The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Hey you.’

  A rush of joy races through me when I hear the smile in his voice. Just like it was on the day we met. ‘Hi, stranger.’

  ‘I didn’t know if I’d get you before your train. You’re leaving today, right?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘How do you feel – about moving on?’ The second part is tagged on quickly as if he’s scared I’ll think he’s talking about us.

  ‘Good. I have everything booked and Tobi and Luc’s friend in Rome confirmed yesterday that I can stay with her for two months after I’ve visited Florence.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘It is. And I have all the suggestions in the journal the boys gave me between Paris and Rome.’

  ‘I’m really excited for you.’ I can hear the cry of gulls and rush of waves behind him.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘On Calgary Beach. West coast of the Island. Niven wanted to take photos here. It’s pretty spectacular. I’ll send you one when you’re on the train.’

  I try to picture Sam sitting in grassy dunes at the edge of the beach, buffeted by the wind. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Mostly clouds but the sun’s trying to beat them. The wind’s so strong it’s blowing the white sand in waves across the beach. And the view across the water is incredible. Moody blue out to infinity.’ His chuckle warms my ear. ‘And that’s the title of my next prog-rock album, obviously.’

  ‘I like it.’

  I love it – but I won’t say that to Sam. The ease has returned to our conversation, and I’ve missed that. But what if he’s relaxing because I’m about to move further away? I bundle the unwelcome thought from my mind.

  ‘So, Troyes next, eh?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve been paying attention.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Actually, I’ve done a bit of research.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I have indeed. I found a really cool thing you have to check out. Make sure you visit the Quais de Seine when you’re in Troyes. There’s something there I think you should see.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ah, no, I’m not telling. It’s my secret mission for you.’

  I can imagine him grinning like a cheeky kid. ‘Okay, boss.’

  ‘And when you see it, you have to think of me, okay? And take a picture.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I laugh.

  ‘Just be happy, Phoebe Jones. And have the best time.’

  Now I think I will.

  * * *

  Troyes is only an hour and a half’s train journey from Gare de l’Est, a short walk from Gare du Nord. It’s a medieval city, right in the heart of Champagne country. I will be staying with Gilbert and Amelie, a retired couple who now volunteer as local guides as part of the city’s Greeter scheme that pairs locals with visitors.

  I had planned to say goodbye to Tobi and Luc at the apartment and get a taxi to the station, but they won’t hear of it. So we walk together in solemn procession, Luc carrying my holdall and Tobi bearing the canvas bag containing homemade treats. At the station they buy coffee and fuss around me. It’s an hour before my train and they won’t leave until I’m on it.

  ‘You’re like our sister now,’ Luc says, when I laugh at their fussiness. ‘You have us until the train takes you. No arguments.’

  We sit together in a small café concession, with Tobi doing his best not to show how appalled he is by the quality of the coffee, and we talk about all the plans I have for my onward journey. Luc asks for my journal and shields the page from me as he writes a message.

  ‘Read it when you reach Troyes. Tobi will write something, too. And then all of the words must be yours.’

  I try to imagine the journal filled with my words at the end of this year. What will I see? What will I learn?

  And will Sam be there to read it when it’s complete?

  Suddenly it’s time to go. I share final kisses with Tobi and Luc and wave as I hurry to my platform. Paris has warmed my heart and set me on course for my European adventure. What lies in store for me next?

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty, Sam

  ‘A massive red beating heart!’ Phoebe says, without even saying hello first. She sounds breathless, somewhere between laughter and tears.

  Thank goodness for Google showing me the heart when I searched for Troyes. ‘You like it?’

  ‘It’s gorgeous, Sam! You’re gorgeous – um, I mean it was a gorgeous thought…’

  My chest contracts as her voice trails away. I hate that the uncertainty is there. I’m doing my best to cancel it out, but it’s not enough.

  ‘I’ll take gorgeous. You’re not so bad yourself.’ I wince at the cheesiness of my reply, thankful that her laugh follows on its tail.

  ‘Well, thank you for noticing.’

  There’s still something that doesn’t line up between us. Sending Phoebe to find the heart at the Quais de Seine was my attempt to bridge the gap. She sounds happy, which is all that matters. I just wish I wasn’t questioning everything. That’s how it started with Laura – I can’t let that happen again.

  ‘The heart is amazing, Sam. It’s made of a lacework of steel and the red light inside beats faster the closer you get to it. I visited last night at dusk. There are jets of water that dance around it and purple floodlights. I can’t believe I didn’t know it was here.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it. I expect photos, you know.’

  ‘Already on it. I’m going back there again this evening. And you owe me a song.’

  My stomach twists. Maybe I can film something at the gig tonight.

  The stomp of approaching boots heralds Niven’s return. When he gestures at my mobile I mouth Phoebe and he feigns a swoon before grabbing the gear from the open boot of his car. I watch him laughing all the way back into our gig venue.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ I say. ‘I have a gig tonight, actually. Aros Hall. It’s right on the seafront on Tobermory’s Main Street.’

  ‘Big gig?’

  ‘Biggest one we’ve played yet.’

  ‘I should let you go then.’

  ‘Probably. Have a great time, Phoebe.’

  ‘You too. Let me know how the gig goes. And’ – that hesitation returns –‘thanks. For the heart.’

  Now is my time to say something. A heart is a hell of a symbol, especially when you send someone you care about to see it. What else could it mean? Say something, Sam.

  ‘You – us – it matters,’ I stumble. What?

  ‘To me, too.’

  ‘Good. Just remember that, yeah?’

  There’s a sheen of laughter in her voice. ‘Hard to forget. Speak soon.’

  ‘You too.’

  And then the call ends. I kick at a stone by my feet. What was that? At least she didn’t sound offended. But I could have said so much more. I turn back to the sea and let the salt-tang air blast through my lungs. I am still blown away by the view from here – looking out across a pewter sea to the mountains of the mainland in the distance. Everywhere has a long vista on Mull, no matter where you go. Huge skies, wide seascapes, wild mountains and moors. And everywhere looks towards somewhere else, as if the Island is constantly inviting you to go deeper, consider more, dream wider.

  I’ve been able to breathe again since I came here.

  I just wish I could express that to Phoebe. I have to try harder, regain the ground I’ve lost. I want her in my life, but we have ten months before we meet again and Frank Mullins’ ghost looms large between us. He needs putting to rest before I can dare to give Phoebe the room she deserves.

  I rub my eyes and head back into Aros Hall.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, we’ve made some progress setting up, but not as much as we should. This is largely due to Niven, as usual, apparently knowing everyone here. Volunteers preparing the hall keep interrupting him to say hello and share news. If you ask me, this is a ruse of his to get me to do all the work. Guitarists are tricky like that.
And people think fiddlers are the cheeky ones. I watch him laughing and shaking hands with people who have known him forever and I’m suddenly hit by a pang of envy.

  While I set out microphones and stands on the stage, I wonder – if we’d never had to leave Mull, if Frank had been the husband Ma deserved and Grandma had never been given licence to get her oar in, if we’d had the childhood I knew I should have had, even as a boy of 9 being taken by night to the mainland – would the people in Tobermory and beyond be greeting me today like they do Niven?

  He catches me looking over, grins and gives a shrug.

  Yeah, like heck are you innocent in this, McNish.

  I chuckle and go back to uncoiling microphone leads.

  * * *

  There’s a great buzz about tonight from the people setting up the room and I have a good feeling about what might happen. It will be good to play with the other musicians. Two of them I know already from other gigs: Ally the drummer and Cara the accordionist who play together regularly in their own band. The whistle player I’ve not met yet and I can’t recall if Niven’s even mentioned their name. But I’m getting used to people just rocking up to play.

  When the stage is ready and the sound as sorted as it can be before the rest of the band arrives, I join Niven in the centre of the hall on the scuffed and creaky floorboards.

  ‘Looks good,’ Niven smiles. He’s on form today, that restlessness I’d seen in him when we were travelling to Mull from Glasgow is absent now. I think the gigs are helping him refocus.

  ‘Not bad for a southerner, eh?’ I say.

  ‘You’ll do.’ He checks his watch. ‘Ally just called. He’s picking up Cara from the ferry at Craignure, then they’ll head straight here.’

  ‘Great. And the whistle player?’

  There’s a creak behind us and the door opens. Niven looks over his shoulder and smirks. ‘Ah now, she’s a real handful. I heard she’s a terror.’

  ‘Get stuffed, McNish,’ a voice says behind me.

  I would know that voice anywhere.

  When I turn, I see the last of my uni clan striding across the hall towards us. The leather jacket, black T-shirt and ridiculously short mini skirt, bright red tights and heavy biker boots haven’t changed, but where her hair was bottle blonde at university it’s now the colour of melted dark chocolate.

  ‘I didn’t know it was you,’ I laugh, as I scoop her into a hug.

  Shona Delaney smiles against my cheek. ‘That’s because I swore Niven to secrecy. On pain of death.’

  ‘And I wasn’t likely to blab. She’s bloody terrifying,’ Niven says, ducking a swipe Shona makes at him before they embrace.

  ‘Better than being a guitarist wuss. So, you happy for me to play, Sam?’

  ‘Sure,’ I grin. ‘Think you can keep up with us?’

  Shona dismisses this with a raise of her eyebrows as she shrugs her pipe bag off her shoulders and pulls out a penny whistle. It spins in her fingers like a majorette’s baton. ‘Oh, I reckon I’ll manage.’

  Yet another local collars Niven for a chat, so Shona and I head over to the stage.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ I say. And it is. She’s been the missing piece of my journey so far.

  ‘You too. Enjoying your time here?’

  ‘I am. Wasn’t sure I would because – you know. But no, it’s good. So, what are you doing these days?’

  ‘Gigging, whenever I can. I lecture part-time at Strathclyde Uni and tour the rest of the year with a trad band.’

  ‘I had no idea you were a prof these days.’

  Shona unpacks the last of her whistles and fastens a holster to the microphone stand by her seat in the stage. ‘That would be because you’re useless at keeping in touch.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Nae bother. Just good to see you now. And hey – I’m sorry to hear about the girl.’

  For a moment I’m confused. Does she mean Phoebe? And then the penny drops: Laura. ‘It’s okay I’m over it. And you?’

  ‘Divorced. At long last.’ She flips a handful of hair back from her face. ‘So, footloose and fancy free the three of us, eh?’

  I’m about to reply when Niven strides onto the stage. ‘Ally’s just leaving Craignure. Reckon that gives us at least forty minutes to start sound-checking, and maybe go over the set?’

  Shona claps her hands and heads to her spot. I’m struck by how confident she is now. At university I always felt she wore her characteristics like the oversized biker jackets and huge army surplus shirts that formed her uniform back then. Now, everything fits.

  I realise I’m staring as she arranges her pipes in the mic-stand holster and selects a low whistle to start playing. When she looks up at me, I avert my gaze.

  She is so different from the last time I saw her. The change is remarkable: I’m a little stunned by it. Things aren’t helped when Niven nudges me, mid-song, and whispers, ‘Close your mouth,’ nodding in Shona’s direction which, thankfully, she doesn’t see.

  I knew she’d had a rough couple of years with the guy she’s just divorced. He was a rugby player, all flash cash and model looks with an adoring Instagram army running into the hundreds of thousands. Kate reckoned Shona liked the attention after years of doubting her appearance and appeal. The guy wooed her – expensive holidays, gifts, a wedding covered by celebrity magazines and even an impressive studio in the basement of their home. But he never made her happy. Donal and Kate were worried about her for a long time. It’s great to see her happy and back in control.

  And she looks amazing.

  I check myself and focus on Phoebe. I’ll send her photos of this gig tonight, just to prove I don’t only play in small Island front rooms. Not being a musician herself I don’t think she really understands what it’s like as a performer. We haven’t really spoken much about my job or what she does, for that matter. I know she worked in the office for a theatre production company most recently, and that she studied part-time for a PhD. I should know this stuff. Both our lives will be different if we end up together. We’ll both have to make changes.

  Next time we speak I’ll ask her about her dream job – or what she plans to do when she’s back in London. When she’s back with me.

  * * *

  Niven and Shona are pulling faces at each other across the stage like a couple of kids. It’s like the six years we’ve spent apart just didn’t happen. I can feel myself reverting to the Sam Mullins I was last time we played together – before Laura, before the studio, before I even considered coming back to Mull. I miss that version of me. He wasn’t happy all the time and was broke more often than not; he went from gig to gig, working all the hours, hardly sleeping. But there was simplicity in his life that I’ve lost.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking about this now. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I’m not just a visiting musician here: I’m Frank Mullins’ boy.

  Ailish is right: at some point I’m going to have to follow up the lead from the photograph. It’s what I came here for. And I will do it.

  But tonight, I can hang out with the other Sam Mullins and let the music take me from every concern and responsibility. Enjoying the fun, not thinking any further than the next tune. The freedom is intoxicating.

  Tonight is going to be a great gig.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-One, Phoebe

  Hi, Sam,

  * * *

  I arrived at my Roman host’s home a week ago and it’s the most wonderful place. I loved Florence but visiting in the height of the tourist season wasn’t the brightest idea. Both the apartments I stayed in were miles out of the city centre so I felt a bit removed there. I’ve seen everything I wanted to see, but I don’t feel I found the heart of that city. I’ll go back one day at a better time and do it properly, I think. Maybe you can come with me.

  Rome is completely different. Tobi and Luc’s friend Giana is the perfect host and her home is wonderful. She’s already taken me to three places I didn’t even know existed. It
’s nice to be in one place for a while, too. And it’s funny, but I didn’t expect to love Rome as much as I do. It’s ridiculously busy and hot and never quiet, but it’s wonderful.

  Giana is fascinating. She’s an artist, originally from America, and she always wanted to live here. I feel like I’ve known her for years not days and I’ve already heard her life story. I love how she found her perfect place in Rome. And she adores books so she’s totally my kind of person!

  How are the house gigs going? I bet your audiences love you. Anyone would. Have you had any more news about Frank? I hope so.

  I miss you. Write soon. Or text. Or even call… You know, as we’re sticking to those rules of ours so rigidly. (I’m glad both of us are rubbish at obeying rules.)

  Phoebe xx

  * * *

  There was no point even trying to fit everything I wanted to say to Sam on a postcard this time. I fold the piece of notepaper I’ve written my message on around the postcard of the Piazza del Popolo that I bought at the little gift shop two doors down from my current home and smile as I fit it into the envelope. I am sitting in the small library room of Giana Moretti’s apartment. She asked me to help organise her books and we struck on the idea of making rainbow shelves. As an artist it appealed to her.

  Every day so far, Giana has made coffee and sweet sugary bomboloni doughnuts for our mid-morning snack. Espresso, sugar, book print and paper makes the most amazing perfume. She’s in the kitchen preparing it now and she’ll bring it to me soon. My stomach is rumbling just thinking about it.

  Writing to Sam has made me realise how at home I feel here compared with Florence – and thinking of home brings thoughts of my friends back in London. I wonder how they are. I check the old wooden clock above the counter – half past ten. What will they be doing now? Meg has Thursdays off so she’ll probably be pottering around the house or maybe heading to the British Library to write. Last I heard from Osh he was neck-deep in pre-production prep for the festival film he’s finally secured funding for. Gabe will be appearing in it, in between rehearsals for his new play at the Almeida Theatre.