500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(76)

“I’m just going to see if Joan’s about,” she said.

Joan did, in fact, happen to be in the general area (which she gauged as being within fifteen miles) and came over immediately.

“I wondered,” said Lissa, “if you knew if there was a technique that they used on, like, boy sheep and stuff.”

“Boy sheep,” said Joan, her lip curling.

“Um, yes,” said Lissa.

“I’m not sure we’re going to make a country girl out of you. But your thinking isn’t bad. Joe!”

“Whit?”

“Stop eating pies, this is ridiculous.” She prodded at his round stomach.

“Actually I was taught not to fat-shame patients,” said Lissa quietly, feeling Joan had been unkind.

“More’s the pity!” boomed Joan. “Come on, Joe.”

“I do like a pie,” said Joe.

“You can have a pie! Just don’t have all the pies!”

“Um,” said Lissa.

“Okay,” said Joan. “Where’s your hacksaw?”

“His what?”

“It’s a small saw people use for cutting things,” said Joan.

“No, but I thought you would have some animal thing . . . some technique they use on animals’ horns.”

“I do! It’s called a hacksaw.”

“There’s one in the lean-to,” said Joe.

The lean-to was a ramshackle space utterly filled with junk and tomato plants.

“If he can get around he can tidy up,” muttered Joan. “You did the right thing to call me in.”

She peered at Lissa over her spectacles.

“Just as you’re getting the hang of it, you’ll be heading back, eh?”

Lissa shrugged. “The court case is soon.”

“Yes, I saw on the roster.”

There was a pause as they rummaged through a large pile of seed catalogs, a lot of ancient Farmers Weeklys, and a medium-sized stuffed owl.

“I never thought you’d manage up here,” said Joan finally, “with your London ways, but I think you’ve done rather well. I think people are finally taking to you.”

Lissa blinked. “Except Ginty.”

“Yes, except Ginty. She hates you. I heard all about it last time I was in.”

“Oh good.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Everyone feels sorry for whoever is in Ginty’s firing line. That poor Jake . . . Aha!”

Triumphantly she pulled a small hacksaw from the bottom of a teetering mass of unpleasant soil samples.

Lissa followed her back into the bedroom.

“I feel like I’m taking off someone’s fingers for frostbite! Again!”

Lissa checked to see if she was kidding, but she didn’t appear to be.

“Right, Joe. Feet up. Lissa, you hold him.”

Lissa took one ankle at a time. It was a ridiculous business, but Joan worked quickly and carefully, sawing through the long, twirly nails, then Lissa neatly clipped what was left over and swept it up with a brush and pan.

Joe couldn’t stop staring at his toes.

“Well,” he said. Then he walked a few paces and a few more. “Well,” he said again, scratching his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “That is quite something. That is really quite something.”

His eyes lit up.

“I feel like I could . . .”

“Do not dance,” said Joan quickly. “You still have a foot injury.”

“Och, just a jig . . .”

“No dancing. For a week. Then dance a lot. It’ll help. And no more pies!”

“Aye,” said Joe. “But noo I can dance I dinnae need pies.”

He did an experimental twiddle.

“I am warning you!” said Joan. “No dancing. Some mild tidying up I would absolutely suggest to you.”

“I need to find my dancing shoes,” agreed Joe.

“Fine.”

“Thanks, lass,” he said, looking at Lissa. “This was your idea. You know, for a Sassenach, you’re not that bad.”

THE SUN WAS still high in the sky as they left, and the sheep pootled around, completely disinterested in them, as they headed toward their respective cars. It was a glorious evening, though, the breeze ruffling Lissa’s hair. Joan marched straight to her high car, the dogs as usual going bananas in the back.

“Um,” said Lissa just as she was about to get in. “Just . . . just . . . When Cormac comes back . . . just . . . Do you think—do you think there might be another opening here? For another person? I mean, I’m qualified for community nursing too.”

Joan frowned. “Oh, I don’t think so, dear. We’re a shrinking region, there just aren’t enough people here to support two NPLs. But there’s absolutely loads of places in the Highlands that would snap you up . . . and I’d write you a good reference.”

“Okay. Right. Thanks,” said Lissa. But she didn’t want anywhere in the Highlands. She wanted here.

Well, it was worth asking. Maybe getting back to London would make her feel more homesick; she’d always assumed that she would be. Once she saw all her friends and got back into her commute and with her life there . . . feeling lonely among crowds, making herself busy because somehow not being busy was associated with failure, cramming her calendar full of events she didn’t really want to do, because she lived in London and how else was she supposed to manage?