Читать книгу The Day We Meet Again - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 25

Far too many beers.

Not the most profound thought to begin the first proper day of my adventure with, but at least it’s honest. Honesty is something I’ve promised myself for this year, too. No more stuffing the past away, no more pretending it didn’t happen.

Right now, though, my head wants to leave me.

Nobody’s up when I stumble into Donal and Kate’s kitchen. A painful squint at my phone reveals it isn’t even six yet. Great. Although maybe if I can neck a pint or two of water with some paracetamol I might be able to crash out for a couple more hours. That’s a comforting thought.

I find a glass, fill it to the brim with cold water and am about to begin my cupboard search for painkillers when I remember Phoebe’s message.

Excuse the text but it’s just this once because I miss you.

I stop fighting the urge to reply and type a message, with my address in Mull. That’s just important information, right? Admin, you could say. So it’s necessary.

‘So, are you going to tell me who she is?’

I jump and a slosh of water escapes my glass, splashing across the tiled floor and my bare feet.

Kate laughs and leans over the sink to tear off a strip of kitchen roll, ducking to mop my feet and the floor like I’m one of her kids. It’s endearing and mortifying at once.

‘Cheers, Ma,’ I say.

‘Oi, seven months younger than you, thank you very much.’ She flicks the paper in the bin and grabs the kettle. ‘You’re busted though, Mr Mullins. I demand all the details.’ She’s annoyingly fresh, considering she matched Donal and me dram for dram last night. ‘Can your poor head stand coffee yet?’

‘I’ll risk it,’ I grin, pulling out a pine chair by the table. Sitting is definitely safer than standing this morning.

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘Who is she?’

I lay my phone carefully on the table. ‘You should work for MI6.’

‘They tried to recruit me. Too badass for them.’ Her damp auburn curls dance across the collar of her towelling robe when she laughs. It’s not the red it was, threaded with strands of gold now, but it’s still like watching fire. ‘You don’t have to tell me. But whoever she is, I’m glad she makes you happy.’

This might be the only chance I get to talk to Kate about Phoebe, before the thunder of remaining Cattenachs descends upon us and the moment is lost.

‘Her name is Phoebe Jones,’ I say, my chest swelling as her name plays on my lips. ‘You’re going to think I’m nuts, but I think she’s perfect for me. As in long-term perfect.’

Kate’s mirth softens and she sits next to me, anticipating the story that will follow.

Once I begin, it all comes out. And despite the hammering in my head, I can’t stop my smile. I fall over my words, somewhere between confession and breathless laughter. And the whole time, Kate watches, a strange half-grin resting on her face.

When it’s all said, she sits back, the boiled kettle long forgotten between us. ‘I’ve never seen you happy like this, Sam.’

‘I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy before.’ It’s strange spoken out loud, but it’s the truth.

‘Do you have her picture?’

If it were anyone else in the world asking, I’d refuse. But this is Kate Cattenach, long-time confidante in matters of my heart. I find the image of Phoebe and me together by the platform barrier and slide the phone across the washed pine table for Kate to see.

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘She is.’

‘And you only met her… yesterday?’

I know where this is going. ‘I did.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know how it sounds, but…’

‘No, Sam, really, you don’t have to explain. Sometimes you just know, I guess. Not that it was like that for your man and me. I reckon Donal and I have the slowest love-at-first-sight story on the planet.’

‘Yeah, but we all knew.’

She laughs. ‘So I’ve been told. By every single one of yous.’ She hands the phone back. ‘Phoebe – the radiant, shining one. Pretty apt name.’

Name meanings have always been Kate’s thing. Within a day of us all meeting she’d told us what our names meant: Kate – pure (we always added ‘alcohol’ to the meaning as a nod to her incredible drinking prowess); Donal – ruler of the world (which, trust me, he still brags about); Niven – saint (jury’s still out on that one); Shona – happy (which is what we all hope she might be one day); and Sam – heard by God, which I always thought was a bit odd until Kate said that being a musician made it the perfect name for me. Who wouldn’t want God as an audience? God or Aly Bain in my case – I’d be happy with either. I don’t know how much I believe in name meanings, but finding out Phoebe means shining and radiant makes me smile even more.

‘That’s how she seemed to me. Her laugh – it’s like sunshine.’

Kate pulls a face. ‘You’ve got it so bad. Bless you. She must be special.’

‘I think she is.’

‘But – you still came away? And let her go, too?’

Said like that, it doesn’t sound good. ‘We both have things to do. Promises we’ve made ourselves. I don’t want to jump into another relationship unless I’m certain it’s right. Not after Laura.’

Kate nods. ‘I get that. But are you sure you’re not…?’ She exhales and peers through her curls at me. I know what that look means. We’ve been here countless times before. I can rely on her to speak her mind – even if this morning I don’t want to hear it. ‘Tell me where to get off if you like, but are you sure you haven’t agreed to a year apart as a way of not committing?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Am I? I was yesterday…

‘Because it’s okay if you’re scared, Sam. We all get scared. And Laura damn near destroyed you.’

I wish she didn’t know that about me. And yes, I know the urge to head for the hills at the first sign of trouble is strong in my bones. But Phoebe’s not like Laura. She’s worth me being different for, or at least trying to be. ‘It’s a test, being apart. We should test how we feel, if it’s what we both hope it could be. Don’t you think?’

‘A year is one hell of a test.’

‘Maybe.’

She smiles and reaches across to squeeze my hand. ‘Then, good for you. She’d better be worthy of your faith, mind. Tell her if she messes you around she’ll have me to contend with.’

‘Okay.’ I might not pass that message on just yet. The thought of Kate gunning for anyone is terrifying.

Within an hour everyone is up, including the family’s ancient corgi 007, mostly known as Bond these days, although whenever they take him to the vet they use the former. It’s a never-ending source of embarrassment to Donal when the vet calls ‘007 Cattenach’ into the packed waiting room.

In the middle of the noisy whirr of laughter, breakfast-making and conversation, the doorbell rings. Lexie beats her brothers to answer it and I hear excited squeals from the hall. A moment later, a familiar smile moons around the kitchen door.

‘Am I too early for beers?’

Niven McNish’s laugh rumbles beneath the crush of hugs that follows and it’s a welcome sound.

‘Okay, okay, put your uncle Niven down,’ Donal says, reaching in between us to rescue our friend. ‘Good to see you, man. Can we get you breakfast?’

‘Aye, you can. Sam! Surprise!’ He holds his arms open, chuckling away.

‘I didn’t know the McNish-Meister was gracing us with his presence,’ I say, slapping him on the back, as the family resumes their vociferous assault on toast and eggs around the table. ‘I heard they didn’t let you leave the Island these days. Being the national treasure you are.’

My friend shrugs off his leather jacket and grabs toast from the fresh stack Donal has delivered. ‘I snuck out. I’m officially a fugitive.’ He downs a mug of tea as if it’s the first he’s had for weeks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I can imagine him as a Viking invader, downing beer after a conquest. Tea isn’t exactly warrior fare, but the image still suits him. Especially with that hair and wayward straggle of a beard. Has that man ever had a decent haircut? Not in all the time I’ve known him.

‘Is there a reward for your capture?’ I ask. ‘I could do with some cash right now.’

‘Probably not much, knowing the Island. So, how are you? And how dare you not have aged since the last time I saw you?’

‘Get away. I found a grey hair the other day.’

‘Yeah, right. It’s those musician genes of yours, keeping time at bay.’

‘Are they the tight ones?’ Lexie asks earnestly, frowning when we all descend into giggles.

Niven ruffles her hair. ‘Different kind of genes, Lex. But I reckon Sam has musician jeans, too. Probably far too tight for a man of his years.’

‘Hey!’

He shrugs. ‘Say it as I see it. Fiddle players – right posey bastards.’ He holds up a hand in apology when Addie, Ivor and Lexie giggle and Kate shushes him. ‘Kids, you didn’t hear that, okay? Sorry, Kate. So, Mullins, when are you heading off?’

‘Tomorrow.’ I offer a sympathetic grin as the children protest. ‘But you’ve got me all day today, guys.’

‘You never stay long enough,’ Ivor complains.

Donal and Kate’s house is cosy, but accommodating three adults, three children and an elderly corgi is stretching its capabilities. Where they’re going to put Niven tonight is anyone’s guess.

‘When I’m on my way back to London, I’ll come and stay again for a night. How’s that?’ I look over to Donal and Kate, who nod happily. ‘And of course you’re all welcome to visit when I’m settled on Mull.’

‘I’ve plenty of room at mine for the lot of yous.’ Niven grins and instantly the kids are placated. He has that ability to be oil on troubled waters – always has. Where Kate was the mum of the group, and Donal the dreamer, Niven was our peacemaker. Maybe that’s why he’s been so successful as a teacher. Island kids face all kind of issues mainland children don’t get and behaviour can be a problem when frustrations rear up. With Mr McNish in charge, the kids have the best chance of navigating it.

‘What brings you here, anyway?’ I ask, my question answered when I see Niven exchange a glance with Kate. ‘Ah.’

‘Now don’t be mad at Kate. I’ve been on a residential course in Glasgow for a fortnight so I was on my way back anyway. The timing was just – providential.’

Providential my ass. Knowing this lot they will have cooked up the whole thing between them. ‘Right. And I don’t suppose you were planning to travel back to Mull tomorrow by any chance?’

Niven’s grin could charm swallows out of the sky. Man, I’ve missed my friends.

I’d always envisioned making my way to Mull alone, but secretly I’m glad of my surprise travelling companion. Going home is never simple – Kate and the gang understand that. At university there were Christmases and Easter breaks and summer holidays where everyone else piled off to their families and I just didn’t. My friends clocked this early and so I always ended up with invitations to stay from across the UK and Ireland. I’ll forever be grateful that they noticed and didn’t let me wallow alone.

There’s so much stuff wrapped around the Island and me. It’s where I was born, where two generations of my family lived before me, so it’s in my blood. But it’s complicated. My father made that happen. I’m going home because I want to understand that: who I am and where I came from, but also why Dad walked away. I have a year with no commitments, barring meeting Phoebe at the end of it. I might never have this luxury again.

We spend the day hanging out and chatting, moving between the house and Donal’s studio, until the inevitable happens and Addie, Ivor and Lexie beg us to play something. Niven doesn’t have his fiddle, so he borrows Lexie’s while I fetch mine; Donal and Kate grab guitars from the impressive selection hanging on hooks across one wooden wall of the studio; Ivor sits at the keyboard, Lexie chooses a tin whistle and Addie produces a bodhrán drum.

I love the moment when musicians gather. The shuffle and tuning, the moving of chairs and sharing of smiles. It’s all part of it, before a single note plays. There’s a peace that settles between musicians before the music begins, a silence that’s both comforting and energising. Because before it is preparation and after it is music – an adventure shared between likeminded souls. I remember a professor of ours saying there’s no way to describe music without expressing how it makes you feel. And it’s true. You can know everything about the theory and the mechanics of music, but it all means nothing without experiencing it.

When we play, it’s messy and unrehearsed and we laugh as we miss chords and hit bum notes, but it’s still magical. And for me, it’s family. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed the immediacy of it: you sit down, you play. No agonising beforehand, no getting mired in plans and strategies. When I play, I’m not thinking about anything but the music.

The last time I felt like that was… with Phoebe.

When I get to Mull, I’m going to call her. Screw the rules. I reckon we’ll figure it out as we go. Besides, I need to hear her voice.

Next day, I am staring at a stack of garish tourist postcards, turning the white wire carousel slowly to find one that won’t make Phoebe reconsider me on the spot. I wasn’t the biggest fan of her idea to send cards to one another. But receiving hers this morning as I prepared to leave for Mull was the loveliest thing. Like she’d just snuck into Kate and Donal’s hall to smile at me.

So my first postcard back to her has to be right.

On reflection, the ferry terminal at Oban was maybe not the best place to do this. We didn’t have time to buy anything at Glasgow Queen Street because Niven and I missed the first bus back to the city from Donal and Kate’s, so we entered the station like a pair of crazy rucksack-toting sprinters and only just caught the train.

Ironically, I now have several hours to make my choice from the slim pickings here. The weather’s closed in since we arrived and the last two ferries were cancelled. Is this entire year going to be one long delay?

‘Are these supposed to make people stay away from Scotland?’ Niven reaches past me and picks one with a psychedelic tartan piper on it, who appears to be striding up the middle of a B-road in the Highlands. His hair is an unnatural shade of satsuma and his swinging kilt so scarlet it practically jumps off the card and slaps your face. ‘I wouldn’t want to meet that fella on a deserted road. Or receive this image in the post when I’ve a hangover.’

He has a point. In the end I opt for a too-green Highland landscape, its tartan border only slightly less offensive than the others on offer, and take it to the gravel-faced assistant behind the counter to pay.

‘Were you hoping for a crossing?’ he asks.

‘Yep.’

He makes a sucking sound with his teeth like the noise of water draining down an almost-blocked sink. ‘You’ll be lucky to get across this side of dark,’ he says. Ah, the cheery banter of the ferry port. I’d forgotten the joys. ‘You two lads on a jolly over there?’

‘Seeing family,’ I say, hiding my smile when he gawps at me. Clearly he’d pegged me as a tourist.

‘Ach, well. Not a good day for that either, I reckon.’

Like I said, cheery.

‘He thought you were English,’ Niven mocks as we head for the dubious-looking snack concession at the far edge of the car park, the only food provider brave (or daft) enough to be open in this weather. The food kiosk in the ferry terminal was already locked and shuttered when we arrived.

‘No he didn’t.’

‘Face it: you’ve been away too long, Mullins. Swallowed up by that great big London place. Your people have forgotten you.’

‘Shut up.’ I smile, but my stomach shifts.

I know Ailish will be glad to see me, but does anyone else from my early life remember me? My family didn’t exactly leave with a farewell parade. I still remember the shock of being woken before the sun, Ma stuffing just what she could carry into holdalls and bin bags, dragging Callum and me away from the only other home we’d known: Grandma’s house.

My maternal grandmother is long gone and I don’t miss her. She made Ma’s life hell after our pre-dawn escape from her home on Mull and I don’t think she ever forgave her, spitting out her bile and fury at us long distance in phone calls my mother felt obliged to endure. Grandma loved my father, you see. Thought he could do no wrong. Ma was a failure for not being enough of a woman to keep him.

I shouldn’t be glad someone is dead, but in her case I am. I’m pretty sure Grandma’s hateful attitude to Ma added to her self-loathing, hastening her own death from years of alcohol and hurt. It’s part of why us returning to Mull as a family was never an option. Ailish was here, of course, Niven too – although I don’t remember him much as a kid because we moved away so early. The coincidence of meeting him again over five hundred miles away at university in London felt like a gift of providence. Still does.

We brave a coffee and a bacon roll each and scurry back to the shelter of the ferry terminal.

‘Don’t take the lid off your coffee,’ Niven says when we’re squeezed onto bright-blue rigid plastic chairs in the departure lounge.

‘Why?’

‘It’s not pretty. I didn’t know coffee came in grey.’

‘It’s warm and it’s wet. That’s all I care about.’ I roll my eyes as Niven chokes on his sub-standard coffee. ‘You haven’t changed.’

‘Apart from being AWOL from the Island,’ he says, wiping coffee from his chin.

‘What’s going on there?’

My friend slumps in his unforgiving seat. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘How?’

‘Can’t really explain. My mates at home reckon it’s a premature midlife crisis. It’s just – nothing seems as fulfilling as it did before.’

‘Before Ruth?’ I’m careful not to look at him when I say it.

‘Not just that. Lots of things, really. Ruth was the start of it, I think.’

‘The teaching?’

I see his boots tapping together. A sure sign he feels uncomfortable. It isn’t that he can’t take confrontation, more that he’d rather work it out himself than by committee.

‘I love the kids. I’ll always love working with them. But since Ruth, everything’s come up for renewal. When we were together I was looking to a future where a safe job on the Island was necessary. But now… now I just don’t know.’

When I’ve pictured returning to Mull, Niven in his teaching job was as sure and immovable a feature as Duart Castle or the peak of Ben More. I hadn’t realised how much the break-up could shake him. But that’s the point – I haven’t noticed because I haven’t been involved in my friends’ lives for so long.

This year, I will be a better friend to them all.

Almost two hours later, our luck takes a turn for the better. Against all odds the leaden skies break and the wind drops. The sunshine that appears is the weakest, weediest excuse for sun, but we’re delighted to see it. Twenty minutes later, an announcement comes over the tannoy to inform the thirty or so of us noble pilgrims who’ve stuck out the wait that a ferry will be heading to the Island in an hour.

It’s almost 4 p.m. when we reach Craignure. I’ve missed several buses and the next one won’t run for another hour and a half. More waiting. I think of transport back in London, how I consider anything over a twenty-minute wait to be unreasonable. This year will teach me patience, if nothing else.

‘Hey, don’t go waiting for a ride to Fionnphort,’ Niven says when I start to head for the bus stop. ‘I’ll drive you over.’

‘I can’t ask you to do that. It’s miles out of your way.’

‘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.