The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘You haven’t asked. I’ve offered. I’ve a friend here who lets me park on his drive when I go to the mainland. I can’t stand the bus. I always meet some ancient local who knows my mum and has embarrassing stories about me they’ll happily share with every other passenger. Come on. Accept a lift from a dodgy local, eh? Start living dangerously.’

  It isn’t an offer I’m likely to pass up. ‘Sure, why not? I’ll make sure Ailish pays you in cake.’

  ‘Deal. And you can buy the first round when we go drinking.’ He grins as we set off. ‘Because we will be drinking many times, Sam.’

  * * *

  Single-track roads are a feature of the Island and something I’d forgotten the thrill of navigating. I’m usually a dreadful passenger but right now I’m glad Niven’s driving. To take my mind off the scarily narrow road ahead I look out at the landscape, the sight of the sea and moorland, hills and mountains summoning so many memories.

  We’ve been driving for a while when I’m struck by the strongest need to be out in the wild, open beauty of my birthplace.

  ‘Wait – can we stop for a second?’

  ‘Er, sure, hang on.’ Niven frowns but he doesn’t question my request.

  We pull into a small muddy passing place beside a hummock of wild grass, looking out across miles of empty moor. I open the door and jump out, shaking the stiffness from my legs.

  Out here the wind blows unabated from sea to land, across dramatic craggy moorland peppered with pink granite, the vivid swathes of green bracken dancing with the first flush of purple heather. I plant my feet on the soft peaty earth, my body braced against the buffeting breeze.

  Suddenly, everything returns. The scent of salt and heather on the air, the light from my earliest memories of life, the colours… For a moment, I can’t move; scared it will all vanish if I do. I want to capture everything just as it is now. I’ve forgotten it once: I don’t ever want to do that again.

  ‘Are you all right, man?’ Niven is standing beside me, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

  ‘Just – breathing it in,’ I say, surprised by the emotion I hear in my own voice.

  He nods but doesn’t say anything. I know he understands.

  No matter what your experience, where you come from is rooted deep within you. I was happy here as a child, in the way that kids always find joy in life. It was only after we left the Island that all the resulting pain and recriminations moved in which characterised the rest of my growing up. I didn’t know what Ma was living through when we were here – how could I? I was 9 years old. She hid it from us because she loved her kids. Until we were old enough to hear it all.

  ‘So, you’re going home?’ Phoebe had asked on the day we met. But it’s only now I can truly answer.

  Yes, Phoebe. I’m going home.

  Beside me, Niven coughs.

  ‘We should probably be getting on. There won’t be much light left soon.’

  I nod, grateful that him driving me to Ailish’s house gave me this moment. The bus wouldn’t have let me stop to find it.

  ‘You know, you can stay at mine,’ Niven says, as the car bumps along the rutted road. ‘There’s just me knocking around there. You’d be closer to things, too.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but I promised Ailish. I think she wants me to stay because of Ma.’

  ‘Fair enough. Then we’ll do beers, soon. And often. And would you maybe be up for a gig or two? Plenty of room in my band if you’re after a bit of cash while you’re here.’

  ‘Deal.’ One of the things I’m most looking forward to this year is hanging out with this guy, and if anyone can show me the traditional songs it’ll be Niven. Besides, I want to help him find something else to get his teeth into. Niven not being happy is worrying.

  * * *

  Ailish McRae’s voice was a feature of my childhood, thanks to the weekly phone calls my brother and I fought to answer.

  ‘Hello, petal. It’s Auntie Ailish. Is your ma there?’

  She is the one and only person in the world to ever have the right to call me petal. Even Phoebe can’t use that one.

  Ailish’s home nestles on the side of a small hill not far from the beach, overlooking the Fionnphort ferry crossing to Iona. The house is whiter than I remember, its windows beginning to glow gold in the late-afternoon sun. As the car rumbles over the rough track from the main road towards it, I see the pale blue front door fly open and there she is. Her hair has turned from auburn to white-blonde but is still swept up on the top of her head as she’s always worn it. Callum and I used to think her hair was magic – in the highest of winds and worst weather it never moved from where she’d pinned it. Ma thought she was magic, too, having turned up in her life when she most needed a friend. I feel lucky to be surrounded by friends I’m pretty certain will still be there at the end of my life.

  We park on the sweep of gravel at the front of the building, Ailish grinning on her door step, her feet dancing on the slate flagstone like an excited child.

  ‘Oh bairn! There you are!’

  I’m gathered into the biggest, happiest bear hug and when Niven steps out of the car she beckons him into it, too. He squashes in beside me, turning red as we’re squeezed together.

  ‘What a happy day this is!’ When she releases us, tears fill her eyes. ‘I wish your ma could see this, Sam. Her poor heart…’

  The last time I saw Ailish was in the grey churchyard on the outskirts of the village where Ma spent the last year of her life, on the day we said goodbye to her. Not even 60 and vanished from the earth. At the end, I hardly recognised my mother. Alcohol is brutal – Ailish understands that more than most. Both her parents died before their time, cursed by the demands of drink.

  ‘I reckon she’s watching,’ I say, disguising the lump in my throat with a cough.

  ‘If I know her, she will be.’ Ailish chuckles and wipes her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. ‘Now, enough of this! Come in, both of you. I’ve the kettle on and cake made.’

  Niven tries to make his apologies but Ailish is having none of it. Not that he protests too strongly, knowing cake is imminent. I grab my rucksack and violin case from the back of Niven’s car and we follow my honorary auntie inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Thirteen, Phoebe

  I don’t want to go out today, but reading isn’t occupying my mind enough. I wander around the apartment trying to find something to distract me. Tobi and Luc have left a stack of DVDs and magazines on the coffee table – I sort through them but nothing appeals. I’m restless, as though there’s something I ought to be doing but I haven’t worked out what yet.

  Two weeks into my Grand Adventure and I’m having an off-day. I’ve been to all the places on my list and have found some new ones, too. I can’t understand it. I have one of the most amazing cities in the world on my doorstep but today I don’t feel like exploring at all.

  Of course, what I should be doing is firming up details for the next leg of my journey. Thing is, I can’t decide whether to go to Rome first or Florence. I’ve found Airbnbs in both and narrowed my list down to three in each city. They’re all within my budget and perfectly acceptable but – I don’t know – there’s something missing. It’s probably the idea of staying somewhere alone, or with hosts I don’t know. Which is daft, considering I didn’t know Luc and barely knew Tobi when I arrived in Paris. They’ve just become such good friends and the rhythm of life here suits me – striking out on my own during the day and returning to Tobi’s cooking and Luc’s funny stories about his workplace in the evening. Large parts of this year will be going from one unfamiliar place to the next and I’m okay with that but I’ll miss the friendship.

  Today isn’t the day to decide, though. Not while I’m in this mood.

  When I’d pictured this year I never expected to have boring or indecisive days. The Phoebe Jones of my imagination left all of that stuff in London and marched confidently though every one of her 365 European days. But you can�
�t leave yourself behind. All of the doubts and insecurities and ridiculous hang-ups that characterised me at home are still with me.

  And anyway, I know what the real problem is: I miss Sam.

  Neither of us is sticking to the rules we agreed for communication. One of us should be sensible, but it gives me hope because he isn’t in a hurry to forget me, or parcel me into neat boxes of time. The flipside of this is that every bit of communication makes me long for him more.

  I jump as my mobile buzzes. It’s happened a few times lately: just when my heart has been longing for him he’s appeared on my phone. What was it he called it back at St Pancras? Spooky.

  On the wide love seat by the window I sit and open the message. It’s a photo of Sam on a hillside with the sea in the distance. His dark curls are being whipped up at the front by the wind and he’s wearing a sweater and coat, despite it being July. I’m in a T-shirt today and although all of the windows are open, the apartment is stuffy with heat. Another reason I’ve chosen not to go out today.

  Feeling the now familiar rush of adrenalin, I type a message back.

  * * *

  Where are you? xx

  * * *

  The dancing dots underneath the bubble of my message jig in time with my heart. And then his reply appears:

  * * *

  On the hill behind Ailish’s house. I can see the Iona ferry from here xx

  * * *

  You look amazing – sorry, IT looks amazing xx

  * * *

  Cheeky xx

  * * *

  Sorry xx

  * * *

  I wait while he types the next message. I can’t hide my smile.

  * * *

  Firstly, I don’t believe you are sorry. Secondly, carry on xx

  * * *

  That laugh of his dances through his words.

  * * *

  You look cold xx

  * * *

  Probably because it’s freezing here. Niven’s right, too many years living in the South have made me a wuss. He’s swanning around in a T-shirt today. Not even a goosebump on him. I’m a disgrace to my Caledonian race xx

  * * *

  He’s mentioned so many names in our conversations. Kate, Donal, Ailish, Lexie, Addie, Ivor – he talked about a Niven but I can’t remember the context. I can’t bluff my way out of this.

  * * *

  Who’s Niven again? (Sorry!) xx

  * * *

  Old university friend. Another musician. You’d like him. You’d probably fancy him. He’s a proper heartbreaker xx

  * * *

  I only have eyes for you, Sam xx

  * * *

  Cute. All the same, I won’t send you his photo until we’re back together xx

  * * *

  He might not fancy me xx

  * * *

  He already does. He saw your picture on the Mull ferry xx

  * * *

  Oh, so now we discover the truth. It amuses me that Sam is nervous that I might prefer his friend. This is too good a chance not to rib him.

  * * *

  Oh right, so Niven gets to see me but I don’t get to see him? How is that fair? xx

  * * *

  It’s safer this way, trust me xx

  * * *

  I’m just thinking of what to say to that when another message arrives. Must be something about being a fiddle player – he types so quickly!

  * * *

  I dreamed about you last night xx

  * * *

  How cute is that?

  * * *

  Did you? Hope it wasn’t a nightmare xx

  * * *

  Oh come on, how could it ever be bad? It was awesome. So amazing I spent an hour trying to get back to sleep so I could stay in it xx

  * * *

  That good? xx

  * * *

  THAT good xx

  * * *

  Wow. No pressure for the next time I see you, then xx

  * * *

  None at all. You’re a dream lady xx

  * * *

  His cheekiness is endearing but I need a minute to regroup. I leave my phone on the window seat and head into the kitchen. It isn’t that I don’t like the flirting – I do, so much – but I want to make sure that isn’t all we talk about.

  It’s a battle not to race back to my phone, but I take my time making coffee. Is Sam checking his phone or has he gone back to his mum’s friend’s house? My drink is made and I have no more reasons for delay, so I return to the window seat. The courtyard below is looking lovely today. It’s tempting to go down there to message Sam again, but it was so stiflingly hot yesterday that I abandoned my attempt to write my travel journal after twenty sweaty minutes. At least here a small brave breeze is finding its way through the window.

  There’s a message from Sam waiting on my phone.

  * * *

  Did I tell you I found a guitar at Ailish’s? Found it in the wardrobe in my room. It was her son Aidan’s when he was a teenager. Thought he’d impress girls with it but found out having a car was more effective and far less hard work xx

  * * *

  So girls like guitar, do they? xx

  * * *

  Yup. Well-known fact. Piano and guitar are like catnip to girls xx

  * * *

  How about violin? xx

  * * *

  Worked for you xx

  * * *

  Ah, but I’ve never heard you play xx

  * * *

  Crap. Better brush up my guitar skills, then… xx

  * * *

  Our messages make me feel like the whole of Paris can hear us flirting.

  * * *

  So you play guitar as well? xx

  * * *

  I do. Haven’t played for a while but I want to write some stuff while I’m on the Island. It needs new strings but I reckon I can get a decent tune out of it xx

  * * *

  You’ll have to send me a song, Sam. I’d like that xx

  * * *

  I will. Anything for you xx

  * * *

  You’re brilliant. I love you xx

  * * *

  I take a breath.

  It’s what I’ve wanted to say for the last two weeks and I was going to wait until I knew for certain, but who am I kidding? I knew the moment we met. I’m in love with Sam Mullins. And while I probably should have built up to it a little, or waited until we next spoke, it’s said now. It’s why I’ve been restless today, why his messages have meant so much. I love him. Why wait a year to say it?

  I wait for his reply, for the dancing dots that mean he’s composing a message. After a minute they appear on screen, then disappear. Another thirty seconds and they do the same. Why is he hesitating? How many times do you have to type I love you, too before you dare to send it?

  The screen remains blank beneath my last message now. I stay where I am, convinced that he’ll message back, or call me. Maybe he had to go to the house to use the Wi-Fi calling thing he’s done before. It probably is something we should say out loud to each other. I must’ve taken him by surprise and now he’s making sure his reply is everything he wants it to be.

  But what if I scared him?

  My stomach twists.

  What if – oh hell – what if he doesn’t feel the same?

  My fingers ache and I realise I’ve been gripping my phone too hard. I let go, the blank screen falling to my lap.

  Why did I tell Sam I love him?

  An hour passes, then two. I move to my room and try to read but the lifeless screen draws my eyes back whenever I try to concentrate. The longer the silence, the more scared I become.

  Reply, Sam. Or call me.

  Three hours after my last message, I can’t bear it any longer.

  * * *

  Sam, are we okay? Xx

  * * *

  I wait. My heart leaps when the reply dots start to dance.

  * * *

  We’re fine x

  * * *

&n
bsp; Two words, one kiss. It feels cold. I know he probably typed it in a hurry and the lack of his usual second kiss is just a mistake, but I feel sick. I don’t want to be that person but I can’t let this go until I know how he feels.

  I didn’t mean to scare you xx

  * * *

  Another painfully dragging minute. I steady my breath, try to distract my attention from the clock at the top of my mobile screen that seems to have frozen.

  * * *

  You didn’t x

  * * *