Too much of my life is lived through frozen images on my phone. Photos, recordings – supposedly for posterity. Even Phoebe is becoming an amalgamation of message streams, half-remembered facts and the single image I have of the day we first met. That and the three words I can’t escape.
I will talk to her about it.
Soon.
Just… not yet.
* * *
‘Frank’s lad, yes?’ I look up to see Niven gone, the rest of the band taking a break to stretch and visit the bar. There’s an elderly gentleman standing next to me, his sharp blue eyes twinkling over ruddy cheeks and a snow-white beard.
‘Sorry?’
He lowers himself onto Niven’s stool and slaps his hands on his knees as he leans towards me. ‘Frank Mullins. Fiddle player. Are you his boy?’
I’m so surprised I can’t reply.
‘Knew you were the moment you started playing. Only other person I ever heard play “The Rigs o’ Barley” like that was Frank Mullins. Terror of the Island. But he could charm the angels out of paradise when he played that fiddle.’
‘You know my father?’
‘Know him? Aye, son. We all knew Frank. Notorious round here.’ He sticks out a fisherman’s brown hand in greeting. ‘Euan McAllister. I knew your granny.’
That’s less of a welcome revelation. Was this man close to Grandma? If so, was he part of the gaggle of locals who believed her lies about Ma? I stuff the thought away. What matters is that he knew my father. ‘I’m Sam. Good to meet you. How long have you known Frank?’
Euan blows out his cheeks and the blue eyes roll up towards the pub’s wood-clad ceiling. ‘Oh, forty-odd years it must be by now. We were neighbours when he and your ma first married. Remember them pushing you around as a wee bairn. Proud as anything.’
I only ever remember the strange tension between them, the comments that made Ma crumple, her retorts that brought my father’s frown. I don’t remember them being happy. But then I was just a kid when Frank left us. Suddenly we were at Grandma’s, definitely not going home again, and where my father had been was a gap that didn’t make sense.
‘I don’t suppose you had any contact with Frank after he left the Island?’
‘Sorry, lad. Last I heard he was living on the mainland driving trucks. But that was years ago.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks.’
Euan gives a gravelled cough and glances over his shoulder. ‘I heard about the business with your ma. She should never have had to put up with that. Your granny was a beast of a woman. I can say that now she’s gone.’
I nod back, not sure how else to react.
‘Tell you what, though, I might know someone who kept in touch with Frank.’
‘You might?’ There’s a cheer from the bar that makes me jump and the band begins to reform around us. ‘Who?’
‘Pal of mine: Morag Andersson. Lives not far from here. Look, best play your tunes now, son. I’ll give you her address when you’re done.’
As the music resumes, my heart is thudding faster than the reel we play. This is it: the first real breakthrough in my search for the truth. Maybe Morag Andersson will know what happened to Frank – and where I can find him.
Chapter Fifteen
Phoebe
‘Phoebe.’
I look up from my journal to see a large steaming cup held by a concerned Canadian. Luc is so tall he has to duck beneath the trails of ivy in the courtyard garden to stand by the bench where I’m sitting, and I have to shield my eyes from the bright lunchtime sun to see him. ‘Thank you. You didn’t have to bring me tea.’
‘I did. Because this is the best thé au citron in Paris. And also because Tobi says you are sad and you won’t tell him why. So I thought you might tell me.’
‘I’m not sad.’
‘Okay.’ He sits beside me. ‘Heard from Sam lately?’
Ouch. I thought I was doing a good job of playing the happy tourist around Luc and Tobi. I’ve been out in Paris every day and have almost finalised the next part of my European journey. Most afternoons I’ve returned to read in the lovely garden and most evenings I’ve chatted and laughed with my hosts late into the night. I didn’t think my feelings about Sam were visible to anyone but me. Shows what I know.
‘I get a text every few days. He’s been playing gigs with his mate Niven and he’s writing new songs. He’s promised to send me one.’
I sound defensive but I don’t mean to be. Yes, Sam has contacted me. We’ve even attempted to flirt a couple of times, but the great three-word elephant looms in between us, casting its shadow over everything.
‘I told him I loved him,’ I say, my words rising to meet the carefree clouds in the Parisian sky.
If Luc has an opinion, he’s careful to hide it. ‘Ah.’
‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, I do love him, but… I just said it before either of us were ready.’
‘But he feels the same? You said at the station he seemed to.’
‘I thought he did.’ I close my book, hoping this ends the conversation, and take a deep breath. The air tastes of cool green leaves and lemon steam. ‘Anyway, I’m moving on soon, so that’s what I should be thinking about. If Sam and I are meant to be together, this will all work out. If we aren’t…’
Luc nods and there’s no need to finish my sentence. Far above our heads tiny white clouds traverse the summer blue. ‘You’ve decided where you’re headed? Is it Florence or Rome?’
‘Florence first, then Rome. It makes sense to do it that way. But I won’t go there straight away. I plan to visit a few places in France first.’
‘Tobi and I know an artist in Rome. We met her on our honeymoon.’ Luc turns to me. ‘Hey, I could contact her, if you like? See if she might let you stay for a while?’
It’s so out of the blue that it takes a moment to take it in. If I could save even a few days’ worth of accommodation costs it would be a huge help. Not to mention staying with a friend of Tobi and Luc.
‘Really? You wouldn’t mind?’
He sparkles at my reaction. I love how Luc transforms into a delighted kid whenever he makes someone smile. ‘It would be my pleasure! Besides, you know Tobi and I will worry about you when you’re out there. Rome is crazy, especially if you visit alone. If you’re with our friend it will be much better.’
It doesn’t solve everything, but it is enough to take my mind off Sam – for now.
* * *
A postcard from Sam arrives the next day. It has a cartoon of the Loch Ness monster firing a cannon from Edinburgh Castle painted in colours so garish they make my eyes ache. Sam wasn’t kidding when he said Scotland excels in the weird and wonderful when it comes to postcards. Each one he’s sent is more bonkers than the last, whereas I’ve tried to find a more beautiful one each time. I wonder if this is another sign, another difference between us. Is he taking this whole thing seriously? If he isn’t, no wonder he backed off when I said I love you.
I don’t read it immediately, waiting until I’m wandering slowly around the beautiful galleries of the Louvre to pull it from my pocket and turn it over. I love this space, so much so that I’ve kept returning. The unrushed, unhurried air within is so markedly different from the tourist buzz outside. It’s cooler and quieter and I love it.