The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  A few days later, with no more reason to delay, I bit the bullet.

  I called the number on the photograph.

  I wasn’t going to. But I was out walking over the hill behind her house this morning and found myself dialling it.

  Unobtainable.

  I wish I hadn’t called it now. Because the one scrap of a lead I’d had has proved useless, right when I’d decided to push on with my search. I haven’t told Ailish yet. I will – and when I do I know she’ll offer to help. But the sting is too great right now to share it. Frank has eluded me once more and all the old pain has rocked back up uninvited. I don’t know if I want to risk its kick again.

  It’s late afternoon now and I’m in the community room at Aros Hall in Tobermory where we hold the music club. About twenty kids ranging between the ages of seven and fourteen are scattered around the room clutching instruments. Some are their own, some have been donated by parents, grandparents and Niven’s school. I wonder how many attics have been plundered to find these ancient treasures.

  I have two fiddle players sitting beside me today – Molly, 10, and Bailey, 11. Both have a basic understanding of how to make a sound from their instruments, but beyond that they have little experience. I’m not bothered, though – this is exactly where I was when Jonas started to teach me. Molly and Bailey are both keen, which is more important than anything. I can work with keen.

  Over in the far corner, Shona is teaching three small girls to play their tin whistles, stifling her giggles when the squeaks of the new players inevitably sound. I know she loves it from the way she flits between her students, correcting finger positions and demonstrating proper technique with her own whistle. Her enthusiasm is infectious and I see the way her students’ eyes light up whenever she compliments them. They want to try for her, like I wanted to try for Jonas.

  Niven is in the middle of the room with nine guitarists, all of whom are swamped by their enormous guitars, little legs and feet swinging from beneath their instruments, none quite meeting the floor. He’s grinning at them as they master single finger G chords. Their excitement is palpable from here.

  The noise in the room is something else, but it’s exciting and fun, and there are shimmers of laughter and whoops of encouragement peppered through the discordant fug of sound. I love the positivity of it; the potential for igniting life-long passions for music just by sharing our own. These kids know Mull as home, most of them having been born here, and music plays such a huge part of the Island’s heritage.

  Around the room parents are sitting, watching the semiorganised chaos with a mixture of amusement and horror. I think they like what’s happening. At least they’re here to witness it. Frank never knew I played. Ma was often too drunk to notice. My earliest concerts at school more often than not had no seat in the audience filled by a member of my family. I don’t blame Ma for not being there – where her head was at that time didn’t allow her to think of anyone else because taking care of herself demanded all her efforts. I played for her a few times before she died, when she was pretty far gone, the nurse coming in to see her three times a day. Shortly after that she was moved to a hospice – no chance of playing any music for her there – and then, a week later, she was gone.

  I wonder if she knew. If somewhere, way down beneath the layers of self-hate and hurt and the relentless demands of her body for the thing that was slowly killing her, she was proud of her eldest boy and his fiddle that he stuck with, even though she’d told Jonas I’d soon tire of playing.

  Seeing the photograph of Frank playing his fiddle and knowing what I do now, Ma’s horror at me choosing the same instrument makes more sense. I remember the fear in her eyes as she yelled at me for accepting Jonas’s gift. Did she think I’d turn out like Frank?

  Our session ends and I congratulate my happy students before joining the small group of parents helping to clear everything away. Niven nudges me as we carry chairs across the room.

  ‘You okay, pal?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Right. It’s just you’re a bit – far away today.’

  We hand our chairs to Tattooed Joe, the barman from the pub we often play in, and walk back to fetch more.

  ‘I called the number,’ I say. ‘From the picture.’

  ‘Frank’s number?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  His eyes are saucer-wide. ‘And?’

  ‘It was unobtainable.’

  ‘No! Mate…’

  I shrug but the reality is heavy on me. It really is a dead end.

  Niven puts a hand on my shoulder, his brow furrowed. ‘There must be another way to find him. He can’t just disappear, not in this day and age. There has to be a way to… hang on – Julie!’

  He calls across the room, where a woman looks up and heads over to us. I recognise her from the first time I visited Niven’s school, surrounded by a gaggle of adoring 4-year-olds. Her daughter is one of Shona’s whistle-players.

  ‘Julie’s husband is a sergeant with Mull Police. He works out of the station in Tobermory.’

  I didn’t expect to get the police involved. I’m about to stop Niven but Julie has already reached us.

  ‘Hey. What’s up?’

  ‘Bit of a random question, Ju: how easy would it be for your Doug to find a missing person?’

  Julie laughs. ‘You been a bit careless with your pals again, Niven?’

  ‘Not for me. For Sam.’

  She grins up at me. ‘Depends. Who’ve you lost?’

  ‘My father.’

  Instantly, her smile fades.

  Of course she knows about Frank. Everyone knows. Even people who weren’t born when my father left the Island. It’s become as familiar a whispered tale here as the ancient legends that seem to be attached to every stone of Mull.

  In that moment, I think twice about asking for her husband’s help. It won’t be a casual enquiry if the police take it on. It will be official – a missing person’s report, a public search. I’m not ready for that. But my friend thinks he’s helping and it’s too late to take back the suggestion.

  ‘Sure he could help. I’ll ask him.’

  ‘I don’t want to put him to any trouble…’ I begin, hating the weakness of my protest.

  ‘Ach, it’s nae bother. He’ll be glad of the work. Mull’s hardly the crime capital of the Hebrides right now.’ She pats my arm, which just makes me feel worse. ‘Don’t you worry, Sam. We’ll find your da.’

  * * *

  We’re at Niven’s place, later that evening, eating frozen pizza and drinking beer. He’s been casting glances in my direction when he thinks I’m not looking for the best part of an hour now and he blushes when I turn to catch him.

  ‘What? Do I have pizza cheese on my chin?’

  ‘Nah, but you have a big loony face.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Go back to your beer.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. What’s with the staring?’

  He groans. ‘Okay. I have a question. If Doug can find Frank, will you go to see him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It’s the truth. ‘He’s probably dead, for all I know.’

  ‘But if he isn’t?’

  ‘I guess I’ll find out. They might not locate him, anyway. From what I’ve heard, Frank was always good at evading people.’

  His question begs another one: do I want to know what happened to my father? What he did with his life once he’d cut us out of it? I’m not sure. But what if the police don’t find him? Will it hurt more than the unobtainable tone I heard this morning when I called the number on the photo? These questions won’t be answered unless Doug and his colleagues look for Frank. Wheels are in motion. Now I have to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Five, Phoebe

  The days become colder; the light more reluctant to arrive in the morning and stay in the late afternoons.

  By November the library is repainted, the bookcases varnished and the floor brought bac
k to life. Lisabeta has the glass doors replaced and crates of books begin to arrive from the storage unit. Amanda and I set up a table and carefully clean each book, checking the pages for signs of damp or water damage before stacking them in alphabetical piles around the edges of the room.

  I send Sam a few postcards. He responds with emails and the occasional call. He laughs when I accuse him of getting off lightly. I’m only half-joking, but if he realises this he doesn’t let on. I’ve felt him pulling away lately and I’ve battled fear that he’s having second thoughts.

  ‘I told you, my handwriting is shocking,’ he says and I can hear the winter wind buffeting the island around him. Here it’s colder than when I arrived but still warm enough at midday to work in T-shirts and jeans. When Sam video calls me from the arts centre where the music club is taking place, I’m surprised to see he’s grown a beard. It suits him, but I’m still taken aback by how the seasons are changing us. My skin is the most tanned it has ever been. Streaks of gold run through my hair. And I am content.

  And then, before I know it, Christmas arrives.

  It’s funny, but I hadn’t thought much about where I would spend Christmas this year, or how it might feel to be away from my friends and family for the first time in years.

  Fog cloaks the garden and all our talk around the knotted wooden table is of plans and dates, hopes for the coming year and dreams yet to happen. We are lying in wait like the dormant terrace flowerbeds and the half-finished library, all our bright hope and potential hidden for now.

  ‘Next year, I want to have our first weddings in the diary,’ Lisabeta says, passing a plate of amaretti biscuits around. We’re drinking hot milk spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, sharing our dreams for the year to come.

  ‘That’s totally possible,’ Amanda says, dunking her biscuit in the warm white froth. ‘I want to be doing a new project at work. Something that celebrates the great literary heritage we have in Devon and Cornwall. No idea how yet, but I’ll work it out.’

  They turn expectantly to me. What do I tell them? ‘I hope I’ll be doing something my heart loves,’ I say. It’s hopelessly vague but true. I don’t know what I want to do this time next year. Part of my year away is to give myself the chance to think about stuff like that. I do know I don’t want to settle for any old job like I did before. Maybe that’s enough of a step forward for now.

  And Sam. I want to be with Sam.

  Where will we be this time next year?

  Together, I hope.

  Just before Christmas, a rare gift arrives at the villa, addressed to me – a handwritten Christmas card from Sam. Inside the appropriately Scottish-shortbread-tin design is a message. I can almost hear his voice speaking:

  * * *

  To

  Phoebe,

  Just think,

  this time next year we’ll be

  arguing where to put the Christmas tree.

  Or we’ll be

  hogging the mistletoe. Just us.

  In a log cabin. Miles away from anywhere. For

  weeks…

  Okay, I’ll stop now.

  Seriously, with all my heart,

  all I want for Christmas is 14th June. And you.

  Me and you.

  Sam xx

  P.S. Can you see the Christmas tree? ☺

  * * *

  A message written in the shape of a fir tree. It must have taken him hours to work that out – but I love that he did. This little message means the world. He wants to be with me. He still believes it’s possible.

  It isn’t I love you yet. But I want to be with you is pretty close.

  If you were the love of my life and I knew it…

  Gabe’s words from the night in the vineyard return without invitation. No, I tell myself, forcing my focus back to the precious Christmas note from Sam. This is enough for now. Sam wrote this message to let me know he’s still mine. He took the time to say it. If he wanted to push me away he wouldn’t have bothered.

  I couldn’t walk away. I’d do anything to be with you.

  Would Gabe really? It’s very easy to say the right thing when you’re not the one in the situation. It could have been a line from one of his acting jobs for all I know. But I don’t like that I’m still thinking about what Gabe said. My lovely Sam wanting to be with me, and the promise of celebrating Christmas soon in my Puglian home with Amanda and Lisabeta are all I want to think about.

  * * *

  We string up paper chains across the rooms in the villa, made from the packing paper used to keep the books safe in their storage cases. On Christmas Eve, the celebrations begin. Lisabeta’s neighbour Aña brings us a feast of traditional Puglian Christmas treats: frittelle – little fried dumplings stuffed with tomatoes and mozzarella, sautéed onions and pungent ricotta cheese – all served with cime di rapa – boiled turnip leaves scattered with fried pancetta cubes; tiny pettole doughnuts dredged in sugar; and the centrepiece cartellate – long strips of fried dough rolled into roses and dipped into spicy mulled wine. Neighbours and friends, the college students from Lecce, and Lisabeta’s sister Gudrun over from Sweden all gather around the old table in Villa Speranza’s large kitchen. Aña jokes that Lisabeta has become a true Italian because her table can expand to accommodate whoever shows up for food. It’s a family gathering like none I’ve experienced before and it’s wonderful.

  * * *

  On Christmas Day, another feast takes place – this time Swedish delights prepared by Lisabeta and Gudrun. That evening, after we’ve all rolled ourselves away from the table, I sneak to my room on the first floor overlooking the terrace garden and call home.

  Mum answers immediately and I wonder how long she might have been carrying her mobile with her, waiting for my call. I can hear the hum of conversation in their farmhouse, peppered occasionally by barks of laughter from Dad and Will.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ she says, and I imagine her settling into the old velvet armchair in the snug behind the kitchen, Gran’s crocheted blanket over her knees and probably a glass of sherry warming on the old milking stool by the fire. The thought makes me miss her, as I always do when we talk. I don’t think I could live at home again, but that rush of nostalgia never changes.

  ‘The library is really coming on. Half of the shelves are complete and the new floor looks amazing. I reckon it’ll be done before I head back to Paris.’

  ‘You’re staying on till then? Not tempted to squeeze in some more travelling?’

  ‘It’s been nice to stay in one place, feel part of something more than tourist lines. And the villa is gorgeous, Mum. You and Dad would love it here.’

  ‘And you get on well with everyone?’

  ‘They’re all great. Amanda is hilarious – she’s invited me to visit her in Plymouth when we’re back in the UK. We’ve been joking that we’re the Two Doctors because of our PhDs – she’s Tom Baker and I’m Jodie Whittaker.’

  ‘I’ll tell your father that, he’ll be over the moon you’re staying true to your Whovian roots.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘And – Sam?’ I can’t miss her hesitation.

  ‘We’re good. He has things to do – so do I – but yeah, it’s okay.’ I glance at Sam’s Christmas tree message on the table by my bed and smile. I haven’t heard from him today – I half expected I might, it being Christmas Day. I shake the thought from my mind. This is enough.

  ‘Just make sure you’re doing what makes you happy. The rest will sort itself out. And remember, men are a strange breed. I love your dad with all my heart but some things he does are still a mystery to me after all these years. Be happy, Phoebe. That’s all that matters to us.’

  I love that Mum supports me, even across the miles. I love her more for not telling me what she really thinks about what Sam and I are doing. I suspect I know, but her faith that I will find my way through it all means the world. I will find a way to make this work. I have to believe Sam will, too.

  * * *

  We settle into an
easy rhythm after Christmas. Winter nights are simple affairs at the villa – we sit together and chat, listen to music, or read. Occasionally we check our phones but in such lovely surroundings with such fascinating people conversation usually wins our attention.

  ‘What did you do in Rome, Phoebe?’ Lisabeta asks one evening, when we’re relaxing after dinner.

  ‘Pretty much everything,’ I laugh. ‘I was there for a while.’

  ‘I’m definitely visiting Rome before I go back,’ Amanda says. ‘Even if I can only squeeze a weekend in. What was your favourite thing?’

  I don’t even have to think about it. ‘It wasn’t in any of the guidebooks, but I think it might change the way I live.’

  ‘Great pizza?’ Lisabeta asks.

  ‘No, although the food in Rome was as epic as you imagine. Hang on, I’ll show you.’

  Leaving my bemused companions I race up to my room. Tucked in the inside zipped pocket of my bag is a pebble I painted before I left Rome. I painted a snowglobe on one side and Carried in my heart on the reverse. I fetch the paint box Giana gave me, too and head back to my friends.

  They love the idea. I knew they would.

  ‘Why the snowglobe?’ Lisabeta asks.

  ‘I have a snowglobe at home – back in London. My friends bought it for me the week I moved in.’ I point to the building within the glass dome. ‘That’s Shakespeare’s Globe theatre. It was the first place we visited together because my friend Gabe was playing Orlando in As You Like It. After the performance we went out for food and that’s when they asked me if I’d like to move in with them. So they bought me the snowglobe to remember where it all started – and it’s a play on the name of the theatre, which I think William Shakespeare would have approved of. I was going to bring it with me but it wouldn’t fit in my luggage.’