I can hear her slow inhale. ‘That’s – fast.’
‘I know.’
‘Fast for you, I mean.’
‘Yep.’
‘And he said…?’
‘He didn’t. He hasn’t…’
‘Oh, Phee…’
‘I mean, he’s still contacting me – more than before, actually, which is a bit strange. And then today I received a postcard that said he wants this to happen for us. Whatever that means.’
‘It means he’s trying to apologise.’
‘You think?’ I want it to be true more than anything.
‘I don’t know the guy but if he was trying to put you off I doubt he’d say something like that in a postcard. How long have you been worrying about this?’
I smooth down the corner of a page in my journal that’s bent itself over. ‘Almost a week.’
‘You’re such a berk, Phee. Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I didn’t want to admit that things weren’t brilliant with Sam and me. You know, after making such a big deal about meeting him at the station.’
‘What possible difference could that have made?’ Meg’s frustration grazes my ear.
‘I know what you think about it. And the others, if they know, which I’m guessing they might.’
The pause on the other end of the line confirms my suspicions. But why shouldn’t Osh and Gabe know?
‘Are you having second thoughts, Phee? Because it’s okay if you are. And nobody will judge you for it.’
‘Gabe would love that,’ I say, surprising myself. Where did that come from?
‘He’s a wind-up merchant. You know he is.’
‘I just don’t want him to know about this.’
‘I won’t say anything. Besides, he’s still reeling from you being away…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. We all want you to be happy, Phee, Gabe included. And we might be hundreds of miles from you but that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to us about stuff.’
I close my eyes. ‘I feel a bit of an idiot.’
‘No more than the rest of us. All the time.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m serious. You seem to think we’ve got it sorted, but the truth is we’re all just blundering around from one thing to the next. Everyone is. Osh has just had a short film commissioned but I spent most of last night talking him down from a huge panic attack about it. He’s chased that commission for months but yesterday he’d convinced himself he was going to stuff it up and never work again. And Gabe did the table read for his play on Monday and wouldn’t speak to the rest of us for two days because he thinks it’s going to make his career nosedive. None of us knows what we’re doing.’
It doesn’t make me feel better that my friends are having a hard time. ‘I’m not sure the whole Sam thing is on a par with that.’
‘It’s something you care about and you’re scared it won’t happen. I’d say it’s exactly the same. Give him time. You’re both away for a year, so why does every decision need to be made in the first few weeks?’
I wish I could hug her. ‘You are wise, Meggy.’
‘I’m glad you noticed. Just focus on the next part of your journey and let Sam have space to work out what he wants. You have so much amazing stuff to look forward to, Phee. Don’t wish it away before it happens.’
When the call is over, I grab my guidebooks and map. It’s time to plan exactly where the next leg of my journey will take me.
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen, Sam
Hey Sam, what’s the goss from the Island? Xx
* * *
I rest the dram of whisky I’ve been drinking on the arm of my chair and look at my phone. Despite the ball of nerves that’s just rolled into my stomach seeing Phoebe’s face beaming up from the screen, it’s good to hear from her. I’ve felt like a git since that text and half-wondered if the card I sent a few days ago might have shocked her.
* * *
All good here –
* * *
I lie, wanting to sound jokey and charming, not the bag of anxiety I’ve been all day knowing that tomorrow I’m meeting a woman who knew my father.
Niven’s taking me fishing tomorrow xx
* * *
Another lie. The text glares at me accusingly. Technically it’s possible – one of the many activities Niven has hinted we might do at some point this year. But it isn’t happening tomorrow. There’s only one thing I’ll be hunting and it won’t be found dangling on the end of a fly line.
I might not be able say I love you to Phoebe yet, but hiding this stuff from her is wrong. She’s shared so much with me already. If I’m serious about having her in my life, I can’t hide anything.
I stab at the touchscreen until the words are deleted. In their place I type:
* * *
Potentially big stuff. I’m meeting someone tomorrow who knew my father.
* * *
Written down, it’s scarily real.
* * *
Crapping myself about it xx
* * *
A moment later, her reply arrives.
* * *
You’re doing the right thing xx
* * *
Am I? Talking with Euan McAllister after the gig it seemed the easiest thing to do. Just asking for stories about my father, no more than collecting anecdotes. But ever since, it’s become this enormous monolith in my path. Because whatever I find out tomorrow will change the Frank Mullins in my head. I’ve grown accustomed to the half-finished, barely consequential ghost of my father I’ve carried with me most of my life. Am I ready to trade that?
Deep down I know Phoebe is right – she understands. She’s my ally for tomorrow, albeit an invisible one.
I just wish I could wait a while longer. It’s a bit sudden xx
The moment I see her reply, I know it will make me get in the car tomorrow:
It isn’t sudden in terms of your life, Sam. 32 years isn’t sudden. You deserve answers xx
Morag Andersson’s studio is hidden from the road up a steep track. I’ve almost convinced myself I’ve taken a wrong turn, driving the car I’ve borrowed from Ailish, when the simple glass and wood structure comes into view. It’s built into the side of the hill, so that it appears to be peering out of the earth. It’s startlingly modern when I see it up close, the kind of structure I’ve only seen on trendy TV renovation shows.
Stepping out of the car into the strong wind, my thoughts drift to Phoebe. She told me she’s started writing in her journal, and I picture her in that hidden garden she’s sent me pictures of. Making her mark on the world – and thinking of me. That’s pretty special. Having her thinking of me today makes this windswept hillside feel less foreboding. If I close my eyes I can almost imagine Phoebe holding my hand… But then those three words appear again and my stomach twists. I’m not ready to picture that yet.
‘Sam, is it?’
I turn back to see a woman standing at the front door. She’s tall and swathed in layers of knitted wool that make her look like a Celtic warrior. I can’t work out how old she is. Her skin is smooth and her ash blonde hair is tied into a long braid that snakes around her shoulder. Her eyes are the kind of startling blue that you see a lot of on these islands – our Scandinavian heritage never too far away.
Pulling my thoughts together, I offer her my hand. ‘Hi, Ms Andersson.’
‘Morag, kid. Formality worries me.’ She smiles as she shakes my hand. ‘Please, come in.’
Inside, I discover Morag’s studio is also her home. There’s a large central space with wraparound, full-length windows that frame the wild Mull landscape like a constantly changing work of art; leading off this are rooms that go back into the hill. It’s far bigger on the inside than it appears from the approach. Light floods the studio living-space, but where the light gets in the sound of the wind outside is denied access. It’s as quiet as the live room in our studio, all outside noise blocked out.
‘It’s good for recording music, if you ever need it,’ Morag grins as if reading my thoughts, motioning for me to sit on a much-loved corner sofa. ‘Euan tells me you’ve just set up a studio in London?’
‘I have. My business partner is running it for me while I’m away.’
There’s a pot of fresh coffee on the low table beside her and she pours a cup for me without asking. Caffeine is definitely needed today. We take our first sips in the eerie silence of the room. My heart is hammering hard and I can delay the question no longer.
‘How well did you know Frank?’ It makes sense to call him by his name. Using Dad or Da or my father feels wrong. As far as this conversation is concerned, he’s just someone we both have in common. Nothing more.
‘Very well, back in the day. I sang with him in a couple of bands. My sister and me both did. She was younger – I think Frank might have dated her for a while. Before he met your ma.’ She adds this caveat quickly as if I might think her sister was one of Frank’s many supposed indiscretions while he was with my mother.
‘How long were you in bands with him for?’
‘Quite a few years. Ten maybe? And then he left the Island.’ She peers at me over the rim of her cup. ‘I didn’t play any gigs with him after that. Although I heard he was still playing when he could.’
‘But you kept in touch?’
‘We did.’ She shifts a little in her chair, picks at a seam in her long embroidered skirt. I notice the stacks of silver rings on each of her fingers.
‘Where did he go? When he left Mull?’
‘Glasgow, initially. Then he rocked up in Shetland for a time. I think he got a job with the refinery although I’ve no idea what he was doing there. Frank wasn’t the most practical of people but he could pretty much talk his way into anything.’
I’ve always been able to blag my way into work and I didn’t get that from my mother, who never pushed herself forward. It would have been her idea of hell, her own quietness and solitude the only place she ever felt safe. I haven’t dared compare myself with my father before, and it’s strange to think we might share a personality trait, aside from the music. Though the music found me, I tell everyone, the day I met Jonas and his pals. I haven’t wanted to consider Frank gave me anything but half my DNA.
‘Did he stay on in Shetland?’
‘No. Lasted maybe eighteen months? No more than that. Next I heard he’d moved again to Edinburgh and was settling there.’
‘With someone?’ The question has rushed into the stillness of the studio before I can think better of it.
‘If it was he never mentioned it to me.’ She takes a long sip of coffee, her blue eyes tracking the fast progress of smoke grey clouds across the dirty white sky. ‘But I imagine he had relationships. Frank always did.’
We lapse into silence again, me taking this in. Did he have a fling with Morag, too?
‘Are you wanting to find him?’ she asks suddenly.
‘I’m – not sure. Ailish reckons he was driving HGVs at one point?’
She gives a small laugh. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
There’s something I can’t decipher in her expression. It unnerves me. In the pause that follows I look over to the four easels over by the window. Morag works in oils, thick sweeps of vivid colour building into patchwork representations of the landscape around us. The canvases are large and I imagine not cheap, judging by her home. Something has to pay for this and to my knowledge there’s no significant other to split the bills with. I assume her work will be sold at a fair profit in sleek art galleries in Edinburgh and Glasgow, maybe even London.
‘Are you in touch with him now?’
She’s been expecting that question. I can see it in the way she straightens her spine, sets her jaw. ‘I was – until about a year ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’m not sure. I hadn’t seen him in years but we’d swapped Christmas cards, had occasional phone calls, you know. But then they just – stopped. The last time I called him, the number was unobtainable. We never fell out and I hadn’t offended him, as far as I’m aware. He just disappeared. I imagine there was some kind of trouble. It’s usually the reason Frank Mullins runs.’ Her cheeks redden a little. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean… I just didn’t hear from him again.’
Did Ma know this about Frank when she married him? I haven’t considered it until now, but the way Morag talks it sounds as if it was common knowledge. Did Ma believe she could tame him, that she was enough to plant him firmly in one place?
Not for the first time, sadness hits me that I didn’t ask enough questions, didn’t try to understand what Ma had been through beyond what she told me.
* * *
Before I leave, Morag hands me a bag. Something of Frank’s she’d kept for years, she says. It rests unopened on the car seat beside me as I drive back to Fionnphort. Most of the journey I ignore it, but temptation eventually wins. I pull into a patch of stone-pocked mud that passes as a parking place, kill the engine, and sit there for a while staring at the passenger seat. Sheets of rain hit the windscreen and pepper the car roof. My heartbeat joins the rhythm, pounding out a contrary beat. I take a breath and remember Phoebe’s words: 32 years isn’t sudden.
Inside the cold plastic bag is what looks like a roll of checked tweed fabric, fastened with a crimson ribbon. When I untie it, the fabric unfurls to reveal a flat cap.
Frank’s cap.
I turn the cap over in my hands, the thought that he wore this once, a sharp stab to my heart. If it were anyone else’s I might be tempted to try it on. But this is his cap. I can’t risk looking in the rear-view mirror and seeing my father staring back.
I run my hand over its crown, flipping it to reveal the lining and a large square central silk label so faded that any words once printed on it have long since disappeared. The stitching is loose on one side. There’s the lightest crumpling sound, almost lost in the hammering of rain against the car. I slide my finger underneath and it touches something that feels like paper. I manage to catch the edge and pull it out.
It’s a folded photograph.
I can hardly breathe.
Frank’s face emerges from the cracked folds as the image is revealed. It’s a little blurry, but I can make him out, surrounded by people I don’t recognise, a battered old fiddle tucked under his chin. It’s dark, but the tin-topped table and collection of empty pint glasses leaves no doubt where the picture was taken. Corner of a pub, near a bar: the default location for a ceilidh band to play.
He’s wearing the cap. His smile is crooked, a limp cigarette pinned between his clenched teeth. And I am overwhelmed with the strongest sensation of seeing that smile before. The fag and the gritted-teeth grin. It punches the air from me.
But a bigger kick follows when I look on the back of it.
Written in large, sloping capitals is a message:
* * *
MORAG MY LOVELY
MORAG MY SUN
OCEANS MAY PART US
BUT HEARTS LINGER ON
* * *
There’s a phone number, too. A landline number. The code stops my breath. 0131. Edinburgh. That can’t be right, can it?
Morag might have lied about just how close she and Frank were. But the phone number is my first real lead. Part of me doesn’t want to know, the old fury at Frank resurfacing and making my hands shake where they hold his picture. But thirty-two years is long enough to know what I have to do next.
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen, Phoebe
‘Phoebe, we have a confession.’
Tobi and Luc stand together by the kitchen counter and their mirrored solemnity is so comical I have to fight the urge to laugh.
‘What have you done?’ I ask, sounding scarily like my mother.
‘We will tell you at dinner,’ Luc says.
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘Just know that what we did came from a place of love.’
There’s no sign of dinner cooking, which i
s unusual given Tobi is such a creature of habit about mealtimes. ‘Are we eating out?’ I ask.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Tobi says, steering me by my shoulders out of the apartment into the stairwell and around the corridor to the service staircase door. ‘Down there, mon amie.’
As we near the bottom of the stairs I can hear laughter and conversation drifting up towards us. And when I reach the open door to the courtyard garden, my breath leaves me completely.
The whole garden is ablaze with white lights, tumbling down from the first-, second- and third-floor balconies, draped around the walls and standing sentry around the perimeter in tiny white paper lanterns resting on the courtyard floor. At the centre a long table has been covered in white linen, a hotchpotch selection of chairs surrounding it. And standing around the table is a group of about ten smiling people, some of whom I have seen using the garden or said hello to as we’ve passed in the hallways of the apartment block. When we approach, they raise their glasses and cheer. I lean against Luc’s arm for a moment to steady myself. It’s magical.
In that moment, I wish Sam were next to me. Despite all the confusion over what I said to him, I believe he is a romantic at heart. He would love this.
I check myself. Thoughts of Sam don’t belong here tonight. ‘When did you do this?’ I ask.
Tobi hands me a glass of wine. ‘Earlier today, when you were out. And here is the confession: I told my friends about your grande aventure and they wanted to give you something to take with you. I hope you don’t mind?’
Before I came to Paris I might have balked at my business being shared with relative strangers. It was always a bugbear of mine in London that my friends, lovely and caring as they are, could never understand that some things in my life weren’t for sharing with everyone. But here in the City of Light I like feeling part of something bigger than I am. I smile at Tobi and give their friends a little wave.
The Day We Meet Again Page 10