Loe raamatut: «The Day We Meet Again»

‘Take chances, make mistakes.

That’s how you grow.’

Mary Tyler Moore

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Epigraph

The Day We Met

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Day

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Acknowledgments

A few things that inspired Miranda when writing The Day We Meet Again

About the Publisher

The Day We Met

14^th June 2017

Chapter One

Chapter One, Phoebe

ALL TRAINS DELAYED, the sign reads.

No, no, no! This can’t be happening!

I stare up at the departure board in disbelief. Up until twenty minutes ago my train had been listed as ON TIME and I’d allowed myself a glass of champagne at St Pancras’ Eurostar bar, a little treat to steady my nerves before the biggest adventure of my life begins.

‘Looks like we aren’t going anywhere soon,’ the woman next to me says, gold chains tinkling on her wrist as she raises her hand for another glass. She doesn’t look in a hurry to go anywhere.

But I am.

I arrived at St Pancras two hours early this morning. The guys driving the cleaning trucks were pretty much the only people here when I walked in. They performed a slow, elegant dance around me as I dragged my heavy bag across the shiny station floor. I probably should have had a last lie-in, but my stomach has been a knot of nerves since last night, robbing me of sleep.

I’m not always early, but I was determined to be today to make sure I actually get on the train. I want this adventure more than anything else in my life, but doubts have crept in over the last two weeks, ever since all the tickets were booked and my credit card had taken the strain. Even last night – frustratingly wide awake and watching a film I didn’t really care about, after the farewell drinks in our favourite pub in Notting Hill when I was so certain I was doing the right thing – I found myself considering shelving the trip. Who jacks in everything and takes off for a year, anyway? Certainly not me: Phoebe Jones, 32 years old and most definitely not gap-year material.

It wasn’t just that thing Gabe said, either. Although it threw me when it happened. After all his bravado inside the pub – the You won’t go through with it, Phoebs, I know you speech that in his actor’s voice rose above the noise and look-at-me-I’m-so-important laughter from the tables around us – the change in him when he found me on the street outside was a shock.

‘I’ll miss you.’

‘You won’t, but thanks.’

And then that look – the one that got us into trouble once before, the one that has kept me wondering if it might again. ‘Then you don’t know me, Phoebs. London won’t be the same without you.’

Why did he have to launch that at me, the night before I leave for a whole year?

But the money is spent. The tickets are in my wallet. My bag is packed. And Gabe is wrong if he thinks I won’t go through with it. I know my friends privately think I’ll cave in and come home early. So I got up hours before I needed to this morning, took my bag, closed the door on my old life and posted my keys through the letterbox for my friends and former flatmates to find. And I’m here, where Gabe was so certain I wouldn’t be.

But now there’s a delay and that’s dangerous for me. Too much time to think better of my plan. Why is the universe conspiring against me today?

‘Having another?’ the woman next to me asks. Her new glass of champagne is already half empty. Perhaps she has the right idea. Maybe drinking your way through a delay is the best option.

‘I don’t think so, thanks,’ I reply. I can’t stay here, not until I know exactly what kind of delay I’m facing. ‘I’m going to find out what’s happening.’

The woman shrugs as I leave.

The whole of St Pancras station seems to have darkened, as though a storm cloud has blown in from the entrance and settled in the arcing blue-girdered roof. Beyond the glass the sun shines as brightly as before, the sky a brave blue. But I feel the crackle of tension like approaching thunder.

At the end of the upper concourse near the huge statue of a man and woman embracing, a crowd has gathered. Somewhere in the middle, a harassed station employee in an orange hi-vis gilet is doing his best to fend off the angry mob’s questions. And then, without warning, the crowd begins to move. I’m almost knocked over and stagger back to stop myself falling. Being trampled to death is definitely not in the plan today.

The mob swarms around the station employee as he makes for the stairs to the lower concourse. The forward motion of their bodies pushes me backwards until my spine meets something immovable. I gasp. Around me the angry commuters part, a splitting tide of bodies flooding either side of me, their feet stomping inches from mine. Once they pass me they continue their pursuit of their prey as the poor station official flees down the stairs.

I’m shaken, but then I remember: I hit something. Someone.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I rush, turning to see the poor unfortunate soul I’ve slammed into. But my eyes meet the kind, still expression of an iron man in trilby and suit, his billowing mackintosh frozen in time as he gazes up, as though checking the departure boards for his train.

The Betjeman statue.

I’d forgotten he was here. Compared with the huge iron lovers beneath the enormous station clock over the entrance, he’s diminutive. I’ve seen visitors double take when they find him. He’s just there, standing in the middle of the upper concourse, humble and friendly. The only thing marking him out as a statue and not another train passenger is the ring of slate around his feet, the words of one of his poems carved into it in beautifully elegant script. I’ve heard station announcements asking commuters to meet people by the Betjeman statue when I’ve been here before and thought nothing of it. But finding him here this morning, when everything has suddenly become so uncertain, is strangely comforting.

‘I don’t think he minds,’ a voice says.

I jump and peer around the statue. ‘Sorry?’

Over the statue’s right shoulder, a face grins at me. ‘Sir John. He won’t mind you bumped into him. He’s a pretty affable chap.’

Laughter dances in his voice, his green eyes sparkling beneath dark brows and a mess of dark curls. And I instantly feel I know him.

‘I can’t believe I just apologised to a statue.’

‘Happens to us all, sooner or later.’ His hand reaches around Sir John’s arm. ‘Hi, I’m Sam. Sam Mullins. Pleased to meet you.’

I hesitate. After all, this is London and my seven years in the city have taught me strangers are supposed to stay anonymous. But Sam’s smile is as warm and inviting as a newly opened doorway on a winter’s night and – suddenly – I’m accepting his handshake. His hand is warm around mine.

‘Phoebe Jones. Pleased to meet you, too.’

The concourse is eerily empty now; the raging commuters all disappeared to the lower floor chasing the poor man from the train company. It’s as if me and Sam-with-the-smiling-eyes-and-laugh-filled-voice are the only people in the world.

Apart from the statue, that is.

‘Did you get to hear what the bloke from the station was saying?’ I ask, suddenly aware I am still holding Sam’s warm hand, and quickly pulling mine away.

‘Most of it, before the mob closed in. They’ve stopped all trains in and out of the station. I haven’t heard the Inspector Sands announcement, so I’m guessing it isn’t a fire or a bomb threat.’

My stomach twists again. I’ve only heard the automated announcement used to alert station staff to a possible emergency like a fire or a bomb once before at Euston and I ran from the station like a startled hare then. Given my nerves about my journey, if I’d heard Inspector Sands being mentioned today I would already be halfway to Holborn. ‘Did he say how long it was expected to last?’

‘Well, I heard four hours, but there were so many people yelling around the chap by then I guess anyone could have said that.’

‘Four hours?’

‘Nightmare, huh? Trust me to pick today to make the longest train journey.’

I blink at him. ‘Me too.’

‘Oh? Where are you headed?’ His eyes widen and he holds up a hand. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to answer. That was rude of me.’

It’s sweet and it makes me smile. ‘Paris, actually. To begin with. You?’

‘Isle of Mull. Eventually.’

‘Oh. Wow. That is a journey.’

He shrugs. ‘Just a bit. Already had to change it because of the engineering works at Euston, so I’m going from here to Sheffield, then over to Manchester then changing again for Glasgow. Going to stay with two of my old university mates near there for a night or two, to break it up a bit. Then I’ll catch a train to Oban, take the ferry to Craignure and then it’s a long bus ride to Fionnphort, where I’m staying with a family friend.’ He gives a self-conscious laugh. ‘More than you wanted to know, probably.’

Although I’ll move on from Paris later, Sam’s journey sounds epic and exhausting by comparison. And it’s strange, but I don’t even consider that I’ve just met him, or question how he can share his entire travel itinerary with me when we don’t know each other. Like the heat from his hand that is still tingling on my skin, it feels like the most natural thing. So I forget my nerves, my shock at finding myself here beside the statue, and the looming delay. And instead, I just see Sam.

‘How long will all that take?’

‘The whole journey? Hours. Days, even.’ He laughs. ‘It’s okay. I have several books in my luggage and my music. I’ll be fine.’

Novels are one thing I do have, although they are safely packed at the bottom of my bag. Books are the reason I’m here, after all. The Grand Tours across Europe inspired my PhD and have underpinned all my dreams of seeing the places the authors wrote about for myself. My much-loved copy of A Room with a View is in my hand luggage and I’m more than happy to hang out with Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson for the thousandth time, but I’d much rather be on the train heading off already.

What if this delay is a sign? I hate the thought of Gabe being right, but the doubts from last night return, swirling around me, Sam and Sir John Betjeman like ragged ghosts. There are other ways of pursuing a great adventure, they call. You don’t have to spend a year away to prove you’re spontaneous… My room at the flat-share is already someone else’s but I could persuade one of my friends to let me stay at theirs until I can sort out a new place. I don’t really want to go home to Evesham, but I know my parents and brother Will would love having me to stay for a bit. Maybe I should be a bit less intrepid – Cornwall would be nice this time of year, or maybe the Cotswolds? Safer, closer, easier to come home from…

I don’t want to doubt this now, not when I’m so close to boarding the train, but I can feel panic rising.

But then, Sam Mullins smiles – and the ground beneath me shifts.

‘Look, if you’re not going anywhere for a while and neither am I, how about we find a coffee shop to wait in?’

Did I just say that? But in that moment, it feels right. Who says my new, spontaneous self can’t start until I board the train for France?

‘Yes,’ he says, so immediately that his answer dances with the end of my question. ‘Great idea.’

As we walk away from the statue of Sir John Betjeman, Sam’s fingers lightly brush against my back.

And that’s when I fall in love.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two, Sam

What am I doing?

I hate complications. As a musician I’ve done my level best over the years to avoid them wherever I can. When band politics have got too much, I’ve quit. When my brother stopped talking to me, I walked away. When relationships have become too demanding, I’ve backed out. Simple. Effective. Safe.

And I’ve been doing okay with that. Mostly. The last four years have been the happiest of my life professionally – playing my fiddle in studio sessions in the winter and spring and joining festival-bound bands in the summer; teaching where I’ve needed to make up shortfalls; even scoring studio time for my own new-folk project and producing a half-decent EP that, touch wood, will bring in a steady flow of cash on iTunes and Bandcamp. And my new studio venture with Chris that we launched last night finally gives us a chance to make real money. To be fair, I said I’d postpone this trip so close to the launch, but Chris said he wants to get it running smoothly and I’d just be getting in his way. So that complication has been ironed out, without me even trying. Why would I willingly volunteer for one to take its place?

She just looked so lost by the Betjeman statue.

And gorgeous…

I should have been annoyed by this unplanned delay to the journey I’ve promised myself for years. I’ve waited so long for the time to be right and then, suddenly, it was. Time to make the journey to find who I am. It was supposed to begin now, not in four hours, or whenever the train system deems it possible. Train delays are the worst, especially for a jobbing musician travelling to gigs across the country and particularly given the shenanigans I’ve already encountered changing stations for this journey. On any other day I would have been right in the thick of that angry commuter mob, baying for someone’s blood.

But I’m not.

And it’s all because of Phoebe Jones.

I glance at the large ironwork clock over the coffee concession counter and I’m surprised to see almost an hour has passed already. She was shy at first, but as soon as she suggested we come here she just – blossomed. Like watching a water lily unfurl on the other side of the bleached-wood table.

It’s beautiful to witness.

‘I know a year away is a big step. I mean enormous for me. But ever since I first read A Room with a View and Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, I’ve dreamed of doing this. Paris, Florence, Rome – seeing the places the authors and characters in their books saw. I’ve saved forever to do it. My parents gave me the last bit of the money I needed when I got my PhD last month.’

‘So you’re Dr Jones?’

I could bask in the way she beams for a long time.

‘That sounds so funny, doesn’t it? Dr Jones. I like it but it still feels like it should belong to somebody else.’

‘A PhD is a huge amount of work, though. You’ve earned it.’

‘I have.’ There’s a self-conscious laugh she does that’s like a flash of sunlight. Blink and you’ll miss it. ‘I loved every minute of it, though. It was such a surprise to find that from a piece of work.’

‘Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to be doing.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, like for me, playing and gigging and the studio I’ve just set up with my friend – none of that’s easy. It’s all long hours and hard work’ – I nod at the concourse beyond the coffee concession window which is packed with stranded passengers – ‘and train delays… But I’m energised by it, you know? Because this is what I’m meant to do.’

Phoebe nods but she isn’t smiling. ‘I hear that all the time. My best friends all seem to have found what they’re meant to be doing. Meg’s the most amazing event organiser, Osh is a film director and Gabe is an actor. When they talk about what they do, it’s like they are describing a piece of themselves; like if you put them under a microscope their job titles would be imprinted on every cell. I haven’t found what I should be doing yet. But I think this year I might get closer to working out what I want.’

‘Do you write?’

A patter of pink traverses her cheekbones. ‘No – well, not unless you count my PhD dissertation. I mean, I love the idea of writing fiction, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. Gabe says I’m not personally tormented enough to be a writer. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.’

She isn’t wearing a ring – I mean, of course I’ve checked. But she’s mentioned Gabe a few times already and I notice her right hand instinctively touches the finger on her left that would have worn one when she says his name. Who is he? A recent flame? An ex? An unrequited love?

‘He thinks I can’t do this. But I know I can.’

‘Why do you care about what he thinks? He sounds like a knob.’

She laughs. The sound is joyous. It surges up from her core, like champagne bubbles. ‘Maybe he is. But I’ve always talked to him about everything. We used to trade awful dating stories when both of us were between dates – it became a game we’d play to make ourselves feel better.’ She toys with the teaspoon in the saucer of her almost empty cup. ‘So, enough about me. What’s taking you to Scotland? Work?’

‘No. Well, maybe a little.’ I see a fine line form between her brows. That’s me sussed. ‘I’m going for personal reasons,’ I reply. And then, just because it feels like she’s the person to say it to, I say more than I have to anyone else. ‘I was born on the Island and then my father left home. He played fiddle, too, although he left before I discovered music for myself. I guess I’ve always wondered, you know? What happened to him.’ Suddenly aware I’ve said too much to be comfortable, I pull back. ‘But I plan to hook up with some friends from the circuit while I’m there, too. Relearn the trad stuff.’

‘You’re a folk musician?’

‘New-folk, I guess you’d call it. But I want my next project to be the old tunes I vaguely remember from being a kid on the Island.’

‘I thought you had a bit of a Scottish accent.’ She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, should that be Hebridean?’

It’s the most hesitantly British thing to say and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. ‘Scottish is fine.’

‘So you’re going home?’

Home. That’s a word I haven’t used for a while. With Ma gone and my brother Callum as good as dead, I don’t know what I call home any more. The flat I’ve been sharing with my drummer mate Syd is homely, but is it home? Is that what I’ll discover in Mull when I return?

‘I don’t know. Maybe. You?’

I’ve asked it before I can think better, but here in the too-warm crush of the coffee concession, I realise I want to know the answer. I expect her to sidestep the question, but to my utter surprise, she doesn’t.

‘Not a home to live in. I want to find out how to be at home with myself.’

Until that moment, everything Phoebe Jones has told me could just have been polite conversation. But this is something else. It’s a window, inviting me in. I lean closer, zoning out the clamour and conversation around our small table, not wanting to miss a thing.

‘Me too.’

Her eyes hold mine.

‘I haven’t said that to anyone before.’

‘Not even Gabe?’

‘Especially not him. He thinks I’m too serious.’

‘No!’

‘I know, right? I mean, look at us, Sam. We met – what – an hour ago? And all we’ve done is laugh.’

‘You’re a very funny lady.’

‘Well, thank you for noticing.’ Her eyes sparkle as she mirrors my grin. There is so much more going on behind those eyes than she’s allowing me to see. I sense it bubbling away, just out of view.

And that’s when I realise.

Sam Mullins, your timing stinks.

The more we talk, as the minutes become an hour and head towards two, the more the feeling deep within me builds. Phoebe Jones is perfect. And I know my own battered heart. I’d sworn I wouldn’t fall for anyone again, not after Laura. The pain and injustice I’ve battled most of the year and the bruises still stinging my soul have all been good enough reasons to avoid falling in love.

Could this be love?

No.

But what if it is?

By now we are wandering the concourse, passing crowds of stranded travellers. Every available bench has been commandeered and people are claiming the floor, too, perched on makeshift seats made from suitcases, holdalls and folded-up coats. It’s like a scene from a disaster movie, displaced people caught in limbo, dazed by the experience. Some groups of travellers are even talking to each other. In London, that’s pretty close to a miracle.

I have to step to the side to avoid a small child who’s weaving in and out of the crowd – and when I do my hand brushes against Phoebe’s. Startled, she looks up and our eyes meet. The noise around us seems to dim, the pushing bodies becoming a blur as I sink into the deep darkness of Phoebe’s stare.

‘Do you believe in fate, Phoebe?’ The words tumble out before I can stop them.

‘I think I do,’ she breathes, as her fingers find mine. ‘Do you?’

I gaze at her, a hundred thoughts sparkling around us like spinning stars. And suddenly, all that matters is the truth.

‘I didn’t before today.’