The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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