Read Half-truths & White Lies for Free Online

with our next cuppa.
Waste not, want not.'
    Never criticize a busybody. The thing about busybodies
is that they are interested. They sort the junk
mail from the post, they organize, they clean, they shop
and they cook. They have a friend who owes them a
favour who can come round and fix the lock at a
moment's notice. All this without being asked. They do
not pity, but they are deeply aware of your feelings and
generous with their hugs. They do not stand and gawp,
worrying that what comes out of their mouths is not
precisely the right thing to say. In fact, Lydia could talk
a fine line in drivel, but she was aware of that too.
    'I'll stop if you want to think, but thinking's never got
me anywhere. And it's not good for you at a time like
this. You can tell me to leg it anytime you like.'
    She talked. I stood and stared at the piles of post that
had swiftly been sorted by size and content the moment
the kettle was on.
    'Bet you didn't realize you had so many friends. Those
are for the bin, that's your business end, those are letters
and those are the cards.' She pointed to various piles.
    'How can you tell?'
    'Years of practice,' she shrugged. 'Do you know, when
I was a lass, many's a time when I would steam open a
letter, have a look and then stick down the envelope so
you wouldn't know any different. Quite an art to it. But
if you need to know what's in your school report before
your parents, you get the hang of it pretty quick, I can
tell you.' Her laugh turned into a terrible bout of
smoker's cough and she thumped her chest with a
clenched fist. 'They don't teach you that in school! So
what shall we start with?' She tagged the question on to
the end of the story so innocently that I almost
answered automatically. 'I can imagine all of those
people' – she tapped the table next to the pile of handwritten
envelopes – 'dragging theirselves out to the
shops and rummaging through the sympathies' section
for half an hour, getting their knickers in a twist about
which one to buy, then dragging theirselves home again
and sitting there with a cup of tea, fretting for an
eternity over what to write. Feeling like it's the
individual words that are that important.' She paused
and I wondered if she had some words of wisdom to
add. 'Me?' She scraped back her chair and stood up. 'I
thought I'd make you a nice brew instead. And we did
all right, didn't we, love? See! I'm going to get Kevin's
tea now.' She switched on the radio ('Bit of company for
you') and looked around her as if she had forgotten
something. 'That lad's a genius but he can burn a salad
left to his own devices. You're very welcome or I can nip
back later on if you need anything.'
    'No.' I tried to sound convincing. 'I think I need to
spend the first night here on my own.'
    'That's right, love.' She patted my arm. 'I'll pop round
in the morning then. Before I go and do for my ladies.'
    As I followed her to the front door, she turned and
said, 'You know, it's funny. I don't think we've ever had
a proper chat before. Isn't it strange that you can live a
few doors away and not get to know someone? It wasn't
like that when I was growing up around here.
Neighbours could count on each other. That's what
made me decide to come back home after my Bill died.
When your world falls apart you need to be close to
family. I expected it to be exactly the same, that was my
mistake. Not all change is for the best, you know.
Anyway, love, you know where I am. Don't be a
stranger.' She plodded down the corridor, and just when
I thought she was gone I heard her mutter quietly, as if
she was struggling to get the words out, 'I'm sorry for
your troubles.'
    Then, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was
like to be alone.

Chapter Seven
    When you lose someone, there is an expectation for
quite a while that you will get over it. That, in time,
things will get easier. That's what you have always been
told. The first night will be the worst. There is a vague
hope that the funeral will