I’ve ever had has been around this table,’ I say.

‘But it’s drawn all over,’ Mum tries.

‘Yes,’ Elle says. ‘With our names from when I was five years old.’

She gouged each of our names deep into the surface with a blue ballpoint not long after she learned her letters. The story goes that she was terribly proud and couldn’t wait to show Mum what she’d done; they’re still there now, childish capitals beneath our place mats. Gwen. Elle. Lydia. A scrawny little bird after each of them.

‘Would you like to take it to your house?’ Mum says, looking at Elle, who has a screamingly tidy home where everything matches or complements, and absolutely nothing is battered or gouged.

‘It belongs here,’ Elle says, firm.

Mum looks at me. ‘Lydia?’

‘You know I don’t have the room,’ I say. ‘But please let it stay. It’s part of the family.’

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