Page 17 of Carry Me Home

‘It works. Friendly but not trying too hard. Approachable. Solid.’

‘Also a lot like me, apparently.’

‘If the shoe fits.’

The silence shifts. A current I can feel but won’t name. The light through my window has gone from honey to amaranthine blue, a colour I only know because Nina taught me it.

‘When are you coming home?’

The words sit in the space between us, taking up more room than five words should.

‘I don’t know.’ Her voice is still warm, but there’s a door closing. I can hear the mechanism, the click of exclusion. ‘Soon, probably. Eventually.’

‘The fuchsias need tending. You’re not going to have a full bloom.’

‘I know.’

‘Dot’s been watering them?’

‘Dot’s been sending me updates. Apparently they’re a community concern now.’ She laughs, but it’s a different sound. Brightness-stripped and bare. ‘I’ll be back. I just … need a bit more time.’

‘Of course.’ I should stop here. I know I should stop here. ‘It’s just that the dog misses you.’

‘The dog hasn’t met me.’

‘The dog has heard a lot about you. It’s very invested.’

‘Tom.’ My name, but different. It makes me crumple like discarded paper.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to—’ I stop.

‘I know you didn’t.’ Soft. Then she pulls herself together – I recognise the straightening of her spine even though the space between us is silent. ‘I should go. I’ve got— There’s a thing. Tomorrow. I should sleep.’

‘Of course.’

‘Give Chips a pat from me.’

‘I will.’

‘And send me the photo.’

‘Straightaway.’

The pause stretches. I can hear her breathing, and I think she’s going to say something else – I don’t know what, I never know what, that’s the whole problem – but then she just says, ‘Night, Tom,’ and the line goes dead.

I sit in the armchair for a long time, fingers splayed on the old, worn, cracked leather.

The flat settles around me – the creak of old pipes, the hum of the surgery below, the distant wash of the sea. Through the window, the last of the light is fading, the village going soft and blue. I can just see the roof of the Lavender Café, the shape of it dark against the sky. Same view. Every evening. The only thing that changes is who’s under the roof.

The dog – Chips – watches me from the sofa. After a while, it gets up, crosses the room with careful dignity, and puts its head on my knee.

‘I know,’ I tell it. ‘I shouldn’t have pushed.’

It looks up at me with those ridiculous eyebrows.

‘She’ll come back when she’s ready.’

The dog sighs. It has no opinion. I have too many.