Page 106 of Carry Me Home

The Land Rover is packed. Everything I need for the first few months – clothes, books, the few possessions that matter. The rest can follow later, if there is a later. If I decide to stay.

Mum’s standing by the gate, arms folded, trying not to cry.

‘You’ve got everything? Clean pants? Your winter coat? It gets cold up there, Tom. Properly cold. Not like here.’

‘I’ve got everything, Mum.’

‘And you’ll call? Every week? More than every week?’

‘Every week. I promise.’

‘Every day,’ Hayley says. She’s leaning against the wall, trying to look casual and failing. ‘Call every day. We need updates. What’s Cara cooking for dinner. Whether you’ve seen Nessie the Loch Ness Monster. Important stuff.’

‘I’m not going to call every day.’

‘Then text. Texting counts.’

‘Fine. I’ll text.’

Meg barrels out of the house, straight out the shower, and throws her arms around me, pressing wet hair into my chest. ‘I can’t believe you’re actually going. This is stupid. Scotland is stupid. Why can’t you set up a veterinary practice somewhere civilised, like Newquay?’

‘Newquay already has vets. Lots of them.’

‘Then they can have one more.’ She pauses, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. ‘You could commute. People commute to work, they don’t all live upstairs in a convenient flat like you do.’

‘You want me to commute from Cornwall to Inverness?’ I laugh and rub at her wet hair, but it sounds a little hollow.

‘There are planes, Tom. Don’t be dramatic.’

Dad appears in the doorway. He doesn’t say anything, which is one hundred per cent what I expect, he just walks over and pulls me into a hug. Tight. Brief. When he lets go, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

‘You’ll do well,’ he says gruffly. ‘You’re a good vet. They’re lucky to have you.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘And if it doesn’t work out⁠—’

‘I know. I can always come home.’

‘You can always come home.’ He claps me on the shoulder. ‘But give it a proper go first. No running back at the first sign of trouble.’

‘I will.’

The family clusters around the car. More hugs. More promises to call and text and visit.

And then, walking up the harbour road, I see her.

My chest tightens before my brain catches up. Just the shape of her – the walk, the posture, the dark hair – and my body knows before I do.

Nina.

She’s not coming to say goodbye – I can tell by the way she’s walking. Purposeful. Directed. She’s heading for the café, probably, or the shop, or anywhere that isn’t here.

But Mum sees her too.

‘Nina! Nina, love, come say goodbye to Tom!’

Nina freezes. I see the moment she considers pretending she didn’t hear. Then her shoulders drop slightly into goddamn resignation, and she changes direction. Walks towards us.