by Wells, Nicky
Dan, Steve, Rachel and I were in the middle of showing the islanders the proper circular, arm-round-next-person’s-neck, foot-swinging way of honoring the classic “Come on Eileen” when the power went off. The room was plunged into darkness and silence.
A male voice immediately started issuing calm and precise instructions. I translated for my three friends.
Everybody stay calm.
Stay where you are.
Folke, find the lanterns and light them.
Within a minute or so, he had lit the first storm lantern, and another man joined him to light the others. Soon, twenty or so oil lights were dotted about the room, casting a cheerful and cozy glow entirely belying the natural havoc occurring outside.
The restaurant also had a number of oil heaters which were set on a low heat. More blankets and duvets made an appearance, and soon we were all sitting on the dance floor in a big circle. Greetje had organized left-over food and drink to be brought in the middle alongside a few lanterns, and the effect was one of a midnight campfire picnic.
Now that the music was no longer masking the sounds of the gale-force wind, we could hear the impact of the storm. There was a dull thudding that we assumed would be waves breaking over the defenses further out on the island, and the wind was howling incessantly. It was eerie and surreal and everybody listened in reverent silence for a few minutes. The atmosphere took a distinct dip into gloom and doom.
Suddenly, Greetje piped up, adopting a jittery, brittle old man’s voice and speaking half in German, half in English for our benefit.
“This is nothing,” she cackled. “You should have seen the Great Storm of 1962. For days it raged and the island was flooded, the dykes were breached—”
Klaus nudged her affectionately. “You weren’t even born then, you fraud.”
“I’m being my Granddad,” Greetje informed him in a stage whisper. “He’d launch into this story at every opportunity, even the slightest hint of a breeze.”
“Go on,” Rachel encouraged her unexpectedly. “I’d love to hear the story.”
And so Greetje recounted the story of the Great Storm. She was a great storyteller, and we hung on her every word. The howling of the present storm punctuated her tale and for a while, we felt as though we were living the great disaster of the past. When she finished, she looked around us all, one by one, to milk the atmosphere. Gleefully, she clapped her hands and said in a loud, bright, voice, “See, there’s really nothing to worry about today. The dykes are much higher, the wind isn’t as strong, the weather system isn’t as vicious and anyway, we’ll get through this.”
There was an audible sigh of relief as she lightened the mood. Greetje picked up one of the wine bottles, checked that it was empty, positioned it in the middle of the floor and spun it vigorously. We watched, mesmerized, as it spun itself out, finally coming to a rest pointing at no other than Dan.
“Ha. Your turn to tell a story next,” Greetje pounced. “English is fine, isn’t it?” She regarded her fellow islanders encouragingly and everybody nodded. Dan scratched his head.
“Does it have to be a storm story?” he asked. “Because I haven’t really got one of those.”
“Nah,” Folke chimed in. “Tell us about you.”
“Yes,” Greetje reinforced this notion. Never one to miss an opportunity for drama, she informed the islanders that Dan was “famous, he makes rock music.” There were astounded mutterings among the people until a young woman piped up, “I thought you looked familiar. Oh, this is so exciting.”
Dan flashed her one of his professional smiles, and she nearly swooned, but was swiftly brought in line by an embarrassed husband.
“Yeah, Dan, tell us a rock story,” Rachel challenged with a mischievous smile. Dan scratched his head again and conceded defeat.
“Let’s see. There was this one time when we were just up and coming… We had an album out and it had done quite well and we were touring the country up and down. We didn’t have much money so we used this ancient crappy camper van to take us and our equipment from place to place. One day, we turned up at a venue somewhere and we hadn’t had a chance to sleep or wash or anything between gigs. We must have looked pretty rough. And…” he coughed with embarrassment. “We probably didn’t smell too good, either.”
That admission earned him a laugh.
“Anyway, so we walked in there with our stuff and security threw us straight out. So we were stood outside like idiots. Of course, those were the days before mobile phones so we couldn’t send a text to our manager. I had to go off and find a phone box five minutes down the road and scrabble together some change to ring the venue, put on my poshest scratchy voice and demand to be put through to Jack in the changing room.”
He stopped, teasing us with a break.
I elbowed him in the ribs. “And?” I prompted.
He chuckled. “The money ran through faster than you would believe, and when Jack finally came on, the beeps were starting. So all I could say is, ‘come outside, man’ and the connection broke.”
Everybody laughed at Dan’s comical rendering of his own voice and surprised expression.
“It worked, though,” he defended himself. “When I got back to the place, Jack was outside with the rest of the band waiting for me. The best thing about this was the look on the face of the security man when he had to let us through after all.”
There was a round of applause for the story, and it was Dan’s turn to spin the bottle.
All through the stormy night, I sat with my friends new and old, sharing anecdotes, spinning yarns, laughing, joking, and eating. I nestled sleepily into Steve’s arms, feeling content and secure despite the unusual circumstances
“Aw…. Look at the lovebirds,” somebody shouted, and the focus of attention shifted from outrageous tales to my engagement to Steve.
“Have you got a date?” Greetje demanded of us quite abruptly. She had probably been holding that question back for the entire evening.
“Will you keep your nose out of their business?” her husband scolded her lovingly. “For goodness sake, they’ve barely been engaged for a day.”
Greetje looked suitably crestfallen, so I stepped in quickly. “We haven’t really talked about it,” I admitted. “It’s all happened so fast… But…well, I don’t know. Maybe in the spring? What do you think?” I turned to my fiancé.
“Spring’s fine,” he agreed.
“No,” Rachel howled. “That’s not nearly enough time to get everything organized. It takes six months for your dress alone.” She was, of course, speaking from experience.
“Not for mine, it won’t,” I assured her.
“Are you using your Mum’s?” Anna chimed in. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
I cringed. Mum’s wedding dress was all flouncy and full of lacy frills. Besides, it was probably much too small for me.
“Err…. probably not,” I admitted. “But I want something simple and—”
“—and anyway, there’s always my little sister, she’s a nifty one with a needle and a bit of tulle,” Dan tried to come to the rescue.
Rachel and I jointly flinched at “tulle,” but I appreciated the sentiment. Of course, the islanders had no idea that Dan’s sister was a fashion-guru, but they liked the idea of a “homemade” dress.
Conversation reached a bit of a lull after this as tiredness overwhelmed everyone. It was almost three a.m. More sleeping bags were rolled out, blankets spread out and all lanterns bar two were extinguished.
“Good night, sweetheart,” Steve mumbled as we lay snuggled together under a heap of blankets.
“Good night, stubbles,” I whispered back. “I had a good day.”
“Me too,” came the nearly-asleep response, and thus ended our truly one-of-a-kind, once-in-a-lifetime engagement party.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
It felt like we were the cast out of a twenty-first century nuclear disaster movie when we gingerly mounted the stairs the following morning to ve
nture outside and inspect the damage. Having been so insulated from the ravages of the storm in our basement refuge, we expected the worst, but things weren’t too bad. Although a brisk wind continued blowing, the force of the storm had relented with the outgoing tide. The sky was grey and it was still raining, but not nearly as heavily as the previous day. The locals were chatting in the street, wearing their trademark yellow sou’westers and wellies, and from snatches of conversation I gathered that the sea defenses had not been breached. There were a few fallen trees and obviously the electricity was still out, but the island had come through relatively unscathed. Greetje and her family were nowhere to be seen; they had left at first light of dawn, such as it was, presumably checking on houses, boats and shops. I resolved to visit the tea shop later, if it was open, to see how things had gone and to thank her again.
With weary feet and gritty heads, the four of us trudged into the direction of the cottage. As expected, it was in darkness and fairly cold, but the shutters were intact and in place. We stumbled inside, switching on our torches until the men had an opportunity to open curtains and shutters. I made an emergency bed for Rachel and arranged Dan’s make-shift sleeping place on the sofa, then Steve and I went upstairs into my bedroom, and everybody caught up on a few more hours’ worth of sleep.
It took another couple of days for island business to return to normal, for the electricity to come back and the ferry to resume running. I used those days to show my friends the island as best as possible and to introduce them to all my favorite people and haunts. We did a fair bit of helping out with broken fences and flooded cellars, and our participation was gratefully received and noted. I also settled my affairs with Greetje, paying outstanding bills, thanking her profusely for everything she had done and begging her to come to my wedding, once we had actually set the date. It was weird and good to have my friends with me as I had to prepare to leave.
Well, obviously I didn’t have to leave. Nobody was making me. I could have stayed indefinitely as far as my job, my flat, or my parents were concerned. But I had always considered this a temporary exile, and now that my friendships had been restored, now that the crisis point in my life was well and truly beyond me, now that I was engaged…I had to go back. It tore me apart, but it was the right thing to do. Had Steve, Rachel and Dan not been there, I didn’t think I would have managed, or bothered. But they were there, and their presence altered matters, altered my perspective. Suddenly, I was more of a tourist than I had been before, speaking more English, doing strange touristy things.
Greetje was her usual philosophical self when I confided my discomfort at our parting meeting. “Of course it’s awkward,” she told me. “Two very different parts of your life are colliding head-on, and that’s never easy. But you came here for a reason, your mission is accomplished, your time out is over, and now you must go back. That’s how it is.” Her smile took the harshness out of her words, and I hugged her. She grinned even wider.
“I shall be missing you and your hugs. You got the whole island hugging. You must come back some time and keep the tradition going.”
I snorted through the tears that had suddenly welled up in my eyes. I hated goodbyes, and this one was a heart-wrenching one.
“Now, now,” Greetje admonished me. “What’s with these silly tears? You came here in tears, you shouldn’t be leaving in tears.”
“Ah,” I sniffed, wiping my nose on a napkin for want of a proper tissue, “but they’re different tears. These are happy tears. Well, you know. ‘I had a great time’ tears.”
She laughed. “You’re so funny. ‘Happy tears’ indeed. Well, be off with you now and don’t forget to stay in touch.”
And that was that. She waved me goodbye from the steps of her tea shop and I went home to the cottage one last time. The other three would have finished packing their things up, and mine, and doing a spot of dusting and cleaning. We were catching the midday ferry and would be gone from my beautiful island refuge within two hours. It was the middle of November, and all things told, my little escapade, my sabbatical, my time out, had lasted just over two months. It seemed a lifetime.
I stood at the railing where I had stood before, insisting on keeping my eyes on the island until it receded beyond the horizon. Finally, I gave in and we went inside to take shelter from the weather, and the others started chatting and laughing to cheer me up.
And I was happy, though I was a little sad at leaving. I was a different person to when I arrived. And one hundred percent more engaged. My lovely Steve, always tuned into my moods, took my hand and planted a kiss on it.
“All right?” he whispered.
“All right,” I whispered back and leaned against him to show my thanks.
At Bensersiel, a big black limo waited for us, causing much excitement among the locals. Dan lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture but said that he had to get back to London as quickly as possible. Not only were the band mid-recording, they were also rehearsing for some upcoming shows, and the lead singer and front man disappearing for a week would have caused a tremendous setback. It wasn’t a problem, he hastened to reassure me, he simply needed to get back now. His boyish grin told me that he had enjoyed his little island jaunt, but his body language also spoke of tension and stress.
The last sound we heard to remind us of Langeoog was the hooting of the ferry as we piled into the car. When the door clunked shut and the engine started, even that was drowned out and it was as if we were entering an alternative universe; one where motorized transport and noise and speed were the norm. It would be as big an adjustment to go home as it had been to settle there in the first place
The limo took us straight to Hamburg airport, and we were all back in our respective homes by the end of the day. Except for me, of course, because I needed to give my tenants notice. So instead of going home home, I went to Steve’s flat. It was quite fitting and romantic in a way. My prince had come to rescue me from a faraway island and was taking me to his home and his castle.
Mum and Dad were delighted that I was back in the country and genuinely pleased at my engagement. It turned out that Steve had paid them a visit while I was missing in action and had even spent the night with them, making friends and casually asking my Dad for my hand in marriage, should Steve manage to locate and convince me.
Shortly after we had all returned from Langeoog, Dan had convinced me that it would probably be best if we did some sort of press conference together to appease the curious journos and to stop the never-ending requests for photos and comments. “Love Me Better” was still at number one, and it was weird hearing it on the radio and in almost every shop or pub I went into. Without fail, I would get this weird, “my God, that’s me again” jolt. To be honest, it was quite amazing to find myself at the number one spot even though I had never planned to get there. But the curiosity of the press was tiring, and quite instructive for me as a member of the press myself. I resolved to stop pestering people forthwith if they didn’t ring me back after the third prompting call.
Thus I had let myself be talked into a brief public appearance with Tuscq. To give Dan credit, he had kept the media circus to a minimum, and we had rehearsed the exact story that we wanted to put out there, so it had all been over and done with in ten minutes.
Naturally, I went back to work and Rick slipped me back into the ordinary schedule as if nothing dramatic had occurred. I kept my office, but my door was always open, now. Naturally, there were a few whispers here and there but Rachel and I overcame them together by being totally nonchalant and debonair about it all. Within a couple of days, it was almost as though I had never gone away. Apart, of course, from the big purple ring on my finger. Steve insisted, though, that we had to pick a proper ring before Christmas. Rachel thought it was very sweet. “You are made for each other,” she laughed. “You’ll always come round to each other’s views.”
Speaking of, Rachel had returned from her Sophie-retrieval-mission to find the most unexpected news on her Facebook
wall.
“He found me, he found me, he found me,” she sang as she bounced into my office one morning and sat irreverently on my desk.
“Who?” I could only ask, knowing from her face that this was a significant development.
“Alex! He sent me a friend request.”
I was momentarily confused, but quickly I remembered. “What, Alex? The Alex? Your thunderbolt-and-lightning Alex? The one that got away?”
“The very selfsame one.”
“Wow.”
We contemplated this momentous event in silence.
“Did you accept?”
“Of course,” she squealed. “We’ve even been chatting. A bit. He lives in Manchester, would you believe it…”
“So he is alive and back in the country,” I confirmed, just to be absolutely sure.
“He is.”
“Wow. And have you—” I couldn’t even finish my sentence before Rachel started speaking.
“I have,” she cut in quickly. “Totally and unreservedly. Apologized, explained, and groveled. He’s not great about it, but it was him who found me and made contact, so he wants to get over it and…we’re…we’re working on it.”
I got up and gave her a hug. “That’s so great,” I told her, looking at her intently. She had that sparkle in her eyes, the one that said she would get herself into trouble.
“Just do me the one favor,” I begged her. “Take it easy. Take your time. Give him time.”
“I am, I will, and I am,” she sing-songed as she hugged me back. “But I know…if I’ll let him come to me, he will. I know, I know,” she raised her hands to deflect my impending response. “Gently does it, I know. I’m not going to mess it up again if I can help it.”
