Page 30 of Carry Me Home

‘A little bit. But a good kind of sad. Does that make sense?’

She nods, matter-of-fact. ‘Like when I think about Mum. I’m sad but I’m also glad I’m thinking about her. Because if I stopped being sad it would mean I stopped remembering.’

I press my fingertips against the counter. I hold very still, which is not something I do well, but the alternative is folding in half in front of an eight-year-old, and I’m not going to do that. My throat aches. My eyes ache. I breathe.

‘Yeah,’ I say, when I can trust my voice. ‘Exactly like that.’

‘Dad says it gets easier. He’s wrong, though. It doesn’t get easier. You just get better at carrying it.’

I look at her – this small, serious person who knows too much about grief and hasn’t yet learned to hide it. The fact that she hasn’t learned to hide it might be the bravest thing I’ve seen all year.

‘That’s very wise, Maisie.’

‘Isla said that, actually. But I remembered it.’ She hops off the stool and approaches Chips, who has been watching her with great interest. ‘Can I take him for a walk? Just on the harbour. I’ll bring him back.’

‘Have you walked a dog before?’

‘I’ve walked Brynn’s dog.’

‘Brynn doesn’t have a dog.’

‘She did for one afternoon. It was a long story.’ She’s already reaching for the lead. ‘Please? I’ll be really careful. I won’t let him escape again.’

I should say no. She’s eight. Chips is still technically a stray. There are a hundred reasons this is a bad idea.

‘Stay where I can see you from the window,’ I say. ‘And if he pulls, you let go. Don’t let him drag you anywhere.’

Her glance between the tiny scrap of a terrier and me says it all really, but Maisie is too polite and too cute to be rude.

‘I won’t.’ She clips the lead to his collar with surprising competence. ‘Come on, Chips. I’m going to show you the boats.’

Chips looks at me, looks at Maisie, and apparently decides this is acceptable. They head out the door together, Maisie chattering away, Chips trotting at her side like he’s known her his whole life.

I watch them through the window – the small girl and the small dog, making their way along the harbour front in the afternoon sun – and something about the image makes me press my hand against my chest without meaning to.

It doesn’t get easier. You just get better at carrying it.

Eight years old.

I look at the fridge. Peter’s magnet. The cartoon penguin in a scarf, holding a cup of coffee. He bought it at a Christmas market, stuck it on the fridge with great ceremony, declared it the café’s official mascot.

I could take it down.

I straighten it, though. It was crooked. It’s been crooked for seven months and I’ve never fixed it, and now I press my thumb against it and leave it there, and that’s enough for today.

Tom arrives at closing time, which is so perfectly timed I suspect coordination with Dot’s surveillance network.

‘Heard you survived day one,’ he says, letting himself in. Chips immediately abandons his bed to greet him, tail wagging with an enthusiasm that borders on disloyal.

‘Traitor,’ I tell the dog.

‘He’s just being polite.’ Tom crouches to scratch Chips behind the ears, and the dog leans into his hand in a way that is frankly sycophantic. Tom’s face when he’s with animals is different from his face the rest of the time. Softer, unguarded, the dryness gone for a moment. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I don’t know why I’m noticing it now.

‘How was it?’ he asks, standing.

‘Fine. Good. Exhausting in a way I’d forgotten.’ I’m cashing up, counting coins, keeping my hands busy. ‘Bill and Frankie came by. And Tilly. And Maisie.’

‘So the whole village knows you’re back.’