Page 15 of Carry Me Home

‘Isla called me,’ she says, pivoting us onto safer ground. ‘She’s reached the “I will be pregnant forever, this is my life now” stage of proceedings.’

‘Already? She’s not due for another few months. How’s she going to be by then?’

‘Apparently the cute little kicking bubbles she was feeling are no longer all that cute and Kit likes to play a game called “wake the baby up”.’

‘Sounds like Kit.’

‘She wanted to know if I had any café recommendations in Truro. Somewhere she could go and sit for three hours without anyone judging her for eating an entire cake.’

‘And do you?’

‘Of course; I said to come to Mum’s. I said she’d even let her have whipped cream on top of the frosting.’ She laughs, but it’s softer now. ‘She said they’re going to call the baby Peter if it’s a boy. I don’t know why she told me that. I mean, I do know why. I just wasn’t expecting⁠—’

She doesn’t say another word, and in the strangled quiet I can hear her daily fight with her grief.

The silence sits between us. Below me, the refrigeration unit hums. Through the window, a gull cries out over the harbour.

‘That’s lovely,’ I say, because it’s true, and because anything else would be the wrong shape for the space she’s in.

‘It is. It really is.’ Her voice is fragile, held together with both hands. ‘I just didn’t expect it to hit me like that. I was standing in Mum’s kitchen and she told me and I had to pretend I was fine about it, which I was, I am, but also I suddenly couldn’t breathe? Which is ridiculous. It’s a good thing. It’s a beautiful thing.’

‘It can be both.’

‘I know. I know it can.’ She exhales, long and unsteady. ‘I miss it. All of it, really. The bump updates and Brynn complaining about tourists and you sending me photos of questionable veterinary situations.’

‘The photos aren’t questionable. They’re educational.’

‘Tom, last week you sent me a close-up of an infected sheep’s hoof.’

‘That was a classic presentation of footrot. Very textbook.’

‘It was disgusting and you knew exactly what you were doing.’

I did. She texted back eleven crying-laughing emojis and a voice note of herself retching. I’ve listened to it four times.

The silence stretches, comfortable now – the kind that only happens with someone you’ve known so long that the gaps are as much yours as the words. I can hear her breathing, the faint sounds of her mother’s kitchen.

‘I should name it,’ I say eventually.

‘The sheep?’

‘The dog.’

‘Oh.’ I hear her settling in, the energy shifting. This is Nina when she’s got a project. I know that her chin is propped in her hand, eyes narrowing. ‘Okay. I’m ready. What are we thinking?’

‘I have no ideas. That’s why I’m asking you.’

‘Tom.’ She says it like I’ve disappointed her. ‘You can’t just call someone and make them do all the work. You need to bring something to the table.’

‘I brought a dog.’

‘The dog brought itself. You just failed to prevent it.’

I lean my head back against the chair.

‘What about Bramble?’ she says. ‘Since you found it in the gorse?’

‘There are two Brambles at the surgery already. Three if you count Mrs Penhaligon’s rabbit.’