Page 5 of Carry Me Home

‘It’s not my business,’ I say, realising I’ve been silent too long and must look desperate and needy. It really is all a bit Poldark around here, and not just the rugged coastline. Except I’m blonde and blue-eyed, not dark and brooding, and I’m a fucking vet, for God’s sake, who needs to get a grip on his goddamn life. My jaw must do something unfortunate, because Jude says, quietly this time, ‘You keep saying that like repetition makes it true.’

I look at him. ‘Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about your counselling voice.’

That gets the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s very expensive. I like to get my money’s worth.’

‘Right,’ I say, because I’m not touching that. ‘I’m going to get some lunch and head to the surgery.’

Unnecessary information. This is Sea Salt Bay. We all know what everyone’s doing at any given time.

‘Right, mate.’ Jude gives me a nod, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire time as I walk away, and that’s damn annoying too.

Dot’s is on the way back, and my stomach has been making pointed suggestions since the flamingo incident, so I stop in.

As always, the shop smells of biscuits and newsprint and a hint of dusty floral notes that I’ve never been able to identify despite years – a lifetime – of trying. What it does not smell of, at three in the afternoon on a Thursday in late May, is food. The meal-deal section is a shelf of empty wire. The pasties are all gone. Dot does three types a day, fifteen of each variation, which always seems optimistic for a village with four hundred permanent residents but now stands revealed as catastrophic naivety in the face of a car park at full capacity. The good crisps are gone. The good chocolate is gone.

There is mature cheddar. There is a single packet of oatcakes that has been here since at least March, judging by its position at the back of the shelf and thin covering of dust. There are, inexplicably, three tins of anchovies.

Dot appears from the back with Gerald under one arm.

Gerald is a Norfolk terrier of advancing years and deep personal dignity who suffers from nothing more serious than having the most attentive owner in Cornwall. I see him once a fortnight on average. He endures these visits with the air of a man being repeatedly mistaken for someone else.

‘Gone by half nine,’ Dot announces, settling Gerald more firmly against her hip. ‘Every last pasty. A man from Bristol bought two, Tom. Two. I said to him, these are local pasties, this is not a catering order, there are people in this village who have been coming to this shop for forty years and expect a pasty to be waiting for them.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked if I did a gluten-free option.’ Tactical error on his part, judging by her expression. ‘I said I do a be-grateful-for-what-you’ve-got option.’

‘I’ll have the oatcakes,’ I say.

‘Sensible.’ She hands Gerald to me while she gets a bag. He submits to the transfer with resignation. We’ve been through this enough times that Gerald and I have reached an understanding. He is not actually unwell; I do not charge Dot full price. She pretends not to notice. It’s a functional system.

‘Gerald’s looking well,’ I say, because I always do. ‘I thought you weren’t bringing him to the shop anymore?’ The poor sod just wants to sleep away his retiring years, much like Dot’s husband.

‘His appetite has been extraordinary.’ She takes him back, tucks him against her hip like a particularly furry handbag. ‘I’ve been giving him that leafy greens mix. Like you said.’

‘Good.’

She looks at me.

A pause, measured.

Dot has been running this shop since before I was born, and there is nothing that happens in this village she doesn’t know about, and very little she doesn’t have an opinion on.

‘Nina’s café being shut is making it worse, you know,’ she says, looking at me through glasses that have slipped down her nose. ‘People come down expecting somewhere to get a coffee and cake and there’s nowhere. They all end up in here. I had a woman ask if I did a flat white. A flat white, Tom.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I told her I do a Nescafé or nothing.’ She straightens a rack of postcards that doesn’t need straightening. ‘She bought a Nescafé.’

‘Brave woman.’

‘Desperate woman. There’s a difference.’ Dot looks at me again, and this time there’s concern hidden in it. Careful and kind. ‘She called me last week, you know. Nina. Said she needed a bit more time.’

My hand tightens on the oatcakes before I can stop it. So, Dot gets a call. That one fact thunders through me like a wave crashing on a cliff.

I make myself loosen my tight hold on the oatcake packet. ‘Is she all right?’ Tone light and breezy.

Four words. Simple enough.