“The surgery looks good,” she says, peering through the connecting door with the air of someone inspecting troops. “You’ll want to advertise. The village noticeboard is outside the post office. And Graham at the pub will put a card up behind the bar if you asknicely.”
“Right.” I file this away. The pub. Graham. “Is there a café as well?”
“Nell runs a coffee shop called The Wren. She does a lovely flat white, if you’re that sort of person.” Maggie saysflat whitethe way someone might sayperformance art. With tolerance but without understanding. “She’s a sweet girl. Quiet. Keeps herself to herself.”
The way Maggie says this carries weight I can’t parse. Like she’s placing a marker down for later.
I walk Maggie to the door after the scones are demolished and the tea is drunk, and she pauses on the front step.
“You’ll do well here, Phoebe,” she says. It’s the first time she’s used my first name. “The village needs a vet. More than most villages do.”
“More than most?”
She smiles, and it’s the smile of a woman who knows exactly how much to say and when to stop saying it. “Get yourself down to the pub this evening. Introduce yourself. People will want to meet you. And if anyone asks where you’re from, just say London and leave it at that. They’ll fill in whatever story they like, and it’ll be more interesting than the truth.”
She’s gone before I can decide whether that’s advice or a warning.
I spend the rest of the afternoon making thecottage liveable. Books go on shelves. Clothes go in the wardrobe. The Le Creuset goes on the shelf above the Aga where it belongs, and I stand back and look at it and feel an absurd surge of satisfaction. My kitchen. My casserole. My shelf.
James would have said I was being territorial. James would have been right, and I wouldn’t have cared.
By six o’clock, the cottage feels less like a storage unit and more like somewhere a person might actually live. I shower, change into clean jeans and a jumper that doesn’t have bleach stains, and study myself in the bathroom mirror. I look tired. The kind of tired that’s settled into the bones over months and won’t shift with one good night’s sleep. But I also look, if I’m honest, better than I have in a while. Something about the air up here, maybe. Or something about not sharing a bathroom with a man who left his towels on the floor and called it a personality trait.
The walk to the pub takes four minutes. Mistwood really is absurdly small. The pub sits at the end of the high street.
Inside, it’s cosy as village pubs are. Low ceilings, dark wood, the smell of hops and woodsmoke. Not busy, but not empty either. A handful of people occupy tables near the fireplace, and a few more line the bar. Conversation dropswhen I walk in. Not to silence. Just a dip. The collective pause of a small community as it registers a new face.
The man behind the bar is tall and lean with sandy hair and an easy grin. “You must be the new vet,” he says, which I’m beginning to think is the only greeting Mistwood knows. “I’m Graham. What can I get you?”
“A glass of whatever red you’ve got open, please.”
“Bold choice. The red’s been open since Tuesday.” He reaches for a bottle anyway. “I’m joking. It’s a decent Malbec. Helen’s husband brought a case back from a wine fair, and I nicked half of it.”
The wine is, in fact, decent. I take it to a table near the window and sit with my back to the wall, which is a habit James used to find annoying, but I find essential. From here, I can see the whole room.
The pub has the look of a place that hasn’t changed in decades and sees no reason to start. The furniture is mismatched but solid. The walls are hung with old photographs of the village, black-and-white images of stone cottages and fell-sides and groups of serious-looking people standing in front of buildings I can still recognise. In several of the older photographs, I notice the same surname appearing on shopfronts and gate posts. Mistwood.
I’m studying one of the photographs when a voice says, “First night out?”
I turn to find a young woman standingbeside my table. She’s small and slight, with light brown hair tucked behind her ears and the kind of face that makes you think of watercolour paintings. Something delicate and precise about her. She’s holding a mug of tea rather than a drink, and she has the look of someone who belongs here so thoroughly that she doesn’t have to try.
“That obvious?” I say.
“Only because you’re sitting alone and studying the walls like there’s going to be a test.” She smiles. It’s a quick, shy thing. “I’m Clara.”
“Phoebe. The new vet.”
“I know. Everyone knows.” She slides into the chair opposite without asking, which would annoy me from most people but somehow doesn’t from her. “Maggie’s been telling the whole village about you for a week. I think she’s already decided you’re staying.”
“Has she? I only decided myself about three months ago.”
“That’s Maggie for you. She knew before you did.” Clara wraps both hands around her mug. “How are you finding it? The cottage, I mean. The Bradfords kept it lovely.”
“It’s perfect. Honestly. Better than I expected.”
“Good.” She nods like this matters to her personally, and then she’s gone before I can say anything else.
Graham refills my glass without being asked, which either speaks well of his hospitality or poorly ofhis profit margins. A couple at the next table introduce themselves and ask about the surgery’s opening hours. An older man whose name is Arthur tells me at length about his dog’s digestive issues, which I handle with the patience of someone who spent six years listening to Islington’s pet owners describe their pets’ bowel movements in forensic detail.
