I am looking for a woman named Alexandra.
Stepping through a low archway, I entered an enclosed courtyard, ankle-deep in slushy snow. This was already the fourth courtyard. A playground, swings, boys skidding a puck across the wet concrete, splashing water everywhere, not particularly bothered by the cold.
I hesitated in the arch, scanning the yard. I wanted my memory to catch on something, reel up details from the past. But nothing here was quite as I remembered from so long ago. Back then, there was nothing muchjust lines of laundry, ramshackle sheds under crooked windows, a few scraggly phlox bushes, and benches.
Now…
So many years had gone by. Time makes itself felt. What could have avoided changing?
No one paid the slightest attention to an unfamiliar, dignified elderly man in a tweed flat cap with a lining of faux furme. Here, among these four blocks, many flats were let. London
I needed the building to the right of the archof that much I was certain. It was always three floors, and I distinctly recalled her flat was on the second. The flat at the very end of the landing, second door on the right. On the doorframe, several doorbells distinguished by odd shapes and colours, with names underneath.
Inside that flat, I remembered everything: every pleat of the curtain, the rattling window catch, the chipped green kettle, the way the floorboards groaned, and even the cockroach we chased for two days. Every detail, every smell.
But Id forgotten the number and the street number of the house. I knew the street, but these courtyardsone after anotherlooked so like each other. The architects must have copied and pasted the plans, bland terraced rows, like identical twins. And so, I wandered.
The right building, second entranceno, wait, the second main door as they say around hereup to the second floor, end of the corridor… Forty-three? Or…
If a block had entryphones, I dialled 43.
“Hello, Im trying to find Alexandra. I wonder if you could help me
Often, someone rebuffed me outright”No one of that name,” sometimes even, “Not even a man called that.” So, I tried again.
“Forgive me, its important. Do you recall, in 1980, if there might have been a woman named Alexandra living in your flat? Its really important for me to know.”
I started making note in my pad as I worked my way through each block: 16no one, 24definitely not, 32athey dont know, just bought
There were plenty more yards to try. Yet more doors unanswered, flats where I hadnt rung, questions I hadnt put.
I climbed the shallow steps of a large and silent stairwell. Tall windows lay filmed with grime, the dusty air faint with cats. That scentyes, I remembered it.
“Good morning!” I gave a brief bow.
Someone was coming my way, a grey-haired woman in a dowdy wool coat and shopping bag.
“And who are you after then, love?” she inquired politely.
“Second floor. Im looking for Alexandra, a lady about sixty, you wouldnt know if she lives here?”
“And which flat?”
“End of the hall, on the right. Its a long time ago. There used to be shared flats here I don’t quite remember the number.”
“Corner flat? No, thats the Jenkinses nowman and wife, two little ones. Sorry, never heard of an Alexandra here. And I grew up here, so Id remember.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, dropping my gaze as my steps retraced down the worn stairs.
She followed me, her steps echoing.
“Do you happen to recall her family name?”
“If I did, Id have looked her up already. I dont, or rather I never knew.”
“Hows that then? What was she to you, if you dont mind my asking?”
I hesitated, unsure how to answer. Who was Alexandra to me?
Love doesnt come with definitions. Its fact, not formula. It is, or it isnt. Everything else is just a story, a pattern of feelings with unpredictable outcomes.
Id told myself all my life that love is fragile, that it cant withstand time, that it would fade. But those flashes of joy from old memoriesthey sustained me, comforted me, yet hurt all the same.
I was at fault. Id lived forty years with a wound in my heart.
Those memories, I see now, nourished my heart, though perhaps it was in my heart that things went wrong first. When my wife diedafter a long marriage, though, truth be told, wed been living apart for agesthe grief seized me andI had a heart attack.
With my wife, we never argued or fought; we simply drifted into parallel lives in our big London house, only engaging for practicalities.
She considered the house hers: I was merely tolerated. Shed say to her friends, Well, what can you do? Let him be.
The house itself was stuffed with oil paintings in gilt frames, crystal, heavy mahogany furniture, brash ornaments, Turkish rugs. In the middle of the parlour sat a white grand piano; atop it, a vase of artificial lilies.
That piano was all show. Not fakeGod, no, a proper Steinway & Sons. But for me, a symbol of what was empty; no one played, the vase never moved, the lid never opened.
When we first got it, my wife invited musicians round for evening parties, but the piano never became the heart of it. They all preferred the stereo.
I called it the vase table, though it was as costly as a three-bedroom flat in central London.
My wife tried learning, hired a music tutor, but dropped it. If it wasnt a manicure or massage, she rarely stuck at anything.
She hadnt stuck with pregnancy either; though it seemed cruel to blame her for that. Still, I always felt her self-absorption had denied her motherhood.
Lately, I couldnt help dwelling. I had once known a woman who could have made that piano truly sing.
Still, I missed my wife. In those last years, things eased. We both fell ill; we walked in the square together or drove to the park, feeding the ducks in the big pond nearby. I took up fishing. No longer did we need to prove anything.
Why didnt we ever come here before, Vivienne? Its lovely Id say, as we sat beside the pond.
Shed shake her head, Fools, thats all.
But, in those days, we were always running. I climbed the Whitehall ladder, eventually made the Ministry. My father-in-law pushed me too quicklynever letting me linger in any role before ushering in the next promotion.
And it was earned, I admit. I was a decent managerhardworking, astute. My father-in-law, Sir Edwin Jenkins, a top government man, couldnt have hoped for a better son-in-law.
Only in the beginning did I nearly slip through his fingershe meddled to keep me. My wife let slip years after, during a row with her mother, when Sir Edwin was long gone.
So who exactly was she, if you dont mind me asking? the woman prodded, kind but curious.
I hesitated, heart pounding. She? She meant everything I had left, perhaps.
That was enough for my companion. She felt a shiver of pain in my eyes, and moved on. It was clear I was searching for someone truly dear.
I carried on, feet soaked through, ringing, knockingsome people were rude, some indifferent, some indulged a rambling explanation. Then another courtyard, and another.
Exhausted by evening, I stumbled into my hotel room, lying on the bed, coat still on. My legs and back ached, breathing was hard, my head rang. And in the morning, I set off to search again.
***
It had been a rainy autumn. The London pavements were draped in gold, pelted with showers. Streets bustled with market stalls, kiosks, and barrows. At the time, street trading was everywhere.
I came to London with my future father-in-law for a large government conference about rebuilding and modernisation.
It was absolutely pivotal for Sir Edwin Jenkins, who hoped for a transfer to Whitehall. But I, as a young Tom Berwick, waited for nothing. Id somehow wound up as his right-hand man; not through ambition, just hard work.
I oversaw a new factory being built up in the region. I was young, barely through my twenties, and didnt grasp the enormity of the responsibility. Life felt open, like I could redirect it wherever I fancied.
In London, I simply soaked up the grandness of the city. I was in high spirits. Sir Edwin kept sending me on errands, so at the tube stationPiccadilly CircusI heard a violin echoing across the concourse. The sound burrowed straight into my heart, and, rather than heading for the exit, I followed the music.
A slim, almost waif-like, girl in a powder blue beret and diaphanous scarf played her violin. Behind her, the grey, damp wall surged up. She wore a tartan coat and short bootsher legs as slight as a ballet dancers. A violin case sat open at her feet, coins scattered inside.
I froze. The entire tableau was mesmerisingthe heartbreak in the melody, the blue scarf, her curly hair, the gritty wall, her flushed fingers stiffened by cold. She was freezing, but it seemed to inspire her.
Around her, traders and shoppers scurried by, change flicked into the case, but few lingered. Only I stood rooted.
The piece ended. She shoved her violin under her arm, rubbed her hands, adjusted her jumper cuffs. Then she settled the violin on her shoulder again. The bow leapt, a flicksomehow too slick for the streetlike this was a command performance. She closed her eyes; it was as though she was pouring out her whole soul into the music. The tube trembled with her griefthe tune impossibly sad, impossibly beautiful, climbing the cathedral-like walls.
Then, disastera teenager, about fifteen, crouched awkwardly by her feet, grabbed the case, and dashed away.
“Thief! Stop him! Hes stolen it!” shrieked one of the market-women, cutting through the music.
The girl kept her eyes shut, playing furiously, refusing to stop.
I tore after the boy, up the station steps, calling, “Stop that lad!”
A burly man blocked him. The boy shoved, dropped the case, and bolted across the street, weaving through honking traffic.
I didnt keep up. I thanked the man, picked up the battered case, gathering the spilled coins. The case lid hung off. The violinist, flustered, was hurrying up after me.
“He dropped itsmashed the case, the idiot,” I said, still picking at the pavement, “All the money I could find”
“Leave it. Really, its fine,” she said, voice surprisingly rich, “The case was ready for the bin anyway. Thank you.”
She was all seriousness. I sensed the theft wasn’t the true catastrophe troubling her.
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Sometimes,” she said flatly, then drifted away.
I marched after her, unable to let go. But she slowed and slowed, finally stopping on a footbridge. I watched as she stood, staring at the water, the wind tugging her scarf.
She lifted her violin in its damaged case, held it towards the river.
I realisedshe was going to throw it in. I dashed across.
“Please, don’t! You mustnt!”
She hesitated, surprised by me grabbing the case. Now we both clung over the rail.
“What? Why?”
“I couldnt let you”
“Ive disgraced it. I must” and she tried to toss the case properly, but I had too good a grip.
I steadied the battered case, withdrew the violin, safe again. “See? It refusesit wants to give more music.” I smiled. “Why treat it so poorly?”
“I shouldnt have played in the subway. It was wrong. I promised”
“Promised whom?”
“My mother.”
“Shame your mother was so strict. That was the first time Ive ever heard a real violin, really. If you hadnt gone down there” She was already leaving, so I tried to jest, “Strict mother, is it?”
“Mum died two months ago,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“OhGod, Im so sorry. Forgive me, truly. So sheoh, I see now. Sorry.”
Together, we walked in silence. The wind rattled wet branches, leaves underfoot. She spoke first:
“I only ever played for her. I hardly livedI just played. Now theres no reason to, for anything, no music, nothing left.”
“But your soul wanted musicyou wouldnt have been in the station otherwise, right? So”
“Its not soul, its hunger. I have nothing left, not a penny, nothing to eat…”
“But thats fixable!” I was glad to help, delved in my pocket. “Heresome cash. Not much, but tomorrow I could bring more from the hotel.”
She glared, indignant.
“You think Id take money from you? Please. Dont follow me anymore.”
Her stride lengthened.
“Sorry! You can see Im a fool. But pleaseIll be waiting tomorrow, at the same spot! Ill watch for thieves!”
The next day, work kept me until the afternoon. By the time I reached Piccadilly, she was gone. She wasnt there in the morning either, according to the traders.
How I waited! I paced for hours, hoping. Fortunately, she returned.
She saw me, but feigned not to. Setting down her case, she played. A market-vendor brought me a camp stool, knowing my vigil. I sat, transfixed.
Two hours passed. Her music now contained a hint of warmth. As the day ended, with traders packing up, I dropped some large notes into her case.
“What are you doing!?” She darted a glance at the cash, then at me, startled”Take it back, its far too much!”
“Its fair. My choice, my money.”
She gathered the banknotes, thrust them into my hand. “Idiot! Youll make yourself a target. Come on, quickly.” She stowed her violin and strode up the stairs.
Already, two bulky men were coming down. She sighed, “Here they come…”
How was I to know that London had its own street laws? That you had to pay for your pitch? Yesterday the violinist had upset these mens business. Today, they were watching her new benefactor.
“How much do we owe then?” she stammered, frightened. Shed seen them extorting stallholders before.
“Let your rich friend pay up!” one grinned.
A fight broke out. I managed to handle two, but more joined in.
The girl ran to a nearby shop. Police arrived in the nick of time. I was slumped in the dirty corner of the tube, head ringing.
Police broke it up. The men left, bruised and empty-handed.
She knelt beside me.
“Hospital?”
“No. I just need tobreathe,” I muttered, touching my swollen jaw.
“Then get in a taxiback home. Where are you staying? You should at least clean up. I dont know where A&E is…”
“Im staying at a hotelno good in this state, its Whitehalls own establishment.” I surveyed my injuries.
“Fine, youre coming with me,” she said firmly.
At hers, it was all faded corridors and the communal tang of onion, dust, and old boots. A neighbour muttered into the phone. She opened her rooma living space with a little bedroom at the back, two rooms of her own.
High ceilings, curtains drawn. In one corner a portrait, quite young for a memorial picture, the frame wreathed in flowers. Beside it, an old upright piano covered in a lace cloth and a parade of elephants. Books everywhere.
That evening, I changed into what she found for me. Used the shared showera drunk neighbour shouting You again? Some fancy gent using up all the hot water? Whos your chap, girl?
“I dont know. Were not acquainted…”
Wrapped in a towel, I peered, “Im Tom as well!” For Id told her my name the day before. Just then “Oh, a cockroach,” she announced.
We both jumped. She with a slipper, I with bare feet.
The cockroach was quickerdarted under worn lino.
She dabbed my bruises with foul-smelling ointment, made tea with rusksshed little else in the house. She darned my torn suit, listening as I spun tales of construction up in the North, of London life. She told me of withdrawing from the music college.
“My neighbour offered me a spot at the market. Ill help her run the stall.”
“But you play so beautifully!”
She shrugged, sad but resilient. “Musicians arent in demand today. Never mind. Here you are, trousers all mended. First time in a gentlemans house and left without trousers.”
Her smile was dazzling. I left, bought sugar and groceries, returned, and she mumbled as she accepted, but let me promise Id visit again.
I watched her window, second floor, rowan bobbing beneath. Yesrowan, I remembered. Tall poplars behind. Sir Edwin spotted my black eyehe was livid.
“Where the devil have you been, at A&E? Youre to stay with me. Thats final.”
But he was busy, and I found a chance to slip away. That day, I found the right courtyard and house.
I came with cake and gifts. Alexandra was cross, pretended to be, but we spent the whole day in the rain, ducking under awnings, laughingI pestered strangers, “Did you know this girls a violin genius?”
She recited poetry, dozens of verses. We shivered, bought a giant mug of hot coffee, and shared it, happy together.
Later, I kissed her. I asked her to come back north with me, to marry me. Her face clouded; she recited lines sombrely:
“This is the song of our last meeting.
I gazed at the dark house.
Only in the bedroom, candles burned
With a yellow, uncaring light…”
“Come on now, what last meeting? I mean itMarry me!”
But all she said was, “Lets go home…”
That night, in my t-shirt, she played rousing marches on the piano, we chased the cockroach again, the whole communal block in uproar, then came the night…
We sat on the sill, watching rain snake down the glass. Another poem, about tides, partings, and silence.
“Youre coming with meno arguments! No more partings”
Morningtelephone rings, neighbour hammering the door, I was summoned to answer.
Sir Edwins voiceno anger, only sadness.
“Urgent! Youre being charged, Tom!”
Alexandra watched with strange calm.
“Ill come back. I must. Its a mistake”
“Of course you will. I believe you. She quoted Akhmatova
I secret spells on the future,
When the evening is most blue,
And sense the second meeting,
Unavoidable, with you. Farewell, Tom.”
But I was worrying about the criminal charge. What had gone wrong?
Had someone told me it was all lies, I wouldnt have believed them. The evidence seemed thorough enough. Allegationsmalpractice, misspending, corruption.
Id lacked real experience; I signed documents blindly.
Which all suited Sir Edwin. He was a seasoned old hand.
“Do you know what you face? Up to twenty years! Not some open institution either. Youll come out ruined… Dyou think I want that? But I could pull strings, if… Marry Vivienne. Then Ill move mountains for you.”
I looked him in the eye.
“I cant. I love someone else…”
“Who? That violinist?! I know where youve been. Had your fun, but nobody marries their holiday romance. Well, do as you like, but youre on your own now.”
I was scared. The very next day, an investigator came round. Grilled me over every weak pointsmall infractions, easy to exaggerate. I broke into a cold sweat, slept badly.
And, in the morning, Sir Edwin handed me a train ticket.
“Go home at oncewell watch your back here.”
At Euston, a violin concerto played over the loudspeaker. I went round the back, punched at the wall, probably for the first time in adulthood, and wept.
***
Id already realised that, in England, old ladies on park benches were your best allies in such a search.
“Alexandra?” Two women eyed each other. “Wasnt that the one who died this spring? Her son came up in a giant car.”
My heart clenched. That was my worst fearthat shed died, never knowing. That I was already too late.
“Dont say such things! Youll scare him. He said right-hand entrance, not left. It was Anastasia who died, not Alexandralived over there,” she said, turning to me. “You alright, love? Should I call someone? Ignore her…”
“True enough, true enough, Anastasia,” nodded the other.
Once more, I went round, ringing, knocking, retracing. I found no rowan, no landmark treeperhaps I was just light-headed from all the searching. Heading towards the hotelpast another squareI suddenly glimpsed, over my shoulder, a blue scarf, and that walk
“Sasha!” I almost called, voice cracking.
The young woman didnt turn, so I hurried and touched her shoulder.
“Sasha!”
She turned. She looked like almost exactly like
“Sorry. Mistaken identity.”
“No bother. It happens. And I am Sasha, actually.”
God, who was I looking for? Not a woman of thirty, but someone nearer sixty. Im sixty-five; Alexandra was younger Was I seeing ghosts?
Again, I returned to my hotel, done in. Tomorrowmy last day. But would I have the strength?
I lay in bed until almost midday, no energy at all. Last night Id possibly overdone the heart pills; today, I wanted nothing but to sleep until my train. But I got up, skipped coffeebit wary for my heartsipped tea, and called a taxi. Though the hotel, right off the squares, was walkable, not today.
Outside, I lingered by a courtyard, unsure where to start now. Then I noticed, across the street, a music shop with violins in the window.
I crossed over, entered the shop.
“Can I help you?” the young shop girl asked.
“Yes, could you show me that violin, please?”
She brought it out, carefully.
“Want to try it?”
“NoI dont play. I just knew a woman, once, a violinist who lived in these houses. Called Alexandra…”
“Alexandra? Pemberton, do you mean?”
I blinked, hope flaring. “I dont know her surname. Alexandra Pemberton, you say? Do you know her?”
“Well, yes.”
“I I think Ive been looking for her three days now,” I admitted, then thought to myself: Really, searching all my life. “Any idea where she lives?”
“Not exactly,” she hesitated. “But she lives somewhere round herewith family. Is she married?”
“She ismarried? Has children?”
“Yes, and a young sonabout eight” Realising, perhaps, shed said too much.
“Son? How old is your Alexandra?”
“About thirty something.”
“Mind if I sit?” I sank onto the soft chair, loosened my coat.
“You alright? Water?”
“No, noI just failed. Again. Couldnt find her”
The shop girl watched me leave, perplexed.
Outside, I looked at the houses and, for the first time, noticed some tall poplar treesstanding behind just one courtyard. Perhaps not the ones I remembered; forty years ago, the originals mightve been felled and new ones planted. Still, I walked into that square. I really had the energy for just one more.
I met an amiable old couple, arm-in-arm on their evening stroll.
“Excuse me, Im searching for a woman named Alexandra, about sixty. Played violin lived here in the seventies or eighties”
The couple exchanged glances; the woman asked her husband, “Thats Marjories daughterShirley isnt it?”
“Did you know them?” I barely breathed.
“We did, we did. You look a bit peaky, lad, come sit here,” she said, guiding me to a bench.
“They lived just here, right entrance. Second floorsee? Over there.”
“There used to be a rowan under that window, right?”
“Exactly! There wasa long time ago. The council pulled it up in the renovations. The mother, Marjorie, was always pulling her weightShirley running round with her violin. When Marjorie died young, Shirley was left alone, expecting a child. Cleaned floors in our hall for a while. Took in student lodgers. Pupils would come for violin lessonsa tough life. But just look at her daughterfamous now, well-off.”
“And wheres Shirley?”
“Moved onno idea where. But her daughterll know. Shell tell you. Go on updont be shy.”
“So her daughters here?”
“Yes, she lives in the old flat with her family. Famous violinist now. You mustve heard of herSasha Pemberton. Everyone knows her.”
My legs went to jelly. I guessed the flat, buzzed the entryphone.
“Hello?” a mans voice.
I faltered.
“Er I…”
“Which flat?”
“The Pembertons,” I managed.
“Im listening,” he said, suspicious.
“I feel faint,” I gasped. “I need Shirleys addressyour mother-in-law, maybe.”
The door unlocked.
Slowly, I shuffled upstairs as a young man hurried down to meet me.
“Are you alright? You really dont look well,” he said, arm under my elbow, helping me inside.
“Comedont worry about shoes, just lie down,” he insisted, guiding me to the sofa.
Embarrassed, I perched rather than sprawled, and didnt look around.
Thenshe entered. The young woman Id chased the day before, mistaking her for Sasha. In lounge clothes: a baggy t-shirt that looked like Sashas from that night long ago. The absolute image of her mother.
God. Her daughter. My head reeled as they checked my blood pressure, pulse, rigged a strange medical device to my arm.
“Your pressures high,” the man declared.
“History of a heart attack.”
“Right, Im calling an ambulance. Will you go?”
“No. Im just tired. Let me rest here, and Ill be right.”
“Im not so sure.” He looked stern. “But Ill give you an injection.”
He left to whisper in the hall; a boy of eight peered around the door.
“Come here, young man,” I beckoned gently. “Whats your name?”
“Sasha.”
I smiledperhaps his father too?
“Whats your middle name?”
“Michaelits my dads name. And Mums Alexandra Michaelovna.”
The father came back, sent his son off, and gave me the shot.
“Sorry for all thisjust turning up and being trouble,” I said, fastening my belt. “But your motherhow is she?” I asked the woman.
“Sit down, relax,” she insisted. “Well have some special tea for your heart. Mums fine. Did you know her?”
“Yes. Long ago. Ive been here beforethe flats changed. It was the rooms on the right, then.”
“That was a drunk old blokes home We knocked two rooms through, once we bought the whole flat. Lived abroad, earned, now Mums her own place.”
“I have to see her. Sorry to ask, but your age?”
She sat, head bowed, looked at me.
“Eighty-one. July birthday. Are you are you my father?”
I pressed a hand to my heart (from force of habithonestly, it was holding up).
“I swear I didnt know about you. But I should have should have known.”
We moved to the bright kitchenunrecognisable from that old digs.
“No cockroaches, I hope?”
She laughed. “God, noIm terrified of them! Why?”
“Your mum wasnt. She went after them with a shoe.”
We drank tea. Maybe it was the injection, maybe tea, maybe just being with real blood, a daughter and grandson Id never suspected, but I kept wiping my eyes, pretending it was the tea that made me sniffle.
“Tell me about you and Mum. Hard life?”
Her husband tactfully steered their son away: “Ready to play draughts, mate?”
She began, “Hard at first, yes. But Mum always said, my birth saved hergave her new life. I was tiny, under two kilos. So she fought, from the startcouldn’t stop. Worked three jobs, rented out our flat until I was nine. But we managed, like everyone.”
“I’m so sorryfor both of you. I was weak…”
“And your life? Why did you not return to Mum? She always said it was fate, circumstances. She never blamed youor maybe she did, but she always said she wanted a child, and she always insistedone day, wed all meet again.”
“Should I ring her now? She’s still waiting, I know it!”
“No please, let me go to her. Alone. Just once. You understand?”
Her husband reappeared, “You really should go to hospital. This is too much on your heart.”
“Afraid itll kill me not to see Sasha Give me her address, please.”
“Ill drive you. But then, straight to A&E!”
“Deal,” I agreed, turning to my grandson, “Listen to your dadsee?”
Down the stairs, I turned to look at daughter, grandsontwo Sashas.
“All this life, not knowing” My heart pounded with excitement.
It didnt take long; new blocks arose in what used to be open ground.
“Here you are. Shall I come up?”
“No, let me go aloneplease.”
“Fifth floor, one-eighteen. Heres the key for the door. Dont scare my mother-in-law, yeah? Text if you need”
I could hardly move: knees, arms, even time felt heavier.
At lastflat 118. I pressed the bell. What to reply if she asked, Whos there? Should I just say Tom? But would she understand?
The door opened, no question. She hadnt changedonly her hair lay smoother, her cheeks fuller, not so sharp as years ago. The same Sasha. Only two days, back then. But as if wed shared a lifetime.
She looked deep into my eyes. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“Sasha, I I forgive me” My legs buckled.
I dont recall if I meant to collapse at her feet, but I did.
She knelt instantly.
“Tom! Tom, what is it? Don’toh, darling, what now?”
We sat together on the hall floor, gripping each others arms. Chaotic words fell out.
“I found you! Finally! Why did I wait? And a daughter tooall this time Do you see, Sasha?”
“Yes, yes Rest easy. Of course you couldn’t know. How?”
“I’m a fool, a traitor Dont forgive me, dont let me stay”
Come off it. I always knew you’d return. Whats the point sending you away when Ive waited?
I started quoting her old poem. She finished it.
” and sounds are stilledby the sorrow of this parting of me, and you.”
But she was already calling her son-in-law. You’re not well, she said, rising.
He’s downstairs, I gasped.
“What?”
“He drove me here.”
Soon the car rushed us all to hospital. We sat in the back, holding hands. Son-in-law handed over an inhaler; I could breathe.
I dont want a hospital. Ive only just found you.”
“And I won’t leave you alone. Ill be here, Tom,” she said, soothing me.
I cried thennot just from relief, but regret for years wasted. I could have found her sooner
“Don’t cry. Its alright now,” she murmured. “Youll get better. We’ll be together from now on.”
Yes. Now, only together
She tried to calm mereading poetry, just as before.
She quoted, I cast secret spells on the future, at the bluest moments of the day, sensing the meeting to comea second meeting, with you.
The car hurried through the night streets of London, carrying us to a place where I might, at last, realise my longingto live life with the woman Id never stopped loving, sharing the gift of our rediscovered family.
I hadnt been too late for happiness. Id made it, in time.
