The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  Picking up my phone I compose a group text:

  * * *

  Hi beauties! I’m making a book rainbow in the library of my new home in Rome. How’s your Thursday going? Miss you all LOTS. Tell me all your news. P xxx

  * * *

  Within a minute, my phone buzzes with replies:

  * * *

  Phoebe bloody Jones, we miss you too. Get your butt back to London and I’ll sneak you into my movie. I’m doing a movie at last! Just call me Danny Boyle! Are you going near Siena on your travels? I have 3 days filming a commercial there. Got to pay ma bills, right? Maybe we can meet up? Let me know. Big love, Osh xx

  * * *

  PHOEBE! You’re alive! Up for a chat later? G x

  * * *

  Phee! Give me 5 and I’ll call. Lots to tell! M xxx

  * * *

  I smile at the rush of love in my notifications. My friends haven’t forgotten me. Not that I ever thought they would, but I’ve never tested our friendship before, save for the occasional week away on holiday. We’re connected again, even though they are hundreds of miles from me. It feels good to be striking out on my own and still being part of a circle of friends.

  I’m about to reply when another text arrives, just as Giana appears with a tray of the most delicious tiny doughnuts and a pot of espresso.

  * * *

  Unscheduled text (sorry) just to say I’m thinking of you. That’s all xx

  * * *

  Sunlight bursts through the single window in Giana’s library. Books, coffee, bomboloni, sun, a new friend in my host and now a message from Sam. Today is going to be a great day.

  * * *

  When Tobi told me I’d be staying with his deaf friend in Rome, I was nervous. I don’t know much sign language and I didn’t want the kind lady to be offended by my lack of understanding.

  But as soon as I met her, I knew my fears were unfounded. And now, two weeks into my two-month stay Giana Moretti and I are firm friends. She’s an artist and translator, originally from Chicago and one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. Her lip-reading and speech are brilliant, but I’ve asked her to teach me some American Sign Language, too. I want to give her proper respect while I’m living under her roof.

  But today I discovered something about her that inspires me even more.

  It’s rained solidly for the past week and I’ve been earning my keep by helping Giana reorganise her new artist studio. The roof space she’s just started to rent from her landlord in her apartment building is quite small, but even on a dank day the light is lovely. We’d just finished shifting the last of the boxes her landlord had been keeping in the room and had taken a rest, pulling cobwebs out of our hair and drinking coffee from the flask she brought with us.

  ‘Phoebe, how would you like an adventure?’ she asked, her nut-brown eyes sparkling.

  ‘You mean more than this?’ I laughed.

  ‘Even more than this. I have a secret I think you should know.’

  And that’s when I discovered just how special Giana Moretti is.

  Back in her apartment, she opened a large lidded tin box in the kitchen filled with smooth pebbles small enough to sit in the palm of your hand. ‘These are my secret weapons.’

  ‘You throw these at people?’ I asked.

  She’s still laughing about that now as we sit at her newspaper-covered dining table, a palette of paints in the centre.

  ‘What do I paint on it?’ I ask, the child in me thrilled by the prospect of painting a pebble.

  ‘Whatever you feel,’ she says. ‘It could be how you feel today, or something you’ve seen. It could be a single word or just a picture. One thing that’s important, though: it doesn’t just have to be positive. I think the best way to live is to mark every moment, good or bad. In the moment when you feel it – whatever it is – that emotion is valid and has worth. If you acknowledge that, nothing has the power to silence you.’

  And then she tells me how painting pebbles became part of her life.

  ‘All my life, I was told to be quiet. My words, they didn’t matter, you see. Because, in my family’s opinion, if I couldn’t hear them, nobody else should either. My family spoke first and always at once. Every day I would watch them fight to be the loudest. Even in the silence they were deafening. There was no room for my voice.’

  ‘That must have been terrible,’ I say, careful not to imply any judgement although I can’t believe a family could be so cruel to a child they were supposed to love.

  ‘At the age of twelve, I got new hearing aids. I hated them at first. The noise nearly drowned me. My family thought I was ungrateful and refused to listen to me when I tried to explain how disorienting I was finding the world. I struggled for a couple of years until a friend told me about a new group in my deaf community centre. Half of us had hearing aids, half didn’t, but we all used sign language. It was our safe place – our sanctuary.

  ‘One day, when I was sixteen, an artist came to visit, and he asked us to paint a pebble. That was my first. “Put something beautiful on it,” he said. “Something only you can see. And write a thought on the other side.” And then he said something that changed my life: “Your thoughts matter. Your views matter. For every time you’ve been dismissed, or felt less worthy than someone else, find a pebble and paint your beautiful thoughts. Then send it out into the world. Because kindness has power and your words have the potential to change the world. Like when you throw a pebble into the ocean and the ripples reach out, wider and wider, to infinity.”’ She beams. ‘That’s where it started for me.’

  ‘Oh wow, I love that.’

  ‘I’ve been amazed that one small pebble can make such a difference. Even if the difference is only the power it gives you to make it. If you believe your words have meaning, they will.’

  Since I’ve been in Europe, I’ve wondered about the kind of impact I have. My life has. On this world. All the people I admire made a difference – or are setting about leaving their mark. I think about the novelists I studied for three years and loved for many more – did any of them realise the difference they were making while they were doing it? Do we ever really know our impact, or does it come later, when we’ve gone?

  ‘What made you move to Rome?’ I ask.

  Giana tells me she has been in love with Rome since she was tiny, from a picture book her nonna sent her from Italy one Christmas, so when the opportunity to move here arose in her early twenties, she didn’t hesitate. I love that she followed her heart to be here.

  ‘Nonna was born in Rome before her family emigrated to Chicago. She died without seeing it again, so I wanted to see it for her. My parents didn’t approve, of course: they said I’d be back in six months. Well, that was twelve years ago. I am grateful that life has brought me here and that I made it happen. So my gratitude is in the pebbles and I send them out into the world to make a difference. To tell the world that I am here and I matter. I think maybe you need to do the same?’

  She opens a site on her computer and the screen fills with painted pebbles. We scroll through them. Alongside the photographs are details of where people have taken Giana’s work home with them. Japan, Senegal, Australia, Portugal, the UK, Columbia, Latvia, Norway. On and on, country after country, visitors to Rome have taken their treasure back to their home countries all over the world and re-hidden the pebbles for others to find. It’s astounding.

  ‘Many people tell me they have started to paint their own pebbles after finding mine,’ she says. She taps the screen and I see that her page has hundreds of thousands of followers – complete strangers, joined together by ripples from Giana’s painted thoughts and now sending out their own into the world.

  Looking at the photos of smiling people across the planet holding her artworks, I realise something: I want my life to make a difference, too.

  We fill a basket with the pebbles we’ve decorated and head out into the city. It’s still raining but I’m buzzing with anticipation.

  ‘Where
do we put them?’ I ask as we walk down the rain-glossed street.

  ‘Anywhere they can be discovered. I try to put some at head height, some at ground level where people won’t trip over them, and some near places where people might sit. That way all ages can find them – and they do.’

  Heading out into the great city with our stash of pebbles is the most exciting thing.

  We hide a couple of pebbles at the Piazza Navona, the long square where Giana tells me chariots used to race; we cross cobbled streets that catch the golden sun to leave our treasure in terracotta planters and behind pavement café A-boards; and hide a couple on the Spanish Steps where it seems all of the beautiful people of Rome come to meet and sit and be seen.

  Then we head for the Campo de’ Fiori street market, with its huge stacks of every conceivable fruit and vegetable, verdant bunches of fresh herbs and whole stalls of spices and dried peppers. Giana knows everyone here, it seems. Each stallholder welcomes me to their city and insists we sample the food and drink products they sell. Within an hour I am grinning and very full. We hide pebbles there too, tucked away under the edges of tarpaulins and behind flower vases on tables in the eating area. Then we brave the crowds by the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain, slipping stones in unseen nooks while tourists from all over the world buzz around us.

  I’m going to do this wherever I go from now on, I decide, a few days later, as Giana and I stroll through the Villa Borghese Gardens with its pools, elegant statues and lots of green space, which reminds me of London’s parks. A trail of my adventure through Europe.

  That evening, when the dusk glows and the famous buildings are flooded with light, I leave a pebble with Sam’s name surrounded by music notes tucked beside a riverside bookstall. I don’t know if he’ll understand about the pebbles but I hope he will. He’s a musician – instead of decorated stones, he’s hiding inspiration and magic for people to rediscover whenever they need it. In that way, we’re doing the same thing.

  Making our mark where we are with what we have.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Two, Sam

  ‘Let me get this straight: you’re spending a year away from the woman you want to be with?’

  Put like that, it doesn’t make much sense.

  Part of me wishes I’d never mentioned this to Shona, but it’s too late to change it now. Besides, it’s really Niven’s fault. He made a joke about long-distance love and Shona was on it before I could steer the conversation away.

  It’s been three weeks since she surprised us at our Aros Hall gig and I’ve seen her most days. We’ve talked about all kinds of stuff, catching up on the last six years, but not, until this moment, about Phoebe. I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned her before.

  Okay, maybe I do.

  It’s because of her expression right now, like she’s battling saying what she really thinks. At least her attempt to combat her impulse is better than when we were at university – she was famous for having no filter when it came to her opinions. A symptom of her immense shyness, most probably, but it didn’t make it any easier to be on the receiving end.

  I glare at Niven, who has suddenly remembered something he really needs from the car, leaving Shona and me sitting on the silver sands of beautiful Langamull Beach in Dervaig. It’s a gorgeous day, just a hint of a breeze and the sun warm on our bare feet as we relax on the sand. Shona’s even deigned to lose her leather jacket, which is a minor miracle. In the sunlight her hair reveals deep red streaks nestled between the chocolate brown and her skin is more tanned than I remember.

  ‘We both have things we want to do first,’ I say, working hard to keep my tone steady.

  ‘Is that why you’re not talking to her much? Keeping the mystery alive?’

  I stare at her. ‘I talk to her a lot.’

  ‘Not according to Niven, you don’t.’

  I look back towards the car but the sun is obscuring the windscreen so I can’t see him. Good job. I can’t believe he’d talk to Shona about this. ‘Niven knows nothing. We send postcards, emails, texts. I sent her a song last week. “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls.’ It felt good, filming it on my phone and seeing her delight when she video-called me the next day.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ she’d said, her smile warmer than the sunshine warming my back today. ‘It means so much.’

  I want to make Phoebe smile. She has the loveliest smile.

  ‘Classy,’ Shona says. ‘So have you told her about looking for your dad?’

  I bristle at the question. ‘I’m guessing Niven told you that, too.’ Is nothing sacred? Next time I’m alone with him, I’ll tell him exactly what I think about his public information service. I don’t owe Shona any explanation, but I know the direction this conversation is headed and it needs to stop. I’m already feeling cornered. ‘I have told Phoebe, actually. It was because of her that I started looking.’

  ‘Right.’

  I can’t read her expression. That’s probably a good thing. She picks up a small pebble and passes it across the top of her fingers by moving each one in sequence. I remember her doing that with a penny in endless bars during our student days. Manipulation. Like illusionists use. She did it as a meditation, usually several beers into a drinking session.

  She catches me watching and grins. ‘Still got it.’

  ‘So I see.’ I’m conscious of heat at the back of my neck.

  ‘What are you doing to find your father, Sam?’

  I stare at her. ‘I met someone who knew him and she gave me Frank’s cap. There was photo in it. A phone number too.’

  Shona shields her eyes from the sun to look at me. ‘A number? Did you call it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘I think this is more important, don’t you?’

  ‘Ailish is asking around on the Island. She reckons someone will know where Frank is. If that brings up nothing, maybe I’ll call the number. And no, I haven’t told Phoebe about all that because until anything comes up there’s little point.’

  Shona doesn’t buy this. Part of me doesn’t blame her.

  ‘So she’s the woman of your dreams but you won’t tell her about the biggest thing in your life?’

  ‘I will, when I have something to tell her. And she has things to do in Italy. It’s good to have distance. It tests how serious we are about this. We do what we promised ourselves first and then we’ll be in a good place to be together.’

  ‘What, sexually frustrated?’ She sees my expression and holds up a many-ringed hand with a laugh. ‘Sorry. I would be, that’s all. Willingly keeping yourself from someone who’s a sure thing? I couldn’t do it. Spend a year in bed with them not wasting a second, more like. If it fails at least you’ve had a hell of a lot of fun.’

  ‘Yeah, well this is about more than sex.’

  ‘More than sex?’ She shifts in the sand to face me. ‘Would you listen to yourself? This isn’t the Sam Mullins I know.’

  ‘So Shona, how’s your love life?’

  She pulls a face. I know I’m being defensive but I don’t need challenging about Phoebe. Or Frank. Especially not by Shona Delaney.

  Niven returns and the topic of conversation shifts at last, to my relief. Until this moment, everyone has accepted the decision Phoebe and I have made. Kate questioned it, but only as a concerned friend and because she wanted to understand. I can’t work out what Shona’s motivation is yet. Maybe I’ll call Kate later when I’m back at Ailish’s if it’s still bothering me.

  Part of the problem is that Shona no longer fits the image I’ve always had of her. Everything I’d learned about how to be her friend years ago – things she responded to, topics to avoid, approaches appropriate to her personality – are now like a bunch of slightly bent keys that don’t fit the locks as they once did.

  It doesn’t help that I haven’t contacted Phoebe since I sent her the song. She seems happy with the artist in Rome and the last
I heard she was painting pebbles to leave across the city and rearranging a library. It sounds wildly romantic and is exactly the kind of thing I imagined her doing. It’s what I want for her, as much as being here in Mull is what she wants for me. We both said there would be times this year when we wouldn’t be in touch. I’m not worried there’s a gap in communication right now.

  Besides, I’ve been obsessing over an old text of Phoebe’s I’d forgotten I had on my phone. She sent it to me from Carcassone, back when she was travelling through France. It’s a turreted walled settlement on a huge hill and ridiculously pretty. The kind of place Peter Jackson would fall over himself to set a film in. Fairy-tale turrets, rounded towers, flowers everywhere.

  * * *

  Hi Sam. I’ve found our house – fancy it? I reckon we’d suit a castle. Miss you, P xx

  * * *

  At the time I thought it was cute. When I found it again, I still loved the joke but this time it pulled me up. Was she thinking about that stuff already? I haven’t even considered it. I know we were both renting in London before we left, so own no property we have to return to, but do we find a place together immediately or wait to see if Phoebe and Sam work in the real world rather than just our imaginations and the strange limbo of our year apart?

  The problem is that the Island gives you too much time to think.