“Fuck me, mate, but I’m sorry,” he muttered sheepishly, searching for something to mop up Steve’s nosebleed.
Steve stood up unsteadily, shaking his head in a daze.
“Me, too,” he replied, sounding just as meek. “Don’t know what came over me.” His voice sounded somber and muffled through the napkin he had grabbed to stem the blood.
Rachel pushed the men back into their seats, facing Dan away from the curious onlookers and photographers. “Just a small misunderstanding. Show’s over folks, thank you,” she announced to no one in particular. Then she swiftly picked up the plates and glasses that the men had scattered during their fight and piled them back on the table.
The landlord came to her rescue. “Show’s over, folks,” he repeated. “If I see anyone else taking any more pictures, I will personally come and destroy your device, whatever it is, however much it costs. Don’t think I won’t,” he added menacingly. “And if you publish any of your footage, you needn’t set foot in my pub again. I know who you are.”
Having delivered his threat, he strolled over to the battle-zone nonchalantly as though an angry bust-up between a rock star and another man was an everyday occurrence in his establishment. “Are you guys done now?”
Dan and Steve nodded mutely, and Rachel stepped in again. “Sorry about the mess,” she addressed the landlord, still loud enough for everyone to hear. “We seem to have had a bit of an accident. We’ll help you clear up, of course. And we’re hungry. Is the kitchen still open?”
Dan, Steve and the landlord all looked at her with wide eyes.
“What?” Rachel challenged them. “You’ve barely eaten anything, either of you. And anyway, now that the testosterone is out of the way, maybe we can finally have that chat?”
“Way to go, girl,” muttered the landlord. “If you’ve beat them, join them. Great strategy. That’ll confuse people no end, seeing y’all cozied up here over food now. I’ll get your orders sorted straightaway, and don’t worry about the mess.” He stacked the plates expertly on his arm. “I’ll have somebody clear that up post-haste. You sit yourselves down as though nothing had happened.”
Gradually, other voices were piping up here and there and within a few minutes, everything had returned to normal. The paparazzi were still hanging round, watching, observing.
“That’s good,” Rachel commented when Dan asked. “Maybe they’ll take a few more pictures of us all having a civilized meal together; that’ll confuse them. Either way, they’ll watch and learn. Perhaps we can spin it as a publicity stunt? For a new song? Album? Video? Something like that?”
Dan waggled his head, weighing opportunities. “I’ll have a think about that, that’s not a bad idea. But let’s get back to why we got here, after all.”
Steve spoke up as well. “I really am sorry, mate.” He dabbed his nose ruefully with the crumpled napkin. “I think I was so relieved at finding out that something else had gone on in Sophie’s life that I flipped a bit. I had been blaming myself, you see, and…”
So Steve filled Dan and Rachel in on the Scotland trip that didn’t go quite as planned. “I had the ring at the ready and everything,” he whispered sadly.
The three of them let that sink in, swept up in a shared moment of thwarted romance. Abruptly, however, Steve pulled them back to their sad reality.
“But do you think this was really enough to make her leave everything behind? One stupid argument on one disastrous trip?” he asked, fear in his eyes. “Would you do a runner because of that?”
“Prob-ab-ly not,” Rachel surmised. “But I think Sophie felt everyone was against her, and that she had let everything go wrong and destroyed her friendships and relationships all in one go.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Steve protested. “She can’t think that everyone is out to hurt her, and then blame herself for it?”
“Who says it has got to make any sense?” Dan pondered. “I think Rachel is right. Sophie lost all perspective on everything, and had no one to talk to.”
“So what?” Steve retorted skeptically. “She just leaves?”
“Well, she didn’t
just
leave,” Rachel threw out. “She seems to have made all sorts of arrangements.”
“But I love her. She must know that. Even though I think it’s despicable what you did, why should it matter to her when she had me?” Steve shook his head in puzzlement.
“Because,” Rachel explained without hesitation. “Because you would have thought that she still had feelings for Dan, which you wouldn’t have understood, and you would have argued about that, and it would have been a big mess.”
Steve shook his head, but Dan was getting impatient with all the talk. It wasn’t getting them anywhere. “Never mind all of that,” he steered the conversation back to more practical considerations, “How are we going to put this right?”
The ferry bumped gently against the pier and the sailors got busy tying it up. I stood by the railing and stared, trying to take it all in. The wide-open sky, the wheeling seagulls, the dunes, the sheer expanse of nothingness around it all. I had arrived.
My thoughts were free-wheeling as events of the past few weeks flashed before me at lightning speed. I swallowed hard, banishing unhappy thoughts from my mind.
A clean break, a fresh start, remember?
For better or for worse, and for reasons I hadn’t yet quite grasped myself, I had arrived on this tiny, car-free island in the German North Sea.
Langeoog
. Long island, it meant, apparently. I had struggled to pronounce it properly when I bought my ticket at Bensersiel.
Lang—eh—org
had been the best I had come up with so far, but it beat my first attempt,
Lang-eeee-oug
, which had caused much mirth among the locals.
“Moin.” A sailor shook me out of my reverie.
“Moin,” I responded automatically, having picked up the local greeting quickly. My seeming fluency caused a torrent of words which I couldn’t begin to understand with my rusty high-school German.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I don’t speak German that well… Do you speak English?”
Of course he did, and he told me to disembark and to collect my luggage at the train station. I reluctantly made a move to leave the ferry. I had tremendously enjoyed the ride from the ferry port at Bensersiel across the choppy North Sea to Langeoog. Despite the fresh and gusty wind, I had stood at this same spot by the railing for the entire trip, breathing the salty air, savoring the quiet, and generally letting my mind drift.
Having to disembark now, that made it all real, and I felt a pang of anxiety. What had I done? Where would I live? What would I
do
? I didn’t know a soul on the island, which was precisely the reason I had come here.
But now what?
Anxiety gave way to excitement and a sense of adventure as I followed a small group of passengers down the gangway. I would do this! I would take life by the horns and make a fresh start, beginning with somewhere to live. First of all, I was going to take the island train into the town to find an abode.
Lost in thoughts again, it took me a moment to realize that my name was being called.
“Sophie Penhalligan? Frau Sophie Penhalligan?”
My heart beat faster at hearing my name. I had only been gone for four days; surely I couldn’t have been discovered yet? With great relief, I saw a porter heaving my luggage toward me.
“Moin,” he puffed. “Sie sind wohl Frau Penhalligan?”
Was I Mrs. Penhalligan, he asked formally—that much German I did understand. I smiled and nodded, yes, I was Frau Penhalligan.
“Ihr Gepäck!” was the next uttering, accompanied by a heavy puffing and proffering of my two suitcases. I smiled again, thanking him for his help and taking my luggage—the ubiquitous pink carry-on case, and a turquoise hard-shell, full-size suitcase. That was it. These were all the worldly belongings that I had packed, in great haste, on Tuesday afternoon to accompany me on my adventure. I had packed clothes and a few books, my trusty e-reader, laptop, and a few CDs that I had acquired after the fire. It was amazing how little one did need, all things considered.
The porter motioned for me to board the little train with carriages painted in all the colors of the rainbow, and I obediently clambered on. Stacking my suitcases in the aisle, I squeezed myself on a banquette and slid across to the window. I felt like a ten-year-old on a seaside holiday adventure. Innocent, excited, fresh. Unencumbered.
The train set off at a sedate pace to make the small journey through the island’s
Hinterland
and toward the town. It cut through the dunes, deserted at this time of day; past a mini-golf place and along a hiking path. On the left, I could see a little forest. On the right, there seemed to be some kind of golf course.
Rat-tat-tat-tat
went the carriages as they bumped over joins in the rails.
Gradually, a few houses appeared and we were nearing “downtown” Langeoog. Sure enough, a few short minutes later we arrived at the station. I found myself brimming with excitement when I got off. As I stood outside the station surveying my surroundings, the first thing that struck me was the quiet. I could still hear the seagulls overhead and the tweeting of songbirds. Having lived in London for so long, this was a wholly new sensation for me, and even in my hometown of Newquay, the silence would be steadily interrupted by cars, campervans and motorbikes. This was something else.
I grabbed my two suitcases and wheeled them each down the road as though I had a purpose. Actually, I
did
have a purpose. I needed some sort of coffee shop—I wanted an early lunch and some local information. The best thing to do, I decided, was to amble down
Hafenstrasse
and see what I could find.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still walking. Not because I hadn’t come across a coffee shop. On the contrary, I had passed plenty. And restaurants, and bakeries. The problem was that I was simply so enchanted, I couldn’t stop exploring, never mind the hunger pangs and the dragging suitcases. Most of all, I wanted to see the sea. I had picked up a map of the island right at the
Bahnhof,
and I could see that the village nestled behind a bank of dunes, so on I lumbered, along
Hauptstrasse
, toward the famous water tower where I stopped for a breather, and up
Westerpad
way, cutting through the dunes and finally cresting before the descent to the beach. The sea, at last. I sat down on my turquoise suitcase and drank it in.
A great peace descended on me, and I could breathe more easily. I felt like I had come home.
I didn’t know how long I had sat there, on my suitcase, probably looking slightly odd, before the rumbling of my tummy abruptly reminded me that it was definitely lunchtime now. Satisfied that I would be able to take in this vista again later that day, and the following day, and the day after that, I retraced my steps until I reached the friendly-looking little coffee shop that I had spotted earlier on a street corner. It purported to be
Van Halen’s,
and I was thoroughly intrigued.
The door closed behind me, jauntily jingling the little bell attached to the top of the door jamb. I was instantly enveloped by the fragrant smell of strong, sweet tea and gulped greedily; I was gasping for a cuppa.
This isn’t the time to start feeling homesick,
I scolded myself.
Selecting a spot by the window, I lumbered through the assortment of odd chairs and sturdy tables, feeling like a clumsy hulk. I deposited my luggage in a corner behind my table and gratefully sat down on a blue-and-red striped wooden chair with a blue-and-red frilly cushion strapped to the seat.
Instantly, the waitress bustled over to speak to me, issuing the obligatory “Moin” by way of conversational opening gambit. She was in her mid-fifties, I guessed, although her hair was mostly white. But her eyes were a piercing, sparkling blue, her skin looked rosy and fresh, and she wore a comfy sweater with faded jeans and trainers.
“Moin,” I shot back proficiently but added quickly, “I don’t speak much German yet. Do you speak English by any chance?”
The waitress wiped the table with a white-and-blue checked cloth that looked clean and starched, even after she was done. Satisfied that all was tidy, she sat down with me thoughtfully, eyes a-sparkle.
“You must be Frau Penhalligan,” she offered in flawless English. “I’m Frau Fanhaalen, I own the tea shop.
Willkommen.
” And she extended a hand for me to shake.
My mind absorbed these nuggets of information. First of all, I hadn’t been prepared for the island information network and the fact that my arrival would be so
noticed
. Moreover, the teashop had nothing to do with the rock band,
Van Halen,
of course—how could it have?
Van Halen
was the owner’s name, pronounced
Fan-Haalen
. And evidently the lady wasn’t a waitress, she was the owner.
Frau Van Halen was expecting some kind of response, so I hastily greeted her back.
“Hi. Nice to meet you. Yes, I’m Frau Penhalligan.” I laughed uncertainly. “But please call me Sophie.” I clapped my hand on my mouth. “Sorry,” I uttered from behind my fingers, “That was really rude. You don’t even know me. Sorry.” I had remembered, too late, that the German code of etiquette was very specific on formalities.