Chapter 4 #2
‘It was disgusting and you knew exactly what you were doing.’
I did. She texted back eleven crying-laughing emojis and a voice note of herself retching. I’ve listened to it four times.
The silence stretches, comfortable now – the kind that only happens with someone you’ve known so long that the gaps are as much yours as the words. I can hear her breathing, the faint sounds of her mother’s kitchen.
‘I should name it,’ I say eventually.
‘The sheep?’
‘The dog.’
‘Oh.’ I hear her settling in, the energy shifting. This is Nina when she’s got a project. I know that her chin is propped in her hand, eyes narrowing. ‘Okay. I’m ready. What are we thinking?’
‘I have no ideas. That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘Tom.’ She says it like I’ve disappointed her. ‘You can’t just call someone and make them do all the work. You need to bring something to the table.’
‘I brought a dog.’
‘The dog brought itself. You just failed to prevent it.’
I lean my head back against the chair.
‘What about Bramble?’ she says. ‘Since you found it in the gorse?’
‘There are two Brambles at the surgery already. Three if you count Mrs Penhaligon’s rabbit.’
‘There’s a rabbit called Bramble?’
‘And a cat. The Penhaligons are not creative namers.’
‘Okay, not Bramble. What about Scout?’
‘Four Scouts. Five if you count the guinea pig.’
‘There’s a guinea pig called Scout? You know what, never mind. What’s its personality?’
‘It’s been fourteen hours.’
‘You’re a vet. You can read an animal in fourteen seconds.’
I look at the dog. The dog looks back. A philosopher being asked to explain something obvious.
‘Resigned,’ I say. ‘It has the energy of someone who’s seen too much and made peace with the absurdity of existence.’
‘So what you’re saying is, it’s a lot like you.’
‘I’m not resigned.’
‘You’re incredibly resigned. It’s one of your defining characteristics.’ The warmth of her words spreads through me. ‘What about something ironic? Something cheerful for a dog with existential gravitas?’
‘Like what?’
‘Sunny. Biscuit. Sparkle.’
‘I’m not calling it Sparkle.’
‘You have no sense of whimsy, Tom Darcy.’
‘I have an appropriate sense of whimsy. There’s a difference.’
‘Bark Obama.’
‘Nina.’
‘Chairman Woof.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘What? These are excellent names.’
She’s properly laughing now, bright and unguarded, and my heart, which I keep bound, opens so wide that I will have to close it again later. That’s fine. I’ve had practice.
‘Okay, okay,’ she says. ‘Serious. What about Marmite?’
‘Too divisive.’
‘That’s the point.’
‘The dog doesn’t have strong opinions. The dog has quiet resignation.’
‘Chips, then. Nice and neutral. Everyone likes chips.’
I look at the dog. The dog looks back.
‘Chips,’ I say, trying it out. ‘Chips the anxious terrier.’
‘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.
I send her the photo. She doesn’t reply. I don’t check again.