Chapter 5 #3
Father Phil wasn’t her only caller. Marian turned up every other day, making tea that Lydia felt obliged to sip, issuing dinner invitations that were still declined.
If there were ashes to be taken in the sitting room she would take them, and set a new fire.
If the tumble dryer needed emptying she would do it, and fold its contents.
Tom was coping, she said, when Lydia asked. Kathleen wasn’t spoken of.
Susan was another frequent visitor, bringing a box of teabags, or a pair of still-warm scones, or a trio of bananas.
Every time she appeared Lydia would think of the lilac dress, still hanging in the wardrobe.
The sight of it prompted fresh daily torment, but bringing it to a dry cleaner in the town was completely beyond her, and she kept forgetting to ask Marian to take care of it.
Susan never brought it up, but she must be wondering if she’d ever see it again.
Greta came, with duck eggs or goat’s cheese.
She would stow them in Lydia’s fridge and sit silently for a while, never more than ten minutes.
If Lydia happened to be close enough, Greta would reach for one of her hands and hold it wordlessly, a thumb absently stroking.
She was a surprise, more humanity in the blue eyes than Lydia had initially given her credit for.
Had they paid her for the wedding cake?
Others came in twos and threes, their faces vaguely familiar, but Lydia couldn’t recall from where.
They murmured their names on arrival, and Lydia promptly forgot them.
They brought food in tinfoil containers, casseroles, pasta bakes and apple crumbles.
She got other things too: a wedge of Christmas cake, a candle, a bar of soap, a book.
Whoever brought the book must have thought Lydia was still capable of reading.
None of her callers stayed long. She was glad they demanded nothing of her. It was good of them to come. She recognised the kindness in a detached way.
Three weeks without him.
Two people had called, but hadn’t come in. Denny was one. It had taken Lydia a moment to place him as the taxi driver and photographer. He’d looked deeply uncomfortable, no trace of his previous cheeriness.
I just came to give you this, he’d said, thrusting a small white card at her. In case you need to go anywhere. I know you don’t drive. Give me a shout, anytime at all, no charge – I mean that now.
Denny O’Neill, she’d read. Taxi service, reasonable rates, and his phone number.
She’d thanked him and he’d gone away, and it had come to her later that he hadn’t mentioned the wedding photos, the ones he’d taken with two cameras.
She couldn’t imagine ever being able to look at them, ever wanting to put them into an album, or choose a frame for her favourite.
The other person who hadn’t come inside was Andrew.
He wasn’t there to collect the school furniture – all of that had been taken care of while Lydia was in Dublin.
The dining room had been cleared and the decorations carted away, every trace of her wedding reception removed.
It must have been organised by Marian, who’d had a key since the wedding.
Like Denny, Andrew had made no mention of wedding photos.
Chicken soup, he’d said, offering her a plastic lidded beaker.
You mightn’t feel like—He’d broken off, his face changing.
Jesus, I forgot you’re vegetarian, I’m sorry, and Lydia’s eyes had filled, she cried at the drop of a hat now, and seeing the change in her face the colour had risen in his own, and he’d repeated his apology, and she had shaken her head to ward off his words, not able to speak, not able to tell him that it wasn’t the chicken soup that was making her cry, all her energy taken up in trying to stem the tears, and then he’d said, I’ll get out of your way, and he’d made off with his beaker, and she’d closed the door slowly and leant against it, still weeping, as his van had started up in the driveway.
About this vegetarianism, Owen had said, the night of the party. We’ll have to arrange an intervention. I’d say Damien will help – and maybe Damien had already been dead as they’d laughed about it.
Three weeks without him.
When she looked through the kitchen window again Gareth had gone.
Noel was still at the shed, but now he was perched on one of the half-built walls, a plastic cup in his hand, a flask balanced on the wall next to him.
Lydia had seen him do this before, and had thought she should bring him out tea. Maybe next week.
The rest of the day passed with its usual visitors – fewer now than at the start, the tapering-off inevitable.
In between callers Lydia swept and mopped floors that didn’t need it, emptied the fridge and washed the shelves, reorganised the contents of the freezer, ran a cleaning tablet through the washing machine, hunted for cobwebs she’d already found. The apartment had never been so clean.
Time is your friend. She wondered how true it was.
Three weeks without him. Three endless, agonising weeks.