The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
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.
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