Page 28 of Carry Me Home

‘His name is Chips.’

‘Chips.’ He says it slowly, testing it. ‘Tom Darcy found a dog and named it Chips. That’s adorable. That’s disgustingly adorable.’

‘Tom didn’t name him. I named him.’

‘Even better. You named the dog together.’ Frankie turns to Bill, face lit like he’s been gifted an unexpected present. ‘Dot’s going to lose her mind.’

‘Two lattes,’ I say. ‘On the house. Please stop talking.’

‘Can’t stop talking,’ Frankie says cheerfully. ‘It’s my primary skill. How was Truro? How’s your mum? Are you back for good or is this a trial run?’

‘Frankie,’ Bill warns.

‘What? I’m showing interest.’ Frankie’s expression tells the truth. He’s scavenging for gossip like the treasure hunters out on the sand with their beeping metal detectors.

I make their lattes and let Frankie’s questions wash over me, answering the easy ones, deflecting the hard ones, and by the time they leave – forty minutes later, three pastries consumed, enough gossip exchanged to fuel the village for a week – the café feels warm and used and alive in a way it hasn’t for three weeks.

This is what I missed. Not just the café, but the rhythm. The conversations that pick up where they left off, the sense of being woven into something larger. The feeling of being needed for something as small and daily as a latte.

Chips has fallen asleep. I top up his water bowl – away from his food bowl, as per Tom’s instructions – and get back to work.

Tilly comes in at two, with her knitting and her opinions. I’ve been slammed with tourists since Frankie and Bill left.

‘The board looks good,’ Tilly says, settling into the window seat she’s claimed as her own for the past six years. ‘Better than last time. Your Qs have improved.’

‘Thank you. I practised.’

‘On what?’

‘A napkin. Several napkins. I may have gone through a whole packet.’

‘Dedication. I respect it.’ She pulls out her current project – something purple and complicated – and fixes me with a look. ‘You doing all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Hmm.’

‘That’s a very loaded “hmm”, Tilly.’

‘It’s a concerned “hmm”. You disappeared for three weeks. People worried.’

‘I was at my mum’s. People knew where I was.’

‘Knowing where you are isn’t the same as not worrying.’ Her needles click steadily, a rhythm I’ve come to find soothing over the years – the sound of someone who is not going anywhere. ‘Tom checked on your fuchsias every day. Did you know that?’

‘I’ve been informed.’

‘Dot kept count. She has a tally.’

‘Of course she does.’

‘Seventeen visits. Eighteen if you count the time he just stood outside looking at them and then left.’

I pick up a mug and wipe away a smear across its surface.

‘That’s very Tom,’ I say.

‘It is very Tom.’ Tilly’s needles pause. She holds her knitting in her lap and looks at me directly, the way she does when she’s about to say something she considers important. ‘That boy has been looking after things that aren’t his business for as long as I’ve known him. Which is longer than you’ve been alive, so I’m speaking with some authority here.’