The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Sit, sit!’ Luc says, guiding me to a chair near the head of the table.

  And I do as I’m told because everything else fades away in the sparkling light of this moment. Mum says that some moments in life arrive just to be enjoyed for what they are. She talks about meeting Dad; the first time she held my brother Will and me; the first time they brought in a harvest on the farm they’d taken over from Granny and Grandpa – the big things you’d expect to be significant. But sometimes she’d get one of her smiles and stand completely still, one finger raised: ‘There. You see? Just stop, kids. Take that in…’ A particular bird’s song, a flower growing between the pavement slabs in our local town; a scent of something we passed as we walked down the street – tiny things we could have so easily missed.

  Maybe if I can tear them away from the fruit farm for a whole weekend, I might bring Mum and Dad to Montmartre to meet Tobi and Luc and see this tiny garden where I’ve discovered my own words alongside those of the authors I love.

  All of the guests are seated now, their glasses refilled. Their smiles beam across the table to me as Luc stands.

  ‘So, ma fille chérie, our friends wanted to share their favourite places with you for your journey.’ Tobi picks up a gift box covered in what looks like pages from an atlas, tied with a huge bow the colour of the summer sky. The gathered guests smile as they pass it towards me. Their collective excitement is palpable as the box reaches my hands; twelve held breaths as I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

  Inside, lying on a bed of primrose yellow tissue paper, is a leather journal embossed with a gold-leaf phoenix.

  ‘This is beautiful.’

  ‘Look inside, Miss Phee,’ Luc says.

  The first ten pages are covered in a patchwork of handwriting – some small and studied, some flamboyant and looped, written in a mix of blue, black, red and green inks. The rest of the book has quotes at the top of every other page, written in Luc’s beautiful hand-lettering. Each one comes from a classic novel. It must have taken him hours to complete.

  ‘The pages at the front are lists of our favourite things to see in the places you will be visiting,’ Tobi smiles. ‘All suggestions of course, but things your guidebooks might not tell you.’

  ‘And the rest of the book is yours to write in,’ Luc adds, his hand warm on my shoulder. ‘All of your adventures, all of your thoughts.’

  I am stunned by their kindness and what this gift signifies. Not only love for my journey but support for my fledgling writing. Halfway between sobs and laughter, I stare at them all. ‘I – I don’t know what to say…’

  Tobi takes my hand. ‘Say nothing. Write instead.’

  * * *

  The next day, on my way back to Tobi and Luc’s, I decide to walk down a street that I’ve always passed by but never ventured into. It leads me to a small paved square with a little green park at one side. Square Jehan-Rictus. I’m surprised to find it packed with tourists. When I follow the line of their trained camera lenses, I see why.

  On blue tiles mounted to one wall of the garden, the words I love you have been written in hundreds of languages. The effect of so many versions of the same phrase is beautiful – and utterly overwhelming.

  So many words, all expressing the same thing. Crossing borders both physical and psychological, crossing the divide between languages and religions – the single unifying emotion that makes us all human. It’s a powerful statement in a world more attuned to hate and suspicion. Love isn’t a soppy, frivolous emotion: it’s powerful, honest and potentially world changing.

  I don’t regret saying I loved Sam because I do – but those words have so much more power than I realised, and I understand that now. Coming at him as they did, completely unannounced, must have felt like the impact this mural has had on me. Even if he loves me – or is on the way towards it – being presented with it so suddenly must have been overwhelming. And typed, too, not said.

  I take my new notebook from my bag and start to write. I want to tell Sam immediately, call him right now and say that I understand. But that would be wrong. If he loves me, he’ll tell me. I have to trust him.

  Instead, I pour out my heart in the pages of the journal. Until now, everything I’ve written has been about what I’ve seen: this is the first time my heart has strayed onto the page. The words appear in my mind faster than my hand can capture them and it’s almost as if they are being dictated to me from somewhere else – as if the many-accented voices of the mural tiles are calling out to me.

  When I’m finished, I read it back.

  It’s powerful – far from perfect, but the emotion sings from the marks I’ve made on the page.

  In that moment, I make myself a promise: in this journal I will be completely honest. I will write down everything I think and feel, alongside the places I see and the people I meet. If Sam and I make it through this year, I will let him read it. If he loves me on the day we meet again, this will be my gift to him.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ A lady smiles as she stands beside me. She is tiny and has a camera around her neck with a huge lens attached that seems to be almost half her height. ‘A guy in the café across the street told me about it. There are a thousand I love you messages, in over three hundred languages.’

  ‘Would you take my picture in front of it?’ I ask, the thought appearing as I say the words.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, accepting my camera and waiting for me to find a space in the posing tourists beside the mural.

  Afterwards, I buy a coffee from the café across the street and take a seat in the garden opposite the mural. Each couple and group find their language on the wall and pose for photos. It’s lovely to watch.

  ‘Excusez-moi, parlez-vous anglais?’ A young man is standing by me when I turn.

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘Oh great. Would you mind taking our photo? We’re on our honeymoon.’

  After the man and his beaming bride pose for their photograph, we get talking. Giselle and André are from Prince Edward Island in Canada. They met at high school and when they tell me how they met, I am stunned.

  ‘We only met because our math teacher mixed up our assignments. I would never have had the guts to talk to her if it weren’t for that mistake.’

  ‘And I’d been in love with him since the first day of school, but he’d never even looked at me before. It was a random error but for us it was the start of everything.’

  Listening to their story I’m struck by how both of our situations could have been called mistakes or bad luck in the beginning. Getting someone else’s paper and having the embarrassment of asking the other person for it back; being stranded at a train station for six hours on the day your biggest adventure is due to begin, meeting someone in the middle of your panic…

  My heart is warmed by the young lovers’ story. Maybe one day Sam and I will be by a landmark like this, sharing our story of how we met to inspire someone else reeling from a crazy serendipity that’s sent their lives spinning in a new direction.

  Maybe in the end we are all just stories waiting to be shared.

  * * *

  Later still, on a bench in the park near Sacré-Cœur where I told Luc about what happened at St Pancras when my train was delayed, I write an email to Sam.

  * * *

  Hi Sam,

  * * *

  I’m almost ready to leave Paris and last night Tobi, Luc and their friends gave me a gorgeous travel journal with lists of all their favourite places in France and Italy. I’m heading to Troyes first – I found a great place on Airbnb that’s right in the heart of the town. Probably won’t be there long enough for another scary Scottish postcard (in case you have more in your arsenal) but feel free to message me if you like.

  Can I just say something? I haven’t wanted to address it before but today I realised how forward I was saying I loved you. It was a spur of the moment thing, not a test. I don’t need to hear it back or anything. It is how I feel but I understand how it came out was probab
ly a shock. I’m sorry for chucking that at you.

  I hope things went well with the person who knew your dad. I think what you’re doing is amazing, Sam. I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.

  I’d love to know how you’re getting on. You said before you wanted to call me. If you still do, I’d love to talk.

  And you promised me a song, remember?

  * * *

  Phoebe xx

  * * *

  As I send it I lean back against the sun-warmed bench, the sounds of Paris filling the space where the words have been. Now I’m ready to move on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Eighteen, Sam

  Ailish is quiet this morning, her library book open beside her plate and her reading glasses teetering on the end of her nose. We’ve breakfasted together almost every morning since I arrived and like every other aspect of Island life, I’ve settled into its easy rhythm. But today is different. It isn’t the sunlight stretching across the linen tablecloth and yellow crockery, or the sparkling silver ocean beyond the window changing things this morning. I know she’s waiting for something. It’s been a week since I visited Morag and I haven’t said much about it, just how the drive across was and what Morag’s studio was like.

  It’s time she knew the rest.

  ‘Morag gave me this,’ I say, pulling Frank’s cap from my jacket pocket where it’s sat like an uncertain talisman for days.

  She says nothing, inspecting the cap with a half-smile. Her eyebrows are lifted too high for her to appear disinterested, so I wait. When she still doesn’t speak, I hand her the photograph of Frank.

  ‘And that was hidden underneath the label. I think he and Morag might have been more than friends.’ I hear hesitation in my voice and know Ailish will have picked it up, too.

  ‘Mm.’

  I catch the flicker of her eyes to the view beyond the window. ‘What?’

  ‘Morag Andersson, you say?’

  ‘Yes. She’s an artist…’

  ‘She’s also not an Andersson. Or she wasn’t at the time your father was sniffing around her. We all knew her as Morag Ross.’

  ‘So she married?’

  Ailish purses her lips. I know a story is imminent. Cal and I loved the stories she’d tell when she visited us as kids. Ailish has the inside track on everyone. Ma loved Ailish’s top-class gossip more than all of us. ‘Said she married. Disappeared to Norway for half a year, came back an Andersson. No sign of a husband.’

  ‘Was this when she was gigging with Frank?’

  ‘No. Later. When he’d gone.’ Her frown softens and she reaches for my hand. ‘I’m not saying she chased your father. She was too young to know any better.’

  ‘She said her sister dated Frank before Ma.’

  ‘Possible, I suppose. But he was with your ma when they were both so young. Anyway, that’s ancient history. What matters is this phone number. Have you called it?’

  ‘No.’ I was so certain when I found Frank’s photo that I’d call the number the next day. But by the morning I’d talked myself out of it. Since then I’ve just quietly shelved my plans every day. ‘It isn’t that I don’t want to know. I just don’t know if I’m ready to find him yet.’

  The pearls round Ailish’s neck make a light click-click as she nods. ‘I understand. And there’s no rush. You have to do this when you’re ready. Nobody can tell you when that’ll be. But maybe we can do a little more digging on the Island, see what others remember about Frank? They might know something that means you never have to call that number.’

  I hadn’t thought of that. It would certainly feel less of a direct challenge. ‘Do you know anyone else we could talk to?’

  My honorary auntie grins a grin no self-respecting lady of her years should unleash. ‘You’re with me now, bairn. I know everyone.’

  If I let Ailish ask around first, it will buy me time before I have to act on anything and she’ll also feel like she’s helping me. I’ll look like I’m moving forward without having to consider it yet.

  I need time to work out what I want from Frank, should we find him. This is the perfect plan.

  * * *

  They say the weather changes when you blink on the Island and today Mull is proving its reputation. Two hours after breakfast the sparkling sun and clear skies have vanished. It’s blowing a hoolie out there and it’s definitely looking like a day for staying indoors. Rain lashes against the wide picture window and the smudge of grey sky is so low I can’t even see the beach any longer, let alone the shadow of Iona across the bay.

  I’m stuck in the front room of Ailish’s, waiting for Niven who’s insisted on driving over. We’re supposed to be working on some songs to take round the Island – Niven’s idea. He’s started doing house gigs in the small villages so that the community can hear live music without having to travel to Tobermory. It will be just him and me, with possibly a whistle player or piper if he has a mate nearby.

  * * *

  By the time Niven arrives, it’s early afternoon. A tree had blown down in one of the villages on the way here and was blocking the road. So Niven jumped out of his car to help a local farmer, fellow drivers and a group of locals to shift it. That’s what you do here – everyone mucks in. I think about London and the chaos one fallen tree would cause there. Not for the first time lately, I’m glad I’m on Mull.

  Ailish is on her way out as Niven blows in, but she fusses round him getting towels and a huge beige knitted jumper – neither of us wants to enquire who might have worn it first. Niven chuckles as he picks bits of pine branch from his hair, drowning in questionable knitwear.

  ‘It’s what all the best-dressed males on Mull are wearing this season. We’re calling it Rustic Hebridean Chic.’

  ‘Oh aye, the fresh bits of tree behind your ears really set it off,’ Ailish grins back, preening Niven like a mother cat cleaning a kitten. He rolls his eyes but it’s clear he’s loving every minute. As long as I’ve known him, he’s had this effect on women of a certain age. Must be his boyish good looks that make older ladies want to mother him. ‘Now boys, there’s gin and lemon cake in the kitchen and if it gets chilly there’s blankets in the box and whisky in the sideboard.’

  ‘Marry me, Ailish McRae!’

  She raises an eyebrow at my friend. ‘You’d never survive, Niven. I’d eat you for breakfast.’

  She’s grinning when she leaves though, the bloom of a blush dancing across her cheekbones.

  ‘Auntie Ailish, Queen of the One-Liners,’ I say as Niven feigns shock.

  ‘And you wonder why she never remarried.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s that bothered,’ I grin, as he follows me through to the kitchen. ‘She has a gaggle of admirers scattered across the Island.’

  ‘Admiring her from a distance because she’s too scary up close, eh?’

  ‘Just because she spurned you, pal, doesn’t mean there aren’t others she’ll accept.’

  * * *

  Half an hour later we’ve demolished two slices of Ailish’s epic homemade cake each and the teapot is on its second filling. Niven unpacks his guitar while I tune my fiddle. Jonas’s violin will always be my first love. Unfortunately its days of coping with gruelling gig schedules are at an end and it now resides in pride of place in the studio Chris and I have built. I’ll still use it for recording.

  My current violin is brighter sounding than Jonas’s. I can’t explain it other than that it sounds younger. Jonas’s violin has lost that quality but its seasoned old body captures the sonorous lower notes with a clarity and warmth that younger instruments will never achieve. For the gigs Niven and I might play on the Island, though, my current instrument is perfect. Bright and fun, sharp and quick. Enough to invite people’s feet to tap, their heads to nod and maybe even their bodies to dance.

  ‘Do you know where we’ll play yet?’ I ask, as Niven perches on the far end of the sofa.

  ‘I’ve a couple of venues lined up,’ he grins, popping a biro behind one ear and
rolling up the huge sleeves of Ailish’s jumper. ‘One in Bunessan, one up in Calgary. And my pal Russ says we can deck out his barn in Dervaig for a ceilidh next month sometime. Once folk hear about it I reckon we’ll get more. You up for it?’

  Daft question.

  We start to run through reels, jigs and graces; some I’ve not heard since childhood, others that are new to me. And as we play my mind drifts to a tiny apartment in Montmartre, where a beautiful woman is preparing for the next stage of her Grand Adventure.

  Phoebe’s email arrived while I was having breakfast but I didn’t open it then. When I did, it wasn’t her apologies that hit me – It was a spur of the moment thing, not a test. I don’t need to hear it back or anything – but my own pang of guilt. I went to see Morag because of what Phoebe said. Her advice meant so much to me. You know where I am if you want to talk. I want to tell her that, and explain that she is still important to me. I just need to find a way to say it all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Nineteen, Phoebe

  It’s time.

  I’m leaving Paris today with my plans in place and a stack of suggestions from Tobi and Luc’s friends. My two months here have been wonderful and I’ve learned so much. I wonder what awaits me on my onward journey through France?

  My phone buzzes as I’m stuffing the last of my books into my luggage. I snatch it up from the bed but my finger hesitates before accepting the call. Since I emailed Sam, his little messages and texts have peppered each of my remaining days in Paris. But while we’d agreed we would call soon, we haven’t spoken yet. And now I’m nervous of what he might want to say.