Im looking for a woman called Alexandra.
Through a low, rain-lacquered archway, he stepped into the well of a courtyard dimly lit and thick with slush. A fourth courtyard, he thought drowsily, or maybe the fourth flavour of the same sweet, echoing dream. Children scattered on a patchy playgroundtheir shouts splashing about with a football that flung silver-grey water in an indolent ballet. The boys didnt care about the water, or about time, or about memories.
He lingered under the arch, his tweed cap askew, the wind tugging gently at the worn cuffs of his coat. The dream made him ache for a detail that snagged in his mind, drew up the silt of memoryany trace that signposted the past. But all was overturned. Not the washing lines, not the creosoted sheds, nor the raggedy benches; gone were the phloxes and old ladies with lapdogs. Everything had shifted, as if London herself had shaken her skirts and sent the buildings a-scurrying.
Well, how could it be otherwise when thirty-odd years had drifted by? Rain and time had sanded all trace away.
The tenants paid him no heed. They saw a distinguished elderly gentleman in a cap with faux-fur liningnot an interloper, just another lodger or perhaps a forgotten uncle. This was London, after all: the very name smudged with comings and goings, with rented flats and borrowed time.
He knew he needed the house to the right, just beside the arch. That detail at least his brain insisted on. Second story in a three-story terrace, the flat buried at the end of a long, uneven landing, second door to the right. He could picture the row of mismatched bells beside the door, each scribbled with a surname, buzzing through the walls of the old shared hallway.
He recalled every crease in the curtain, the warping window catch, the clumsy green kettle, the whinging floorboards, the cockroach theyd tried (and failed) to catch for two days. All of it lay in the marrow of the house, the marrow of his mind. He remembered everythingexcept the number of the house, or the number of the flat.
He just remembered the street.
Was it the Mews? Or Hatherley Street? Courtyards like linked goblets, one spilling into the next. The buildings looked like siblingsall brick-cheeked and damp, every detail doubled by the dream.
So he wandered through those echoing yards.
Right-side house, second door, second entranceno, here we call it the main door. Second floor, flat at the back. Forty-three? Maybe.
Where there was an intercom, he pressed 43, and said:
Good afternoon. Sorry, Im searching for Alexandra Could you be so kind?
He was often cut off: No one here by that name, mate, or sometimes, No Alexandra, sorry. Resigned, he repeated the ritual, each call gnawing at his hope.
Forgive me, its important. Back in 1980, did a lady called Alexandra live in your flat? Its important, truly.
After the third courtyard, he took out a battered notepad and scribbled:
16no answer, 24definitely not, 32Adont know, flats recently sold
So many courtyards. He would have to circle back, keep trying whichever doors had not yet spat out an answer.
He ascended the broad, churchy steps of a somber old terrace, sunlight dripping through the time-greased windows, cat-scent moist in the air. He remembered that scent, too, and it wound through the dream like a tune.
Good day! he bowed his head to a woman in a dove-grey coat, her shopping bag nodding at her side.
Hello, are you visiting someone? she asked, mild in her suspicion.
Im heading for the second floora lady named Alexandra. Roughly sixty years old? Youd not know her, would you?
Which flat?
Corner-right. From years agowhen everyone shared kitchens. It was all bedsits then, and I cant quite recall the house
Corner? Oh, no, the Evans family are there nowmum, dad, two little children. No Alexandra here; Im sure. Ive been here since I was a girl.
Thank you, he muttered and began down the hollow stairs, his shoes whisper-soft.
She followed him, curiosity prickling.
Can you recall the surname? You could check the electoral roll.
If I remembered, Id have found her that way. I dont, not really.
So who is she, if you dont mind me asking?
He paused at the landing, words caught in a dream-knot.
She Who is she, indeed?
Alexandra. Sandra. Sandy.
Love isnt a thing you can name: not in daylight. It either thrums inside you or shrivels. All else is confusion, a world of feeling snapped by the possibility of loss.
All his life, Alexander Hope had believed that love was fragiletoo ephemeral to survive swathes of silence, sure to fade. But the memory of lovethe spasmodic happiness that bubbled up in himkept him moving, even as it pained him.
He was guilty. He lived for forty years with a sort of cardiac limp.
Perhaps the memories even kept his heart ticking. When his wife diedafter a long, threadbare marriagehis heart howled, then caved in, and a heart attack felled him.
During their marriage, he and his wife never quarrelled, but over time theyd drifted to separate ends of their grand house. Their contact was limited to groceries and chores; she dubbed it her house. He was, as she told her friends, just there. What would you do with him?
The house was cluttered with faceless faces in gilded frames, overstuffed armchairs, glassware, peacocks and baublesan expanse of carpet, marble-topped sideboards, a blazing white grand piano (on which rested a vase of artificial lilies). The piano was a pure-blooded American Steinway. Yet to Alexander, it was always a false note. No one played it; it wore the vase like a crown.
His wife tried to learntook lessons, then quit, as she quit all but her manicure and massage routines. She didnt finish even her only pregnancyand though that wasnt her fault, Alexander always saw her self-love as the cause.
Still, he missed her. In their last years, they found a sort of peace, tottering together through Kensington Gardens, ducks trailing them at the Serpentine, speaking only in duck-crumbs and soft silences.
Why didnt we do this before, Viv? hed ask.
We were fools, shed reply.
But before, life spun too quickly; ambition, the bureaucracy. Hed risen to the Ministry, her father ushering him from post to post. Alexander was bright, resourceful, and luckyher father, Sir Alfred Evans, adored him.
Only in hindsight did Alexander learn (from Viv, long after Sir Alfreds death, after a quarrel with his mother-in-law) just how much engineering had kept him on course.
Sowho is she? the woman pressed.
He looked at her, heart pounding under his wool.
Shes perhaps all I have left.
The woman said no more. His look frightened hera man chasing something precious and lost.
He pressed on. His shoes soaked; he rang, knocked; sometimes he was scolded, more often pitied, sometimes confided in. Still he circled, courtyard to courtyard.
That evening, he slumped onto the bed at his small hotel, coat and all, eyes clamped shut. His body whined. But the next morningthe endless looking began again.
* * *
He tumbled into older London, the rain-soaked gold of autumn leaves on the pavements, the light clinging to the brickwork. The citys arteries hummed with trade; the street traders hawked from stalls and bare tables, bric-a-brac, oranges, thick wedges of bread.
Hed come back from Manchestera construction conference with his future father-in-law. Alexander was young, a brisk and earnest assistant, pulled towards London by Sir Alfreds plans and Shanks pony luck. But still, hed never dreamt quite so fiercely, until now.
A memory, thencrisp, precise: at Oxford Circus tube, hed heard music. The violin, filigree sweet, cracked through the noise, drew him close, not towards the exit, but to the melody.
A girl in a pale blue beret and a gossamer scarf played with skinny ballet dancers legs. Her violin case gaped, and the crowd lobbed pennies and shillings haphazardly.
Alexander stood, transfixed. Her music and her blue scarf, hair like curled sunlight, her hands red with cold, the wall grim with stainsit all unsettled him. The cold wasnt against her: it fuelled the song, spurring her bow until it seemed she burned.
Traders hawked, people dithered, coins chimed, but only Alexander stood spellbound.
She finished, tucked her violin beneath her arm, rubbing raw hands, tugged the sleeves from under her coat. Then, with a sudden flickbow in air as if to command the seasonshe raised the violin and played again, eyes shut, abandoning herself utterly to the sound. The mournfulness in her melody wound up and up the tiled wall, aiming at an unspoken truth.
Thendisruption. A fiddly teenager sidled by, snatched up her violin case and sprinted. Thief! Thief! howled a stallholder, the music colliding with the shout. The girl kept playing, eyes shut, undeterred.
Alexander lungedcrashing through dream-logic up the stairs, shouting, Stop! Thief! A large man intercepted the boy, who spun, dropped the battered case, and darted into traffic; Alexander rescued violin and coins.
The case is broken, but heres the money, he said breathlessly, scooping shrapnel off the pavement.
No, dont bother. The cases always broken, the girl answered, voice fuller than her waifish form, Thank you.
There was sorrow in her. Deeply rooted and unresolved.
Does this happen often? Alexander asked, hoping to prolong their meeting.
It does, she replied, turning away.
Determined, he followed. She walked slower and slower, finally halting on a stone bridge over the river. The wind lofted her scarf, and she raised the battered case over the rails, as if to consign the violin to the water.
He ran.
Pleasedont throw it away!
She hesitated, startled, and they both gripped the case above the churning river.
Why? she said.
I cant let you
I humiliated it. I shouldnt play here. I promised Mum
She was strict?
Mum died two months ago.
Alexanders apologies stuttered out, the dream full of shuffling grey leaves and the scattered hush of rain.
I played only for her. Now, she said, theres no point. Not in playing, not in living.
If your soul didnt need music, you wouldnt be here. Would you? he countered.
Not my soulmy stomach, she replied flatly, Im out of money. Ive got nothing to eat.
That, at least, is easily fixed. He fumbled in his pocket. Heretake it
With withering dignity, she refused. You really think Id take your money? Dont follow me again.
She hastened off. He called after her, Ill wait for you here tomorrow! Please. Ill protect you from thieves!
But the following day was crowded with duties; he got to Oxford Circus late. She was gone, and the traders told him shed not been by.
He waited hours, pacing underground. And thenshe returned. She pretended he was invisible and played while he, now the talk of the traders, was offered a folding stool to wait, his presence a local curiosity.
He listened for two hours. When she finished, he placed a whole sheaf of banknotes (pounds, bright and clean) in her case.
What are you doing? she exclaimed, covering the cash. Take it back! Its too much.
My pleasure. I pay what I wish, he insisted.
She forced the notes back into his hands. Fool! The worlds not safe nowcome on, we need to go.
As they climbed, two burly men blocked the way. She deflated, recognising the local market enforcers.
How much do I owe? she stammered.
Let your fella pay.
A melee broke out. Alexanderno novice in a scufflefought two, but four they were, and they knocked him to the ground. Only the whir of a police whistle and her quick-thinking saved him; shed dashed for help. Scattering, the thugs fled.
The girl knelt beside bruised Alexander. To hospital?
No, nojust need a moment. He explored his battered cheekbones.
My place, then! She hailed a black cab. Hed never remember the address, though hed pore over it faithfully later in dreams.
In her bed-sit, dark and thinly carpeted, was that faded, sweet smellonions and old novels. She gave him a tea and some squashed biscuits (All I have, sorry).
She patched up his wounds with pink antiseptic. He talked: about the building sites, about Manchester. Shed quit Royal Academy, planned to work at the Portobello market.
Youre a wonderful violinist, he told her.
She only smiled.
When he left, he promised to return with a bagful of groceries. Which he did, apologising as she grumbled, but ultimately let him leave them.
Out in the dusk damp, he saw her wave from the second-floor window, rowan tree trembling beneath. He remembered: rowan there, poplars behind. The whole world shimmering.
His father-in-law caught him sporting a black eye and thundered, Where the devil have you been? A&E?
But duties and errands, lies and larks, did not stop him. He managed to return.
That day, with cake and shopping, he and the violinist dashed through a rain-pelted London, sheltering under doorways, laughing. She recited poetry; he quizzed passersby, Did you know she plays the violin like an angel?
She would freeze, and quote:
This is the song of our last meeting.
I gazed at the darkling house,
Only the bedroom shone
With the yellow indifference of candlelight
Sandy, why last? Im seriouscome with me to Manchester, marry me!
Her smile was brittle. At her flat, she made tea, donned his t-shirt, and played a brassy parade on their little piano. A night of jokes, poetry, the chase of elusive cockroaches, and tenderness followed.
Before dawn, a phone call. Summoned to the phone via her sharp-eyed neighbour, a familiar authoritative voice boomed:
Theyre bringing charges against you, Alexander.
A phantom crime: overspent construction funds, dodgy paperworka convenient crisis for his father-in-laws plans.
The mans threat came with a deal, Marry Vivienne, my daughter, and Ill clean this up. Otherwise, fetch whats coming to you.
Alexander was afraid. He left for Manchester that night, dream music haunting him as his train rattled northwards.
* * *
Alexander, older, noticed that bench-bound ladies were fonts of knowledge.
Alexandra? two looked at one another. No, dear, shes not the one who died last springher son drove an enormous car, do you remember?
His chest thumped; fear bunched in his throat. Not that, not her gone.
No, that was Agatha, not Alexandra, the other piped up.
He trundled on, circling houses, always checking for the rowannever found it.
He grew weary, but one day, crossing the street, he noticed a violin in the window of a music shop.
Inside, a young shopgirl asked, May I help you?
He pointed. Could I see that violin?
You play?
No, no. I knew a woman who didshe lived here, I think. Alexandra.
Alexandra? Not Alexandra Parker? the girl said.
Perhapsthat rings a bell! Was she a violinist?
Yes. Her boys eight, I think.
He slumped onto the nearest seat, unbuttoned his coat. How old is she?
In her thirties, said the girl, confused.
Sorrywrong Alexandra, then. He tottered out, muttering. Not found. Not found.
He walked the streets, pausing before a courtyard with old poplars he didnt quite recognise but followed anyway.
There he met an old couple, taking the evening air.
Im searching for Alexandrawell into her sixtieslived here ages ago. Played the violin in her youth. Remember?
The couples eyes sparked. Marthas daughter? Little Sandy?
You knew them? Alexander begged.
Oh yes. They lived here in the first main door, second floorsee those windows? There was a rowan, but its gone. They were poor. Martha died young, left Sandy aloneshe cleaned our halls just to get by. Students lodged with her sometimes. Taught a handful of kids in her sitting room, violin all day. And her daughterfamous, now. Made her fortune!
Where is she now? hope prickled Alexanders chest.
She moved, havent a clue. You could ask her daughter, thoughshe still lives here with her family. Go on up, dont be shy.
Alexander, heart thudding, climbed the stairs, pressing the bell until a male voice barked, Yes? Who is it?
IIm seeking Ms. Parker. I knew her mother. Could I?
The door buzzed. Supported by dream momentum, Alexander climbed painfully. But a young family welcomed him, and seated him with tea and careful medical attention.
The young woman hed mistaken for Sandy in the street yesterday was, in fact, Alexandras daughterher hair, her posture, her surname.
Are you my father? she asked softly.
He looked at her, stunned, tears leaking at the edges. I never knew. I should have knownshould have Im sorry.
They sipped tea in a kitchen luminous with sun, no cockroaches now. She told him about her mothers struggles, her own smallness at birth, how her arrival saved a life.
Im so, so sorry, Alexander whispered, I didnt know.
Her mother, Alexandrayes, still alive but living across town. Sandys daughter insisted he rest, but Alexander pressed for an address.
Ill take you, her husband said. But then hospital for you.
Agreed.
They reached a new tower block, five floors up, and, at last, the door opened. Alexandra stoodgrey at the temples, more fragile but utterly, entirely Sandy. A wordless greeting, both kneeling, clutching, stammering apologies and forgiveness, talking over each other as if to catch up on the years all in a single breath.
Ive found you! Why did it take me so long? I never knew of our daughter
Oh, but I always knew youd come back, she answered, I waited.
When his heart skipped, her son-in-law was called; an inhaler pressed into his hands and reassurance hung in the air. Alexandra murmured poetry to calm him:
Im weaving fate for the future, silver-threaded, when the evening is softly blueand I can almost believe in another meeting, destined to come true.
The car sped toward St Marys, carrying them, hands tightly clasped at last, toward whatever might comebut together, and at peace. At last, he had not missed his happiness. He had arrived.
