This is what I hate about messages and emails – you have no idea what the other person is really feeling because you can’t see it in their expression or catch subtle changes in their voice. I could call him but I am not going to make this any worse than it already is.
* * *
Are you sure? xx
* * *
His answer is almost immediate, which should ease my nerves. But when it arrives it feels dismissive. Even the return of the elusive second kiss in his reply isn’t reassuring:
* * *
Yes. Stop worrying. Have to go now, Niven’s coming over xx
* * *
I throw my mobile to the pillows on my bed and put my hands over my eyes. Why does it feel like the air just changed between us? It was one impulsive comment in a thread of messages that were already careering in that direction. I feel judged. I never expected that from Sam.
If we were in a normal relationship this would probably have been our first argument. We would’ve sulked for a few days but then called or met to clear the air. Being so far away from him, his words are the only clues I have to go on. I can’t read him because I don’t know him well enough yet.
Lurching from one emotional rollercoaster to the next isn’t what I came here for. I had far too much of that in London. I get up, stuff my phone in my pocket and head for the door. Paris is on my doorstep and I can lose myself in its beauty for a while. Concentrate on me.
I’ll deal with everything else later.
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen, Sam
Turns out my gut feeling was right: music really is the only thing I understand. Everything else confuses my brain.
So I’m writing songs on the old guitar that creaks beneath my fingers as I sit on the green bank behind Ailish’s house because I don’t want to think about Phoebe. About what she said…
Keeping my head busy has been my main concern for the last week. Most days I have the house to myself while Ailish is out at the many jobs she has. She bakes for the pub by the ferry crossing, volunteers at a coffee morning in nearby Bunessan for young mums and elderly ladies once a week, is a business mentor for teens up in Tobermory once a month and when she isn’t doing all that, she visits friends all over the island. It’s exhausting to watch, but inspiring, too. Ma was always amazed by how much of herself Ailish gave to others. I’m not sure I could do that.
A second opinion on what Phoebe said would help, but I’m not ready to share it with Ailish so early into my time here and I haven’t seen much of Niven because he’s overseeing exams at his school. Next week they break for the summer so that’s when he’s promised me ‘the fun will really start’. Maybe by then I will have worked out how to respond to Phoebe.
There’s nothing wrong with what she said. Given our flirting it was an obvious next step. But when I saw those words, my heart froze.
I should have said the same back, shouldn’t I?
I can feel myself pulling back. I wish I didn’t feel that way. I told Laura I loved her first. And regretted it immediately. She had her first affair within a month of me saying it. You don’t just say I love you like that. I laid my heart out for Laura and she trashed it. I can’t risk that again. Not until I’m certain.
The sun has managed to kick through the mist that has claimed Fionnphort for the last five days and the wind from the ocean beats against my face and chest as I sit on the lush bank, the guitar a surprisingly effective windbreak between the edge of the Island and me. The Iona ferry isn’t in yet but it’s due to appear within the hour. One car is waiting already, small and lonely from my vantage point. I’ve become accustomed to the rumble of tyres and sudden swell of noise when the ferry arrives. It’s a curious break in all the natural sound here, where so little of modern life is visible. I would have loved this place as a kid, if I’d been able to see the Island this way, and not as the battleground that robbed me of my father and, years later, my ma. My heart contracts and for a moment I’m fighting tears.
Sitting here I am connected to the land in a way I didn’t think possible. Physically, emotionally, historically – and as I’ve done countless times before, I channel the building emotion into music. The tune that emerges is a grace – music for an ancient Island blessing. It’s half-remembered from my earliest days playing with Jonas and the lads in the Dumbiedykes pub band, half improvised.
Closing my damp eyes I give in to the flow of the tune, losing myself in the strange place between being awake and dreaming when the music catches you.
‘That’s it, lad. Don’t let the sting stop you,’ Jonas used to say. ‘The sting is what reminds you you’re alive.’ I didn’t understand then. I do now. So much of being a musician is mind over matter: playing when you ache, when you haven’t slept; endlessly repeating sections until muscular memory kicks in and you can switch off your brain.
Out here, though, with no audience, nobody to see and the music I make carried away on the breeze, sore fingers aren’t making me play on.
The memories are what sting.
Then the pain finds a new outlet through my voice and I start to sing – a jumble of random words that dance with the rhythm my fingers make. And I’m free, in this wilderness with its startling beauty. I’m one with it.
‘We-ell, it’s original, I’ll give you that, but those aren’t the words I remember.’
Niven is standing by the dry-stone wall that marks the boundary between Ailish’s square of garden and the wild hill it nestles into. Arms folded, head on one side like a sheepdog hearing a whistle, ridiculous grin plastered all over his face.
‘Cheers. I like it.’
He scrambles up the path, chuckling, and flops down onto the peat-scented ground beside me. ‘I didn’t think you did much with the trad tunes now. Thought it was all beardy-hipster “new-folk” and mandolin versions of Led Zep songs.’
‘I’ve forgotten the ones I learned as a kid,’ I say, not protesting when Niven liberates the guitar from my hands. My fingers were starting to complain anyway. I shove them into the pockets of my coat. ‘It’s one of the things I want to do while I’m on the Island.’
‘Learn the old stuff? That’ll be easy enough. Come and gig with me Saturday night up in Tobermory.’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready for that.’
‘Not on this pile of kindling,’ he says, plucking a string and frowning at its rusted, sorry excuse for a vibration. ‘On your fiddle. My lot are a good bunch of lads, reliable and fun. It’ll be a blast. Come on, what do you say?’
I’ve never turned down a gig in my life, so the answer is academic. Playing might be what I need to take my mind off Phoebe.
* * *
Niven’s bandmates are great. A real mix of ages, which is as it should be – from John-Jack Macallan in his early eighties to Gowan Burnie, barely 17 years old. There’s no hierarchy like I’ve found in commercial bands and that’s so refreshing. Egos always get in the way of the music. Here, you rock up with your instrument, take a seat, maybe buy a round of beers (Gowan excepted, naturally; he gets the crisps in) and play. There’s no setlist, either, just a quick conversation of this one, that one and then we wing it…
At one point a lady from behind the bar comes over, hutches up between Niven and John-Jack and sings two songs with us. There was no agreement with her prior to the gig, and if someone gave a signal I missed it. But nobody protests, which makes me think this is an unspoken invitation. When you’re amongst friends, everyone can pitch in for a spot of entertaining.
Unlike every other gig I’ve played in the last six years, every punter in the pub just listens. No phones held aloft, recording it for endless shaky playback after the event. Once our gig is over, there will be no record that we were ever here, apart from the memories in the minds of those who listened.
Too much of my life is lived through frozen images on my phone. Photos, recordings – supposedly for posterity. Even Phoebe is becoming an amalgamation of message streams, half-remembered facts and th
e single image I have of the day we first met. That and the three words I can’t escape.
I will talk to her about it.
Soon.
Just… not yet.
* * *
‘Frank’s lad, yes?’ I look up to see Niven gone, the rest of the band taking a break to stretch and visit the bar. There’s an elderly gentleman standing next to me, his sharp blue eyes twinkling over ruddy cheeks and a snow-white beard.
‘Sorry?’
He lowers himself onto Niven’s stool and slaps his hands on his knees as he leans towards me. ‘Frank Mullins. Fiddle player. Are you his boy?’
I’m so surprised I can’t reply.
‘Knew you were the moment you started playing. Only other person I ever heard play “The Rigs o’ Barley” like that was Frank Mullins. Terror of the Island. But he could charm the angels out of paradise when he played that fiddle.’
‘You know my father?’
‘Know him? Aye, son. We all knew Frank. Notorious round here.’ He sticks out a fisherman’s brown hand in greeting. ‘Euan McAllister. I knew your granny.’
That’s less of a welcome revelation. Was this man close to Grandma? If so, was he part of the gaggle of locals who believed her lies about Ma? I stuff the thought away. What matters is that he knew my father. ‘I’m Sam. Good to meet you. How long have you known Frank?’
Euan blows out his cheeks and the blue eyes roll up towards the pub’s wood-clad ceiling. ‘Oh, forty-odd years it must be by now. We were neighbours when he and your ma first married. Remember them pushing you around as a wee bairn. Proud as anything.’
I only ever remember the strange tension between them, the comments that made Ma crumple, her retorts that brought my father’s frown. I don’t remember them being happy. But then I was just a kid when Frank left us. Suddenly we were at Grandma’s, definitely not going home again, and where my father had been was a gap that didn’t make sense.
‘I don’t suppose you had any contact with Frank after he left the Island?’
‘Sorry, lad. Last I heard he was living on the mainland driving trucks. But that was years ago.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks.’
Euan gives a gravelled cough and glances over his shoulder. ‘I heard about the business with your ma. She should never have had to put up with that. Your granny was a beast of a woman. I can say that now she’s gone.’
I nod back, not sure how else to react.
‘Tell you what, though, I might know someone who kept in touch with Frank.’
‘You might?’ There’s a cheer from the bar that makes me jump and the band begins to reform around us. ‘Who?’
‘Pal of mine: Morag Andersson. Lives not far from here. Look, best play your tunes now, son. I’ll give you her address when you’re done.’
As the music resumes, my heart is thudding faster than the reel we play. This is it: the first real breakthrough in my search for the truth. Maybe Morag Andersson will know what happened to Frank – and where I can find him.
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen, Phoebe
‘Phoebe.’
I look up from my journal to see a large steaming cup held by a concerned Canadian. Luc is so tall he has to duck beneath the trails of ivy in the courtyard garden to stand by the bench where I’m sitting, and I have to shield my eyes from the bright lunchtime sun to see him. ‘Thank you. You didn’t have to bring me tea.’
‘I did. Because this is the best thé au citron in Paris. And also because Tobi says you are sad and you won’t tell him why. So I thought you might tell me.’
‘I’m not sad.’
‘Okay.’ He sits beside me. ‘Heard from Sam lately?’
Ouch. I thought I was doing a good job of playing the happy tourist around Luc and Tobi. I’ve been out in Paris every day and have almost finalised the next part of my European journey. Most afternoons I’ve returned to read in the lovely garden and most evenings I’ve chatted and laughed with my hosts late into the night. I didn’t think my feelings about Sam were visible to anyone but me. Shows what I know.
‘I get a text every few days. He’s been playing gigs with his mate Niven and he’s writing new songs. He’s promised to send me one.’
I sound defensive but I don’t mean to be. Yes, Sam has contacted me. We’ve even attempted to flirt a couple of times, but the great three-word elephant looms in between us, casting its shadow over everything.
‘I told him I loved him,’ I say, my words rising to meet the carefree clouds in the Parisian sky.
If Luc has an opinion, he’s careful to hide it. ‘Ah.’
‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, I do love him, but… I just said it before either of us were ready.’
‘But he feels the same? You said at the station he seemed to.’
‘I thought he did.’ I close my book, hoping this ends the conversation, and take a deep breath. The air tastes of cool green leaves and lemon steam. ‘Anyway, I’m moving on soon, so that’s what I should be thinking about. If Sam and I are meant to be together, this will all work out. If we aren’t…’
Luc nods and there’s no need to finish my sentence. Far above our heads tiny white clouds traverse the summer blue. ‘You’ve decided where you’re headed? Is it Florence or Rome?’
‘Florence first, then Rome. It makes sense to do it that way. But I won’t go there straight away. I plan to visit a few places in France first.’
‘Tobi and I know an artist in Rome. We met her on our honeymoon.’ Luc turns to me. ‘Hey, I could contact her, if you like? See if she might let you stay for a while?’
It’s so out of the blue that it takes a moment to take it in. If I could save even a few days’ worth of accommodation costs it would be a huge help. Not to mention staying with a friend of Tobi and Luc.
‘Really? You wouldn’t mind?’
He sparkles at my reaction. I love how Luc transforms into a delighted kid whenever he makes someone smile. ‘It would be my pleasure! Besides, you know Tobi and I will worry about you when you’re out there. Rome is crazy, especially if you visit alone. If you’re with our friend it will be much better.’
It doesn’t solve everything, but it is enough to take my mind off Sam – for now.
* * *
A postcard from Sam arrives the next day. It has a cartoon of the Loch Ness monster firing a cannon from Edinburgh Castle painted in colours so garish they make my eyes ache. Sam wasn’t kidding when he said Scotland excels in the weird and wonderful when it comes to postcards. Each one he’s sent is more bonkers than the last, whereas I’ve tried to find a more beautiful one each time. I wonder if this is another sign, another difference between us. Is he taking this whole thing seriously? If he isn’t, no wonder he backed off when I said I love you.
I don’t read it immediately, waiting until I’m wandering slowly around the beautiful galleries of the Louvre to pull it from my pocket and turn it over. I love this space, so much so that I’ve kept returning. The unrushed, unhurried air within is so markedly different from the tourist buzz outside. It’s cooler and quieter and I love it.
Returning to the galleries has made me feel less like a visitor and I’ve been able to write in its serene stillness – perhaps the biggest surprise of my time in Paris. I’ve written an entry in my journal every day and when I read the pieces back at night I’m proud of what I see.
The Louvre is the perfect spot to people-watch, too. Growing up on a fruit farm in the middle of the rolling Worcestershire countryside I didn’t get to observe other people much, unless you counted my teenage shifts in the farm shop, which were more a case of serving people as quickly as possible while trying to avoid eye contact.
Here, everyone exists in their own space, inviting you to watch from a distance like the artwork on display. I see friends and couples, excited school kids and elegant pensioners; brand new acquaintances and rendezvous with people hoping to be more than friends. All of them move through the space to their own rhythms at their own speed. But as
I watch, it hits me: all of the people passing by know where they are going. Everybody here knows where their next steps will take them. I thought my next steps would bring me closer to Sam. Now I’m not so sure.
After a while, I find a quiet place and read Sam’s card.
* * *
Hey you,
* * *
This is the most horrific postcard in the whole of Caledonia. You’re welcome!
Things are okay here. Music and walking, hanging out with Niven and being force-fed cake by Ailish. I’m going to have to take up running or something or else I’ll be rolling myself back to London like an overstuffed haggis.
Let me have your address when you know where you’ll be staying. Also, can I call you? Things have been a bit weird – I’ve been weird, I know. I don’t think I can explain on a postcard or in a message. I need to talk to you. Text me a good time to call, please.
I really do care about you, Phoebe. I want this to happen for us.
* * *
Speak soon
* * *
Sam xx
* * *
Sam wanting to talk is a step forward. So why don’t I feel reassured?
* * *
After dinner I call the only person who will understand. Meg sounds tired but within seconds she’s sparkling down the line, telling me about the huge events she’s being hired to manage. It’s so good to hear her voice and slip back into our familiar patter. But pretty soon, she susses me.
‘Anyway, you didn’t call to be appraised of my diary, did you? So, what’s up?’
I finally admit the truth. ‘I told Sam I love him.’
The Day We Meet Again Page 9