‘Do chips taste better when you’ve just done life-saving surgery?’ I say.
‘Definitely.’ Elliot’s eating like a starved man again. He’s halfway through his newspaper-wrapped bundle and I’ve barely even made a start on my gorgeous flaky cod – freshly landed at Torbay this morning, according to the chip shop owner. We’d asked the taxi to stop on the way back because I was getting dizzy from lack of food.
We’ve got our feet dangling down into the harbour from our perch at the very end of the lowest tier of the Clove Lore sea wall. The sun’s about to set and it’s definitely threatening to turn chilly but the colours in the sky (wild dark blues and orange) and the heat of our food is helping insulate us. Plus Elliot’s sitting surprisingly close to me, and I don’t think I mind.
‘You sure he’s going to be OK?’ I say. I’d heard him on the phone to Jowan in the taxi saying as much.
‘Hard to tell with a dog that age, but I’ve seen older dogs pull round from anaesthetic and go on with their lives a hundred times before now, so I’m hopeful.’
‘Anjali was hopeful as well,’ I say, peering round for Elliot’s reaction. He shrugs and takes another bite of fish, the little wooden fork tiny in his grasp. ‘What did she mean when she said she admires your work?’
‘Oh, Iuh…’ He’s definitely grimacing and trying to hide it by taking a big swig from his Coke can. ‘I wrote a textbook about veterinary care a few years ago.’ He throws the information away like it’s nothing.
‘No way!’
‘Yeah, right at the end of my doctorate. It became a bit of a staple for undergraduates studying vet medicine, and I had a YouTube channel,Dr Elliot’s Day, where I’d document basic procedures; that had a few followers.’
‘How many’s a few?’ I’m trying hard not to gush but that’s seriously impressive.
‘A few thousand, not that many.’
I can tell he’s being modest. I find myself thinking I’d probably be quite happy to watch him swabbing infected animal parts online, and I mentally tell myself off for being creepy.
‘Anyway, that was a long time ago now, people have forgotten.’
‘Anjali hasn’t. I think she was a bit star-struck. What uni did you go to?’
He laughs uncomfortably. ‘Forget about it, OK. People don’t know me anymore.’ His voice is terse and I see his jaw flex with tension, so I let it go. ‘What about you? You studied at uni, right?’
‘Uh-huh, English. I loved it. The subject, I mean.’ I’m not telling him about Mack, that’s for sure. ‘I was a mature student. I lived at home, caring for my gran.’
Elliot turns to look at me, scrunching up his empty chip wrapper. ‘Is she,uh…’
‘She’s still very much doing her thing. She texted me this this morning.’ I show him my phone and the picture of Gran, Bernice and Jill reclining on sun loungers around the New Start Village indoor pool. Gran’s in a yellow floral two-piece and matching swimming cap with plastic daisies all over it. ‘Stanley the Stud took the shot, apparently.’
‘Who’s he?’ Elliot laughs.
‘God knows, and I didn’t ask either.’ I shudder a bit and Elliot laughs again. It’s a lovely sound. I want him to do it more so I tell him all about the yarn-bombers and what we did to the police station that time.
‘Family’s important to you?’ he says when I’m done. ‘I saw the recipe book on the counter in the café yesterday.’
‘Ah, you saw that.’
‘The inscription was nice.’
‘You read it? What if it had been my diary or something scandalous like that?’
‘You got me! I was curious. It looked so old, and the words, they were so…’ Elliot’s eyes meet the darkening horizon and his jaw tenses again. I know what words he means: Grandad’s inscription for Dad on the first page. I read it over and over again on my first night in Clove Lore. I recite the words aloud into the summer evening.
‘Yeast to grow a family. Sugar to sweeten it. Icing for forgiveness and to cover over our mistakes. Here are my recipes, for you son, when you are old enough. You were the best thing I ever made. Love, Dad.’
Elliot’s gone quiet, so I finish my fish and chips and the feeling of being a million miles from home returns, and I’d been doing so well too. I haven’t been able to reach Mum or Dad yet, other than some late-night texts. They’re out and about at restaurants and long walks out of town, making up for lost time, I guess. When he speaks, his voice is deeper than before. ‘Family’s important to you,’ he says again. It’s not a question this time.
‘Yeah, isn’t it the same way for everybody?’
‘Hmm.’ His gaze falls down to where our feet dangle above the sloshing waves. ‘That’s why you went to uni late?’
‘Yeah, lots of people do, for all kinds of reasons. My parents couldn’t afford for me to go and I was looking after Gran. I’d spent years secretly looking at college prospectuses on my phone and dreaming about being a student. Don’t laugh, but I’d watch live city webcams of Belfast and Oxford when Gran was napping. I’d see all the happy students cycling by and I’d try to imagine myself there. In the end I enrolled part time at a campus a few miles from home. That place saved me from drowning, at least that’s what it felt like. I never got over my amazement at actually being there. Do you know what I mean?’ Elliot smiles but I can tell he doesn’t really get it. ‘It seems to me your childhood was my actual dream life. Cambridgeshire, a library at home, straight to uni after school, puppies everywhere.’
