The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘There’s two of us,’ I say, shaken by the suddenness of everything. ‘From his first marriage.’

  ‘Right. Wow. You’re a lucky man, Frank. All these people who love you. Would you look at that grip! Good position you’ve got there!’ Sheila smiles at me. ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve been hearing about Frank and his playing. Do you play, too?’

  I nod, but Ellie interrupts. ‘He’s a professional violinist. Played all over the world.’

  Sheila’s eyes widen. ‘Wow. I don’t think we’ve ever had a professional visit us here. You should play something.’

  I stare at her. ‘I don’t think so…’

  ‘Go on! I love a bit of fiddle. My grandad used to play. Hang on – I’ll fetch the girls.’

  She hurries out. Panic rising, I turn to Ellie. ‘I can’t do this – not here.’

  Not for him.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a hospice,’ I hiss back. ‘It’s not… appropriate.’

  Ellie shrugs. ‘Sheila thinks it’s okay. And trust me, that lady is scary. She’d be the first to tell you if she didn’t want something on her ward.’

  How can I explain?

  Just being in the same room as my father has taken every ounce of courage I have. I handed him the fiddle without thinking – it just seemed the right thing to do. But play for him? That’s like giving him something from my soul and I’m just not ready to do that. Why should he be able to have such a precious gift when he never afforded me the right to have him in my life?

  I want to think about it, go away and consider it all. I want to talk to Phoebe – she’s the reason I’m even in this room.

  And then I remember what Phoebe’s host in Rome told her, the lady with the painted pebbles. It made such an impression that she’s mentioned it many times when we’ve texted or spoken since. Mark the moment. Good or bad. Acknowledge it. No judgement, no pressure to feel it about or act upon it in any way. Just mark it.

  This is happening, right now. I don’t have time to work out how I feel. When I walk from this room, my chance will be over.

  I remember being 9 years old, sitting up every night for a year then, wanting to be awake in case Da came home. Because he would come home – I was certain of it. To keep myself from falling asleep, I would imagine the conversation we would have, the things I would tell him that only Da would understand. That I’d been out on the beach the morning of the day he left, early before school, and found a starfish washed up on the shore. It was little, no bigger than a fifty pence piece, and it made my palm look like a giant’s hand when I held it. I’d left it behind the rocks at the edge of the beach, carefully wrapped in strands of oily black and green seaweed, so that when Da got home I could drag him down there to see it.

  I never returned to that beach until a few weeks ago. I walked alone along the shoreline, finally allowing myself to remember. I couldn’t even locate where I’d hidden my beach find, but it didn’t matter. Ghosts were laid to rest as the sun began to slink down to the horizon. They had been my companions for too long. I left them at the edge of the ocean and walked back to the road. Mull might call me back in the future, but I won’t return to those sands.

  I don’t have a starfish to show my Da. But I do have this…

  I wait until Sheila returns with three giggling colleagues, all in matching pastel coloured scrubs, before I gently retrieve my fiddle from Frank’s hand. I remember the tunes I have learned again on Mull, the traditional songs and laments I avoided for so many years because Ma remembered how he played them. And then I play a song that used to make her cry – a lament of unrequited love, written by Robert Burns:

  * * *

  ‘Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

  Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!

  Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,

  Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!’

  * * *

  The pastel-clad nurses fall silent. Ellie closes her eyes. Frank’s eyes remain open and expressionless, but then I notice the fingers on his left hand are flexing in time with mine. Muscular-memory: the body internalising each move from years of constant repetition. Frank would have heard the song sung by his grandparents, his own mother, his neighbours at gatherings. I would catch Ma humming it when she was drunk, pausing to sob. It was one of the first songs Jonas taught me, making me laugh with his Polish-infused rendition of Burns’ words as he sang in that shaky voice of his. I’d abandoned it for most of my life, but during the first gig in Tobermory it was one of the songs Niven’s band chose to play.

  And now it is the song I’m playing in the bright hospice room, with an audience of quietly sniffing nurses, my half-sister and an old, frail man in a bed with not many days left on this earth.

  My da.

  I can’t stop my tears as I play the final verse, knowing that my time here is at an end. In a few weeks I will return to London, to my real life – and to the woman I know will play a huge part of it. Because now I’m ready to be all I can be for her. I’ll tell Phoebe everything because I can now. Every step that led me here. I’m not afraid any more – and I won’t need to run away ever again.

  In the final bars of the song, Frank’s eyelids flicker and a silver streak of saltwater runs down his face.

  It’s enough.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-One, Phoebe

  ‘Phoebe Jones!’

  I laugh as Tobi and Luc pull me into a huge group hug. ‘Bonjour, mes amours!’

  ‘Welcome home! Come in! We have wine!’

  It’s so good to be back in Paris.

  The last week has been a whirlwind completing the library at Villa Speranza and we were so busy I thought we might never finish. But the heart-stopping moment arrived where I stood arm in arm with Lis and Amanda, unable to hold back our tears as we took it all in. Hundreds of books edging the walls, their gentle colours and gold-edged spines the most beautiful faded kaleidoscope surrounding us as sunlight danced on the polished swirls of the mahogany floor.

  Just like that, it was done. And then I was hugging Lis and Amanda goodbye and catching a train back to Paris.

  I can’t believe I’ve lived in Europe for a year, and tomorrow is the day everything has been leading towards: 14th June 2018. I honestly don’t know how I feel, less than twenty-four hours away from seeing Sam again.

  I want to see him. We need to talk – a lot. He has to let me in more. I can blame the distance, the patchy communication, the year we’ve had apart for it, but ultimately we have to be in this as a team from tomorrow on.

  Tomorrow. The day we meet again.

  But first, I will spend the last night of my grand tour in the place where it began. Beautiful Montmartre. With two people I will count as friends for life.

  It’s impossible to be back here without comparing how I found it when I first arrived – shaken by meeting Sam, questioning everything, surprised that I even caught the train.

  I still have questions, but Paris makes me feel the pull of possibility once more. Being here makes me remember how sure I was of Sam last year. The way I felt when I was with him – that I have lost sight of in recent months – returns. Because tomorrow I get to hold him again. In his arms I believe I will find the answers to the frustrating gaps our time apart has revealed.

  Tobi and Luc show me the garden, which has been decked out for a summer party. They’ve made entertaining here a regular thing since I was last with them and it’s the talk of the neighbourhood, apparently. Tonight, I am guest of honour and Luc wants me to share stories of my travels.

  * * *

  It’s lovely to be back in the courtyard. Tobi and Luc leave me to sit here for a while before all of the festivities begin. I’ve brought my journal and Luc made me a large cup of fresh lemon tea.

  My notebook is almost full. I’ve written for an entire year and now I can’t imagine my day without being able to record it. Flicking though the pages I see
my adventure pass at high speed – France and Italy blurring through my fingers like the countryside past the window of the train that brought me back. And as the train home to London will do tomorrow. Now I’m back in my small green square of sanctuary the time away feels as fast moving as the pages in my book.

  I pick up my pen and am about to write the penultimate entry when my mobile rings.

  SAM – MOBILE

  I take a breath. He’s been quiet since our broken video call.

  ‘Phoebe, I caught you.’ He sounds short of breath, like he’s been running.

  ‘Are you okay? Is everything—?’

  ‘I’m fine. I just ran up the hill to call. I didn’t know if you’d still be on the train.’

  ‘I’m in Paris. In the garden at Tobi and Luc’s place.’

  ‘Great. Phoebe, there’s something I need to say.’

  I try to push the rising panic back but it won’t budge.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here, Sam.’

  The pause before he speaks again hurts. I close my eyes, wait for whatever is coming.

  ‘I want to say this, in case you’re doubting getting on the train tomorrow.’

  Does Sam have doubts?

  ‘Just say it.’

  ‘I found Frank. My father. I wanted to tell you but it all happened so fast and I—’ I hear a rush of breath against the phone. ‘I was scared. I’m not used to having anyone who is able to share that with me, let alone who wants to. You offered your help and I just couldn’t deal with that…’

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘No! No, don’t apologise, Phoebe. This is all on me. I found Frank because you told me to. You said if it were you, you’d want to know. You have no idea what that did for me. And I realised, way, way too late, that you’re incredible. And that – I love you.’

  The birdsong ceases. Beyond the building’s walls the low note of traffic dims. I open my eyes and stare at the swirls of lemon steam rising from my cup. And I have no words.

  ‘Phoebe, I was scared when you said it. I should have said it back.’

  ‘Not if you didn’t feel the same.’

  ‘I feel it now. I’ve felt it for a long time but this stuff with Frank just messed with my head. I want you to know I love you. If you get on that train tomorrow, I’ll be waiting, Phoebe. I will. If you want me, I’m yours.’

  And there it is: the one thing missing from our story.

  * * *

  I’m dazed when I return to Tobi and Luc’s apartment, the page I’d intended to fill with my thoughts today left blank.

  He told me he loves me. It’s what I’ve longed to hear him say all year. It’s just the timing that worries me. Has he rushed to say it before we meet again? Have I pulled back from him, too?

  This is pointless. I’m clearly overthinking, letting nerves get the better of me. Sitting on Tobi and Luc’s comfortable low couch I remember the trembling thrill of being there having just left Sam in London. I knew then that I loved him and I know it now. It’s okay to be nervous: tomorrow, everything changes.

  It’s my final night in Paris and I’m determined to enjoy it. Mark the end of the most extraordinary year of my life, as Giana would say. Some good, some bad, but mostly wonderful. I’ve learned so much about my own resilience and creativity, my resourcefulness and my capacity to embrace new experiences. I haven’t just survived. I’ve left my mark on Europe with the library in Puglia and the pebbles I painted in Rome and every conversation I’ve had as I’ve travelled. I believe in myself more than I ever have. Gabe saw it in Montalcino; Meg commented on it last time we spoke. Even Dr Amanda said how much she’d seen me bloom during the time we spent at Villa Speranza. The Phoebe Jones returning to St Pancras station tomorrow is the best she’s ever been.

  And she is in love with Sam Mullins.

  * * *

  That evening, we gather in the courtyard garden, the June air as warm and lovely as the conversation around the dinner table. I am able to thank everyone who wrote suggestions in the front of the notebook that’s become my companion. I tell each of them what I’ve seen and the places I’ve discovered, the stories I’ve learned along the way, even daring to read out a few extracts from my journal. The laughter and hearty applause that greet my words mean the world.

  Now it’s time for one more step.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Two, Sam

  When I returned to Mull, Ailish and I talked more than we ever had. She told me things about Ma I never knew – that she’d refused to believe the rumours around Frank’s infidelities before they married and long after Cal and I came along. How her hope was ultimately what killed her. I think I saw that as a kid and was determined it wouldn’t happen to me. But Ma chose to put her faith in things that could never be and when they failed she had nothing left to cling to.

  Phoebe is still there, after everything.

  ‘She put her faith in you, despite your best attempts to push her away,’ Ailish said.

  ‘But what if she makes the same mistake Ma did?’

  My almost-auntie took my hand, the glint of tears in her eyes. ‘Then be the man she deserves. You’re not Frank Mullins, bairn. You never were. This is your chance to prove it.’

  * * *

  When my bags are packed in the hall waiting for Niven to arrive to drive me to the ferry port at Craignure, I duck out of the back door and scramble up the bank at the back of Ailish’s house. It’s as green and wild as it was a year ago, the wind casting verdant ripples across it as I climb. I reach the large rock – where I’ve come most days to play my guitar or just take in the view – and take my seat on it for the last time. Out on the water the Iona ferry is preparing to leave Fionnphort dock. I’ll be on the next one. I’m sad that my year is over, but so much awaits me back in London. It’s time to go home.

  But first, I need to call Phoebe.

  She sounds surprised when I blurt out the speech I’ve rehearsed since returning from Edinburgh. It’s not perfect – too rushed, far later in our year apart than it should have been and nowhere near as eloquent as I’d imagined. But I hope she hears me.

  ‘…I love you. If you get on that train tomorrow, I’ll be waiting, Phoebe. I will. If you want me, I’m yours.’

  ‘I love you too, Sam.’ Her voice sounds far away.

  After the call, I watch the ferry edge slowly from the shore. Ahead of it the green shadow of Iona waits, ancient and familiar. A promise at its journey’s end.

  My heart is hammering by the time I return to the house and Niven’s car pulls into view.

  I stand on the doorstep by the wonderful Ailish McRae, fierce advocate, honorary auntie and the brightest soul I’ve ever had the privilege to spend time with. Niven is sitting in the car, waiting respectfully for our goodbyes to take place.

  ‘I’m not going to cry.’

  ‘I never said you were.’

  Ailish dabs her nose with a tissue, pretending she isn’t wiping her eyes. It’s fooling nobody. ‘You just mind you take care, okay?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And you will not, under any circumstances, leave it years before you come back, do you understand me?’

  I wrap my arms around her and hug her tight. ‘Loud and clear. Thanks for looking after me, Auntie Ailish.’

  ‘My pleasure, bairn.’ Now she’s crying.

  She pulls back and laughs at her streaming tears. ‘Look at me, I’m a wreck. What time is your ferry?’

  ‘It leaves in an hour.’

  ‘Aye. Well. Quite a year, Samuel.’ She reaches up to my cheek and pats it. Her skin smells like icing sugar and freshly baked shortbread, a scent I’ve become used to in her kitchen.

  ‘Quite a year.’

  ‘And you’ll be okay? After – that man.’

  I smile and hug her again. I don’t think Ailish will ever fully understand why I went to see Frank, but she knows it was what I wanted. The more I’ve thought about finding him when I did, and dis
covering his second family, the more convinced I am that I made the right decision. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Easier said than done. You’re not him, remember? You don’t have to repeat Frank’s mistakes.’

  ‘I won’t. Thanks – for what you said.’

  ‘For kicking you up the bum?’

  I laugh. ‘Aye, that. I needed it. And you were right.’

  She nods but I can tell she still isn’t happy about what she said. ‘And what about Phoebe?’

  ‘Well, I just told her I loved her, so…’

  Her eyes sparkle in the June sun. ‘I am so proud of you! Be happy. Be the man you know you can be. That will be all she wants.’

  And now my journey back to the best decision begins. Thirteenth of June. The day before we meet again. Now our meeting is almost here I can hardly believe a year has happened. Tomorrow I will, at last, be in the same space as Phoebe.

  I will miss the Island, though. Staying with Ailish and becoming involved in the community has made it more of a home than I’ve had for years and I know I’ll return. Last night the kids in the music club surprised me with a concert in my honour. It was amazing to see what I’d helped create and very emotional to hear from parents about the difference music is making in their children’s lives. Next time, Phoebe will be with me to see it.

  Niven walks with me to the ferry terminal.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you back to Donal and Kate’s for tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘Better not. Work and that.’

  We trade suitably blokey back-slaps and then Niven gives me a bear hug that squeezes the air out of me. ‘Hey. Come and see me in London, yeah?’

  ‘I want to do the music thing more,’ he says. ‘Not give up teaching, but, you know, maybe take a bit of time over the summer, play some live stuff. I’ve loved playing with you and the lads. Donal mentioned he had some gigs coming up in August so I might tag onto those.’