Page 92 of Carry Me Home

‘As in, Scotland Scotland?’ Hayley.

‘When you say partners—’ Mum.

‘How far is Scotland from here?’ Meg again.

‘It’s literally the furthest point from Cornwall you can get without falling into the sea,’ Hayley says. ‘I looked it up once.’

‘Why were you⁠—’

‘It was a quiz, Meg. Keep up.’

‘Hang on.’ Meg holds up her hands. ‘Scotland. You. Living there. Permanently?’

‘Potentially. A trial first. See how it goes.’

‘And Cara.’ Hayley’s voice has gone careful. ‘This is the Cara who’s been staying with you. The tall one.’

‘Yes.’

‘The one who looks at you like you’re the last biscuit in the tin.’

‘I don’t think⁠—’

‘She does,’ Meg confirms. ‘I’ve seen it. Very intense. Very last-biscuit.’

‘Can we focus on the actual—’ I look at Dad. He hasn’t moved. Fork down. Face still. ‘Dad. The practice. I know you were expecting me to take over. I know that was always the plan. But⁠—’

‘What kind of practice?’ he asks.

‘Mixed. Large and small animals. Some equine. There’s a wildlife rehabilitation programme attached.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It is. And Cara’s brilliant – you’ve heard about her at the foaling. We’d be a strong team.’

‘And what about this practice?’ Mum asks. Her voice is quiet. Not the warning quiet. The real kind. ‘What about your father’s retirement?’

Dad picks up his wine glass. Takes a long sip. Sets it down. The gesture is so precisely his – the deliberation, the unhurried consideration – that I feel a sharp, sudden ache behind my ribs. I know this man’s every movement. I know the creak of his chair and the way he folds his handkerchief and the particular sigh he gives when Mrs Carmichael’s spaniel sits on his foot. I know this kitchen, this table, the view of the garden through the window where his roses are dying in the heat.

I am sitting here contemplating leaving all of it.

‘Your mother and I have been talking,’ Dad says.

‘Oh God.’ Hayley puts her head in her hands. ‘They’ve been talking. That’s never good.’

‘Shut up,’ Meg hisses.

‘We’ve been talking,’ Dad continues, ‘about what happens when I retire. About the practice. About you.’ He looks at me directly, and his face contorts with a crack, brief and controlled, a fissure in the steadiness that he closes so fast I might have imagined it. But I didn’t imagine it. ‘If you need to go, Tom, you go. We’ll find another way.’

I stare at him. ‘What?’

‘I can sell to someone else. Bring in a partner. Your mother’s found a young woman from Truro – small-animal specialist, just qualified, very keen. Or I wind it down gradually. There are options.’

‘But the practice⁠—’

‘Is mine. Not yours.’ His voice is firm but his hand, resting on the table, has tightened around the stem of his glass. I see the knuckles whiten. I see the cost. ‘It was never supposed to be an obligation. I’d love for you to take over. Of course I would. But not if it means you’re staying out of duty. That’s no way to build a life.’

The table is quiet. Meg has tears in her eyes, which she’ll deny if anyone mentions it. Hayley is studying her plate with sudden fascination.