Five Hundred Miles From You: the brand new, life-affirming, escapist novel of 2020 from the Sunday Times bestselling author

by Jenny Colgan

  At a long table set up in the barn, the London lads were nervously joshing with one another, showing off, talking about who had the biggest muscles for working in the fields while eating vast second helpings of porridge and thick cut bread and marmalade, and surreptitiously texting their mums to let them know they were all right.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Nina.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The long rambling bus had toured the hills at dawn, and Lissa felt it was very unfair, listening to the elderly couple behind her who were clearly having a massive argument, but because it was in Gaelic, it sounded completely beautiful to her ears.

  Scotland was doing this on purpose: ray after ray of sun was breaking through the morning cloud, revealing fields so green they could have been made of neon; nearly grown lambs were tearing about in joy; towering peaks overhead sheltered little stone villages huddled around market squares in their lee. The air had a catch of cold early morning mist in it; you could feel it in your throat, but also you could smell and feel a warm day ahead, when the scent would rise off the heather, and your hands would trace the high, high tops of the wildflowers, intertwined everywhere with butterflies and bees.

  Still groggy – as well as suffering from the after-effects of the gin; the shock of the change between grimy Euston and here was like jet lag too – Lissa stared out of the window, her chin on her hand. What a privilege it had been in the end, she supposed. To get to come here. It was annoying in a way that the HR people and the therapist and her friends had all been right. It had done her good. Okay, she didn’t get everything . . . but that had been a silly fantasy. It shouldn’t – it mustn’t – define her stay, define her or take away what she had gained from this amazing country.

  She stepped out into the early pink morning. Kirrinfief was still quiet apart from old Mrs Whirter, trundling up with her trolley to hit the newsagent first. She waved to Lissa and, completely ignoring the fact that the girl obviously just wanted to go home, looked exhausted and was carrying an overnight bag, immediately jumped into the bunion conversation again.

  Three months ago, Lissa would have given a half-smile and hurried on. This morning, she put her bag down and let the whole story – involving evil daughters-in-law and, for some reason, an Irn Bru margarita – unfold, before promising to squeeze in an extra appointment and pop in later once she’d got herself squared up. Mrs Whirter smiled broadly and said that wouldn’t be necessary, a chat with Lissa was a tonic in itself and wasn’t it a terrible shame she had to leave?

  Fortunately, her eyes weren’t quite good enough these days to see the rapid tears forming in Lissa’s.

  The road to the little cottage was wildly overgrown, the hedgerows riotous and crazy with the never-ending sun and rain, sun and rain. Lissa took in their morning scent as the sun began to slowly rise, lifting the mists off the loch. The birds sounded in the trees, and barely a car passed to disturb them, or her thoughts, as she trundled her case behind her.

  The little house looked sweeter than ever to her as she slipped up to the doorway and put the big old key in the lock. For the oddest moment as she turned it, she wondered . . . no, of course not. She was being ridiculous. And the kitchen was just as she had left it – was it really only twenty-four hours ago? That was ridiculous. But yes. Twenty-four hours before; one cup and one plate all by themselves neatly on the drying rack as proof. Nothing had moved; nobody had been there. It was just her, alone, again. Her phone pinged. She couldn’t help grabbing at it. Her mum.

  She smiled. ‘I’ll call you later,’ she texted, and made a promise to herself to do so. She should bring her mum up here, Kim-Ange too. Everyone should get a chance to enjoy it before she had to leave.

  Lissa left her bag as it stood, went to the sink and threw that icy water on her face, then drank a large glassful of it. Okay. She was straight back to work today, due at surgery in half an hour. Time to wrap things up. She could send . . . well, a formal email to Cormac, she supposed. Signing off on all the patients so that ideally they could slip seamlessly back into their own lives, pretending nothing had happened, pretending she hadn’t changed . . . and one day, far in the future, Scotland would be just a distant dream, a memory that she told her children about; in some far distant future, where she had a place of her own, and a partner and a grown-up life. ‘Once upon a time,’ she would say, ‘I visited a magical land . . .’

  She stopped suddenly, her heart in her throat. She was standing in front of the large window at the back of the kitchen, and out in the garden, there was a dark shape.

  She took in a deep breath, fighting her panic response. This was Scotland, for God’s sake, not central London. The biggest crime here was someone crashing into the bus shelter when they’d had a few.

  She took another deep breath, then glanced around for something to use as a weapon. Perhaps someone had thought the house was empty or abandoned.

  The dark shape was on the lawn, crouching. She stepped forwards, then turned around, looking for a knife. She could only find a bread knife. She wasn’t sure how effective that would be, but she took it anyway, then found herself ducking and crawling to the door at the back of the house. The figure was stock-still. Was it staring at the house? Had it seen her?

  Heart palpitating, she stood by the back door, closed her eyes, took another deep breath, remembered that she was meant to be a braver person these days, whether it felt like it or not, and flung open the door.

  Chapter Forty-three

  ‘He— Hello?’

  Her voice was trembly and weak. The figure didn’t move. Lissa edged forward a little bit, then a little bit more. It was like a statue.

  She moved cautiously to the end of the garden.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was a man she had never seen before, fast asleep, curled up with a hedgehog in his lap.

  Cormac had thought he would just pop in, grab a change of clothes, feed Ned and go again. He knew what time the train got in; then she would have to get the bus, so he wouldn’t be disturbing her. He toyed with leaving a letter saying ‘sorry’ but figured it might be creepy and decided against it. He had let himself get completely out of control: it was a silly crush and there was no point pushing it any further.

  The sun was streaming in the garden and he realised, as he fed Ned little grubs with his hands, suddenly just how exhausted he was from driving all night.

  The hedgehog snuffled as Cormac slumped down onto the stone by the undergrowth, steadily warmed by the sun. He would get up and head in just a minute . . . but it was so soothing simply being home. Just to breathe the air of his homeland, just to let all the stress and pressure of the city rush out and fade away . . .

  He didn’t look at all as she’d expected.

  But the hair was the same as he’d drawn in the pcitures: curly, overgrown, a little unruly. And it would take quite a burglar to fall asleep in a garden not their own.

  Apart from that, he was much larger than she’d imagined: not fat, but solid; broad-shouldered, heavy-legged – more like a squaddie or a rugby player than came across when he wrote. She couldn’t see his eyes but dark lashes left a shadow on ruddy cheeks, and there was bristle on his strong chin. He really wasn’t at all like she’d conjured in her head. But . . . but there was something in the large bulk of his shoulders, the careless tangle of hair and the wide mouth which looked as if it would laugh easily.

  She couldn’t stop staring. He was breathing easily, the little hedgehog snuffled in his lap, entirely comfortable in his presence. What on earth was he doing here?

  He never knew what woke him. One minute he’d been to see Ned; the next, the sun was beaming straight into his eyes, and standing over him, her face hidden by the sun . . . All he could see was a full head of bouncing curls. He squinted upwards, confused. Was he asleep? Dreaming? Where was he? What was happening?

  Suddenly:

  ‘YOW!’

  He jumped up. He had somehow woken Ned, who had responded in the only way he knew ho
w, and now he had a big jab in his hand.

  Lissa couldn’t help it. She completely dissolved in giggles; Ned was still hanging onto his hand for dear life, his tiny paws scrabbling in the air.

  Cormac would have sorted it but he was transfixed by the laughing, sun-touched face, the exact face he’d seen in the photo; in his dreams. Lissa jumped forwards with her coat and scooped up the tiny creature, crooning, ‘It’s okay, you’re all right, you’re all right, little one’ in a softer voice than the one he’d heard yesterday through the door.

  He was about to say something but suddenly it struck him that the words ‘you’re all right, little one’ were somehow so much what he’d wanted to hear for so long, and suddenly, for a moment, he couldn’t quite say anything at all.

  Lissa, heart pounding took a step forward, and gently helped the hedgehog down, whereupon it instantly scurried away.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she said as Cormac clutched his hand, a very confused look on his face. Not taking his eyes off her, he raised his hand to his face. It was bleeding very slightly. They carried on, just staring at one another, Lissa feeling her heart beating in agony, in the dancing, buzzing, swishing noise of the garden.

  Slowly, infinitely slowly, a smile began to spread across his face. It transformed it completely. Lissa still hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

  ‘Well,’ he said in the soft Highlands accent she had dreamed of. ‘Well noo. I don’t suppose you ken anybody in the medical line?’

  Chapter Forty-four

  Work was still out there but, after calling in to London, Cormac made up a plan to divvy up the calls so they could finish by lunchtime and spend the rest of the day together.

  Lissa flew through her rounds, bestowing huge smiles on everyone. Cormac, of course, took far longer, as he was corralled by every single person he met and forced to repeat more or less everything he’d done down south while also listening to them telling him how they didn’t trust that London, and how nothing good ever came out of it, until he found himself getting more and more defensive of his adopted city. Plus, he had to pop in and see his mum, and was touched by how delighted she was to see him. Breaking her wrist, he realised suddenly, had made her more vulnerable that he’d realised, and he gave her a huge hug, as she told him how the strange new nurse hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected for an English.

  They met up back at the surgery. Cormac watched Lissa crossing the market square. Without even thinking about it, he put his hand out, and she took it. It was the strangest thing; he had barely had to apologise; had barely had to explain himself at all. Which was a relief, as he decided to keep the bathroom encounter to himself. Just for now. There’d be time for all that.

  The dogs set up a melee of barking as they arrived and Joan let them out so they were both pawed half to death.

  ‘Oh, good, good,’ she said, noticing immediately. ‘Always good to mate outside the pack.’

  Lissa and Cormac were both so startled, they laughed in surprise.

  ‘Anyway, also good – I have a puppy going spare soon. You two can have it.’

  ‘Um, we’ve literally just met,’ said Lissa. Joan waved her away.

  ‘Are you telling me I don’t know anything about the natural world? Oh! Speaking of which . . .’ She peered at Lissa. ‘You know I said there were no nursing jobs?’

  Lissa stared at her.

  ‘Wait, you asked?’ said Cormac, beside himself.

  ‘No!’ said Lissa. ‘Well. Maybe. Just an enquiry. Um. I wanted a puppy.’

  ‘How much midwifery experience have you had? Ever since you English started invading, there’s babies all over the place. They’re hiring a community midwife.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lissa, her face falling. ‘That’s not what I am.’

  ‘You could manage, couldn’t you? Also, there’s occasional lambing. It doesn’t say that on the ad; I’m just telling you that there is round here.’

  Lissa shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  Cormac looked thoughtful.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. There’s an outreach project in London . . . helping people on the street. They’re looking for part-time. It would mean I’d be looking for a job-share.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You do a bit here; I do a bit there and a bit here . . . I don’t know – do we have to work out the details right now?’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Lissa. ‘Oh my God, I could kiss you.’

  Cormac blushed.

  ‘Would it be a wee bit forward to invite you into my hoose?’

  ‘I’ll have to go with you anyway,’ said Lissa. ‘I don’t know how to unblock your number from my phone.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cormac. ‘You’ll just have to stay very, very close by.’

  Both of them were trembling as they stood in the little cottage room in front of the fire, which Cormac admired, making Lissa feel rather proud. It was so exciting; so frightening and strange all at once. He put some music on and moved a little closer to where she was standing at the sink, filling the kettle for tea. Lissa didn’t want any tea – she just didn’t know what to do with herself. They talked about Carrie’s cat, who was back behaving as if nothing had ever happened and strolling across roads at will, and young Cameron, who had joined the local football team. Mostly to terrorise opposing players, but it was a step in the right direction.

  He moved closer behind her. ‘Is this okay?’ he said in a very soft voice, and she nodded without quite being able to turn round.

  ‘Normally this should be late and at night and we should be very drunk,’ complained Lissa. ‘That’s the English way. And the Scottish way, I have observed.’

  Cormac smiled and moved even closer. She could feel him towering over her, smell the almond shampoo. He took his left hand, put it round her waist. She stood stock-still and, very gently, he bent his shaggy head and kissed her lightly on the nape of her neck.

  ‘See, this way,’ he said gruffly, ‘you still don’t need to see me.’

  Lissa grinned then and turned round.

  ‘Maybe I want to do that,’ she said, reaching up on tiptoes.

  ‘Braw,’ he said, and the fresh clear Scottish water ran up and over the top of the kettle, and neither of them noticed at all, and soon the Proclaimers were singing to an empty room.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Two months later

  There had been a short violent rainstorm the night before, but by the time the train got in the next morning, the world was bright again, shining in the wet. Lissa had warned Mrs Mitchell to wear a coat when the woman stepped off the bus into the September glow in a brand-new Arctic level North Face jacket. They were both there to meet her, holding their hands out to her, their faces grave.

  She pulled up to the little row of houses just beside the town square, the little quiet row of cottages.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Lissa said, Jake helping her down.

  Word had got around in Kirrinfief, as it so often did, and there was quite the crowd who happened to be passing.

  Lissa rang the bell and Mr Coudrie opened it, more people spilling out either side.

  The house’s inhabitants and Mrs Mitchell stood, staring at each other curiously and respectfully.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say,’ said Gregor finally.

  ‘I understand,’ said Mrs Mitchell without smiling.

  He was about to invite her in when, suddenly, there was a whirl of noise and movement, and Islay burst out of the house onto the pavement. She was wearing a new dress, bought in honour of the occasion, and had a ribbon in her hair, delighted there were so many people about and in the mood to show off. Her parents still couldn’t get used to the fact that she could work off her natural energy without them being terrified.

  She stopped suddenly when she saw Mrs Mitchell though, who had made a small sound.

  ‘Do you want to come inside?’ said Gregor. More people were crowding round now. Mrs Mitchell didn
’t even hear him. Lissa steadied her with her arm.

  ‘This is . . .?’ she asked in just above a whisper. Lissa nodded.

  ‘I’m Islay!’ said Islay cheerfully.

  Mrs Mitchell looked at her for a long moment, tears rolling down her face.

  ‘Can I . . .?’ she said suddenly, looking at Islay’s parents.

  ‘Do you mind, Islay?’ said Gregor, realising instantly what she was asking. Islay, who had been well briefed by Cormac, opened her arms wide.

  Mrs Mitchell took one tottering step forward, then another. Then she quietly leant her head forward and pressed it against the little girl’s chest, and held it there, Islay for once standing still, so she could hear her son’s heart beating, beating, beating.

  The street turned silent, and when Mrs Mitchell straightened up again, tears in her eyes, Islay grinning her usual toothy grin, Islay’s mother walked up to her.

  ‘I am your child’s mother now,’ she said calmly. ‘And you are Islay’s. Your child is my child. And my child is yours.’

  Mrs Mitchell nodded, and together they disappeared into the house. And Cormac and Lissa squeezed their hands together, hard.

  Acknowledgements

  It is incredibly useful for a writer for her two best friends from school to be a doctor and a lawyer, and I unabashedly hit them up for free help on this book (although all errors or simple fiction smoothing – few thing come to court as quickly as they do here, alas – are of course mine).

  So huge thanks – and love, as always – to Karen Murphy, FRCS, and Alison Woodall, BA (Hons) Law.

  Also Muriel Gray for plant help, Claire and Fredi Melo for helping me out with the Albanian – faleminderit! – and Rona Monroe, my secret Fairy Plot Godmother.