I’d love to know how you’re getting on. You said before you wanted to call me. If you still do, I’d love to talk.
And you promised me a song, remember?
* * *
Phoebe xx
* * *
As I send it I lean back against the sun-warmed bench, the sounds of Paris filling the space where the words have been. Now I’m ready to move on.
Chapter Eighteen
Sam
Ailish is quiet this morning, her library book open beside her plate and her reading glasses teetering on the end of her nose. We’ve breakfasted together almost every morning since I arrived and like every other aspect of Island life, I’ve settled into its easy rhythm. But today is different. It isn’t the sunlight stretching across the linen tablecloth and yellow crockery, or the sparkling silver ocean beyond the window changing things this morning. I know she’s waiting for something. It’s been a week since I visited Morag and I haven’t said much about it, just how the drive across was and what Morag’s studio was like.
It’s time she knew the rest.
‘Morag gave me this,’ I say, pulling Frank’s cap from my jacket pocket where it’s sat like an uncertain talisman for days.
She says nothing, inspecting the cap with a half-smile. Her eyebrows are lifted too high for her to appear disinterested, so I wait. When she still doesn’t speak, I hand her the photograph of Frank.
‘And that was hidden underneath the label. I think he and Morag might have been more than friends.’ I hear hesitation in my voice and know Ailish will have picked it up, too.
‘Mm.’
I catch the flicker of her eyes to the view beyond the window. ‘What?’
‘Morag Andersson, you say?’
‘Yes. She’s an artist…’
‘She’s also not an Andersson. Or she wasn’t at the time your father was sniffing around her. We all knew her as Morag Ross.’
‘So she married?’
Ailish purses her lips. I know a story is imminent. Cal and I loved the stories she’d tell when she visited us as kids. Ailish has the inside track on everyone. Ma loved Ailish’s top-class gossip more than all of us. ‘Said she married. Disappeared to Norway for half a year, came back an Andersson. No sign of a husband.’
‘Was this when she was gigging with Frank?’
‘No. Later. When he’d gone.’ Her frown softens and she reaches for my hand. ‘I’m not saying she chased your father. She was too young to know any better.’
‘She said her sister dated Frank before Ma.’
‘Possible, I suppose. But he was with your ma when they were both so young. Anyway, that’s ancient history. What matters is this phone number. Have you called it?’
‘No.’ I was so certain when I found Frank’s photo that I’d call the number the next day. But by the morning I’d talked myself out of it. Since then I’ve just quietly shelved my plans every day. ‘It isn’t that I don’t want to know. I just don’t know if I’m ready to find him yet.’
The pearls round Ailish’s neck make a light click-click as she nods. ‘I understand. And there’s no rush. You have to do this when you’re ready. Nobody can tell you when that’ll be. But maybe we can do a little more digging on the Island, see what others remember about Frank? They might know something that means you never have to call that number.’
I hadn’t thought of that. It would certainly feel less of a direct challenge. ‘Do you know anyone else we could talk to?’
My honorary auntie grins a grin no self-respecting lady of her years should unleash. ‘You’re with me now, bairn. I know everyone.’
If I let Ailish ask around first, it will buy me time before I have to act on anything and she’ll also feel like she’s helping me. I’ll look like I’m moving forward without having to consider it yet.
I need time to work out what I want from Frank, should we find him. This is the perfect plan.
* * *
They say the weather changes when you blink on the Island and today Mull is proving its reputation. Two hours after breakfast the sparkling sun and clear skies have vanished. It’s blowing a hoolie out there and it’s definitely looking like a day for staying indoors. Rain lashes against the wide picture window and the smudge of grey sky is so low I can’t even see the beach any longer, let alone the shadow of Iona across the bay.
I’m stuck in the front room of Ailish’s, waiting for Niven who’s insisted on driving over. We’re supposed to be working on some songs to take round the Island – Niven’s idea. He’s started doing house gigs in the small villages so that the community can hear live music without having to travel to Tobermory. It will be just him and me, with possibly a whistle player or piper if he has a mate nearby.
* * *
By the time Niven arrives, it’s early afternoon. A tree had blown down in one of the villages on the way here and was blocking the road. So Niven jumped out of his car to help a local farmer, fellow drivers and a group of locals to shift it. That’s what you do here – everyone mucks in. I think about London and the chaos one fallen tree would cause there. Not for the first time lately, I’m glad I’m on Mull.
Ailish is on her way out as Niven blows in, but she fusses round him getting towels and a huge beige knitted jumper – neither of us wants to enquire who might have worn it first. Niven chuckles as he picks bits of pine branch from his hair, drowning in questionable knitwear.
‘It’s what all the best-dressed males on Mull are wearing this season. We’re calling it Rustic Hebridean Chic.’
‘Oh aye, the fresh bits of tree behind your ears really set it off,’ Ailish grins back, preening Niven like a mother cat cleaning a kitten. He rolls his eyes but it’s clear he’s loving every minute. As long as I’ve known him, he’s had this effect on women of a certain age. Must be his boyish good looks that make older ladies want to mother him. ‘Now boys, there’s gin and lemon cake in the kitchen and if it gets chilly there’s blankets in the box and whisky in the sideboard.’
‘Marry me, Ailish McRae!’
She raises an eyebrow at my friend. ‘You’d never survive, Niven. I’d eat you for breakfast.’
She’s grinning when she leaves though, the bloom of a blush dancing across her cheekbones.
‘Auntie Ailish, Queen of the One-Liners,’ I say as Niven feigns shock.
‘And you wonder why she never remarried.’
‘I don’t think she’s that bothered,’ I grin, as he follows me through to the kitchen. ‘She has a gaggle of admirers scattered across the Island.’
‘Admiring her from a distance because she’s too scary up close, eh?’
‘Just because she spurned you, pal, doesn’t mean there aren’t others she’ll accept.’
* * *
Half an hour later we’ve demolished two slices of Ailish’s epic homemade cake each and the teapot is on its second filling. Niven unpacks his guitar while I tune my fiddle. Jonas’s violin will always be my first love. Unfortunately its days of coping with gruelling gig schedules are at an end and it now resides in pride of place in the studio Chris and I have built. I’ll still use it for recording.