Page 127 of Carry Me Home

Chapter Twenty-Seven

TOM

The invitation arrives on a Thursday.

I find it in my pigeonhole at the surgery, tucked between a pharmaceutical catalogue and a reminder about the practice’s Christmas party. Thick cream card. Embossed lettering. A small anchor stamped in the corner.

You are invited to the christening of Peter William Harding. St Michael’s Church, Pencross. Saturday, 15 September at 2 pm. Godparents: Nina Ellis & Tom Darcy.

I read it standing in the corridor, staff and clients moving past me, the everyday noise of the practice fading to static.

Godfather. They want me to be godfather.

And there’s Nina’s name, printed right next to mine on thick cream card. As if we’re a pair. As if it’s that simple.

I tuck the invitation into my jacket pocket and get on with my day. There’s a Labrador with an ear infection. A cat that’s swallowed something it shouldn’t have. A farm call that will take three hours and leave me smelling of sheep.

Normal. Routine. The life I’m supposed to be building.

The invitation sits against my chest like a heartbeat that isn’t mine.

When Isla calls I’m between appointments.

‘Tom!’ Her voice is bright but frayed around the edges. The permanent state of new motherhood. ‘Did you get it? The invitation?’

‘Got it today.’

‘And? You’re coming, right? Please tell me you’re coming.’

‘Isla—’

‘Don’t you dare say no.’ A shuffling sound, a small cry in the background. ‘Hang on. Kit! Kit, can you take him for a minute? I’m on the phone.’

Muffled voices. More shuffling. Then Isla’s back.

‘Sorry. He’s been cluster feeding all day. I haven’t showered since Tuesday. I’ve forgotten what sleep feels like.’ A pause. ‘None of that is relevant. What’s relevant is that you’re coming to my son’s christening.’

‘I’m coming.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ The relief in her voice is palpable. ‘Kit said you’d make an excuse. Something about work, or the drive being too long⁠—’

‘I’m coming, Isla. I said I would.’

‘I know. I know you did. I just…’ She sighs. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without you, Tom. You’re family. Even when you’re seven hundred miles away pretending to be Scottish.’

‘I’m not pretending to be Scottish.’

‘You know what I mean.’ Another pause. The baby cries again, further away this time. ‘How are you? Really? And don’t say fine. I’m too tired for fine.’

‘I’m…’ I search for a word that isn’t fine. ‘Adjusting.’

‘That’s not better than fine. That’s worse than fine. Adjusting is what people say when they’re miserable but don’t want to admit it.’

‘I’m not miserable.’

‘Tom.’

‘I’m not. The practice is good. Cara’s good. Everything’s⁠—’