– I’m Looking for a Woman Named Alexandra

Im searching for a woman named Alexandra.

He ducked beneath a low stone arch into a London terrace courtyard, ankle-deep in slushy snow. It was the fourth courtyard hed tried. Children squealed on a sodden playground, crashing through muddy puddles, battered football at their feet. They didnt much care for the weather.

He lingered in the shadow of the archway, letting his eyes trace the familiar yet unrecognisable outlines of the yard. He longed for a memory, even the smallest detail to snatch him back to the years gone by. But nothing quite matched what lived in his mind. So much had changed. Once, there were only clotheslines, rough sheds tacked below windows, clusters of phlox and plain wooden benches.

Now, everything had shifted. And how could it be otherwise, with so many years passed?

No one paid much attention to the distinguished old gentleman in his tweed cap with a furry trim. Here in the clutch of terraced houses, too many flats were let to passersby, and too many new faces had come and gone. London

He was sure it was the house to the right of the arch. That much hadn’t changed in decades. He recalled the floorsecond, in a three-storey block. The flat was set back, second door on the right, tucked into a corner. Beside the door were rows of mismatched bells, each marked with the surnames of the flats residents.

He could remember every detail insidethe worn green teapot, the squeaky floorboard, the bent window latch, the moth-eaten curtain, even the cockroach that theyd hunted for two long days. He remembered everything inside that old flat.

But he had forgotten the numberand the houses address. He only remembered the street. Londons Georgian terraces blurred together, courtyard after identical courtyard. The architecture was the same, right down to the arched doorways and winding stairwells. He wandered on, uncertain even of the entrance: was it the second from the arch? They all looked the same.

He continued moving through the courtyards…

Second building, right stairwellno, here they called them staircasessecond floor, right at the endwas it the forty-third flat? Or…

If the building had an entry-phone system, hed push 43.

Hello, Im looking for Alexandra. Could you please…?

Sometimes people cut him off, insisting no Alexandra lived there. Sometimes, they corrected himno man or woman by that name. Occasionally, he had to try again.

Sorry, its very important. Was there, perhaps, a woman named Alexandra living in your flat around 1980? I really must know.

After three courtyards, he pulled out a battered notebook and scribbled down: 16no answer, 24definitely not, 32athey didnt know, bought recently

Courtyards sprawled endlessly. Hed have to circle back to those where no one had answered, or where there were unresolved questions.

He ascended the stone steps of another formidable, echoing entryway. Tall sash windows, caked with grime, exuded a faint odour of catsa scent unchanged through the decades.

Good afternoon! He nodded politely.

An older lady in a sensible grey overcoat, shopping bag swinging from her arm, approached.

Good afternoon, who are you here to see? she enquired.

Im heading up to the second floor. Im searching for Alexandra, a woman in her sixties. Do you know if such a person lives here?

In which flat?

The corner one, right-hand side. But its been a long time, back when this was all bedsits. I can’t for the life of me recall the exact house

Corner flat? No, thats the Johnsonshusband, wife, two kids. No Alexandra there. Ive lived here since I was a girl, and Ive never heard of her.

Thank you, he muttered, lowering his eyes, descending the chipped old stairway.

She followed him down.

Excuse me, what was her surname?

If I remembered, Id have found her in the phone book, he sighed. I just dont know.

How do you know her, if you dont mind? she pressed, not unkindly.

He hesitated. She watched his face, waiting.

She…? I suppose… shes everything I have left.

The woman asked no more, unnerved by the pain in his look. Clearly, he searched for someone precious.

He headed for the next courtyard. His shoes soaked, he knocked, called, suffered strangers brusqueness or long conversations full of stammered explanations. And then again, to the next courtyard, and the next

Exhausted by evening, he collapsed onto his hotel bed without removing his jacket, eyes closed, limbs aching. In the morning, he went back to his search. Again.

***

Back then, autumn in London was soddenpavements slick and golden beneath drizzle. Street traders called out around mobile stalls and battered tables, even sold what they could by hand.

He had come to London with his future father-in-law, Mr. Roberts, for a conference on the state of housing and construction during a wind of political change. Critical for Mr. Roberts, eager for promotion to greater thingsthe Cabinet awaited him back in Westminster. Young Alan Mercer, however, had no designs, though hed risen curiously fast, from party youth leader in Manchester to the right hand of Roberts. He rarely made plans, just worked hard.

He supervised a new factory build in the region but was still young enough not to understand the weight of the task. Life seemed negotiablea thing he could shape at any whim.

So in London, he let himself enjoy the city. The older man sent him on endless errands. And then one afternoon, at Oxford Circus underground, Alan heard musica sweet violin melody that pierced right through the rush and clatter. Instead of heading out, he went towards the sound.

A slim, delicate girl in a powder-blue beret and gossamer scarf played her violin against a rainy grey wall, her check coat short, legs as lithe as any ballerinas, feet in neat little boots. An open case on the ground still gathered coins. Something about the scene stopped Alan where he stoodthe haunting music, the girls blue scarf, her unmanageable hair, raw red hands, the citys grit behind her.

Shoppers bustled by, traders hawked, someone tossed coins, but few lingered. Only Alan stood completely still.

She finished, tucked her violin under her arm, and rubbed her cold hands together, pulling her jumper sleeves over her wrists.

Then the bow rose with a flourishshe played again, closing her eyes and pouring everything out. A bleak, heartbreaking melody filled the underground, sadness etched into every note.

Alan lost himself in the musicuntil a scruffy teenager lunged by, snatching the case.

Thief! Stop him! a market woman shrieked, the notes barely dying.

The girl played on, not seeing what happened.

Alan gave chase, bounding the stairs, never letting the boy out of sight. He shouted, Stop him! and a burly man blocked the boy, who then dropped the case and darted into traffic. Alan didnt risk pursuit across Oxford Streethe thanked the man and collected coins scattered on the wet pavement.

The violin case was already battered, its lid dangling at an angle. He turned to see the violinist ascending, worried.

Here you are. He dropped itcases broken, Im afraid Alan gathered the coins. I found everything, I think

Its fine, its always falling apart, her voice was oddly mature, Thank you.

But it seemed she was troubled by something deeper than the theft.

Does this happen often? Alan managed, keen just to know her name.

Sometimes, she said coolly, already turning away.

Alan should have gone back the other way, but his feet followed her. She slowed, then stopped at a little bridge, staring at the water below, her blue scarf fluttering in the wind.

He watched, then realised, with a start, that she meant to drop the violin in the water, to say goodbye. He hurried to her.

Pleasedont! Dont do it!

She hesitated, surprised by his presence. They held the case together above the river.

Its you! Why?”

I couldnt let you”

I disgraced it. I cant bear it anymore, she said, flicking her wrist. But Alan held the case, and the violin refused to go.

He lifted the battered violin to safety. See? It resists. Let it keep giving music, please.

Why would you stop me? I shouldnt busk. I promised

Promised who?

My mother

Maybe she was just strict. Ive never heard a violin played like that, you know! If you hadnt played underground” The girl gathered her belongings.

You have a strict mother, dont you? he tried, jokingly.

My mother died two months ago.

Oh! Alan stammered, Im so sorry

For a long while they walked in silence, blown by a melancholy wind that swept up yellow leaves. It was she who finally spoke.

I only ever played for her. Now I have nothing to play for. Or to live for.

But your soul wanted music, didnt it? Why else busk in the tube, if not that?

Its not my soul. Its hunger. Ive no money, nothing to eat

We can sort that, Alan exclaimed. Here, I have” He started to fumble for his wallet, but she shook her head.

You really think Id take your money? Dont follow me, please.

She stalked away despite his apologies, moving fast. He called after her as she disappeared, Ill wait for you tomorrow, there, in the tube! Promise youll come, Ill keep you safe from thieves”

But the next day was complicated. Alan couldn’t get away until afternoon; she wasnt there. The stallholders told him shed not come in the morning, either.

He waited three hours, pacing the plaza, ignoring Roberts impatient messages. And then, finally, she returned, setting up again as if he were invisible. A market woman handed him a folding chair.

Everyone knew hed been waiting. He was grateful and sat, listening for hours. Eventually, she smiled at hima moment of pure happiness.

Afterward, he tried insisting on giving her money, but she pressed it back into his hands.

Youre daft! Dont you realise it isnt safe to carry cash here? She hurried him away from the station.

But already two stocky men were making their way down.

Thats that, then she murmured.

In those days, Londons underground belonged to unspoken rulesno one made money without paying dues. The violinist had annoyed the wrong people, and now the heavies watched Alan.

How much do I owe? she asked nervously.

Let your friend pay up! they sniggered.

A fight broke out. Alan was no coward, but soon he was outnumbered. The girl ran for help, and police arrived just as things became dire.

Alan, battered, was offered a hospital.

No, Im fine, honestly, Alan replied, prodding a sore cheek.

Call a taxi, go home. Where do you live? the violinist fussed.

Just a hotel. But I cant go like thisits the partys accommodation.

Come to mine, then!

She hailed a cab and gave an address in a part of London Alan never again managed to recall. The corridor of her shared flat smelled of onions, dust, old shoes. Someone argued on a phone, coats blanketed overcrowded pegs.

She opened a doortwo rooms, really. Tall ceilings, thick curtains. Photos on the wallone, of a beautiful, too-young woman, framed in lilies. An upright piano under a lace cloth, porcelain elephants lined on top.

And everywherebooks.

These were the memories he carried always. They came when things were bad, comforting him; or when things were good, making him melancholy. Sometimes, in the midst of laughter, hed go inward, lost in their details.

She patched his wounds with a pungent ointment; they drank tea with bland biscuitsthe only food she had. She darned his torn trousers while he talked of the factory job and life in Manchester. She explained shed left music college; was helping a neighbour at the market for work.

Youre a gifted musician, Alan said sincerely.

Its hard times. No one needs musicians now. She handed him his mended trousers. Here, put these on; you cant go visiting strangers with no trousers.

Her smile floored him. After saying goodbye, he went out for sugar and other supplies, returning brandishing the groceries. She protested but kept his promise to visit again.

He watched her window, second floor, a trembling rowan tree outsidehe thought there was a rowan, he remembered. Beyond it, tall poplars. Yes.

When Roberts saw Alans bruised face, he was furious.

I ought to Have you lost your mind? No hospital? Stay with me, no more wandering off!

But in time, Alan escaped. He even discovered the courtyard, the block, the flat.

He brought cakes and groceries. They went for walks in the rain, took shelter beneath arches, giggled as Alan teased strangers with silly questions.

Do you know this girl is a violin virtuoso? hed tell strangers.

Sasha recited poetryshe knew infinite verses. Cold, they bought hot coffee and took turns sipping. They were happy.

And then they kissed, and Alan asked her to Manchester with him, to marry him. She went pensive and recited quietly:

This is the song of the final meeting.
I looked upon the darkening house.
But only the candles in the bedroom
Still burned with an indifferent yellow flame

Whats this, Sasha lovefinal? Im serious, marry me

She urged him home.

That night she played marches on the piano in his t-shirt, then together they tried to corner the notorious cockroach once more, before falling into each others arms.

After, they sat on the window ledge watching the rain. She recited more verses:

Nature succumbs to decay, the tides grow wild,
The world is shrouded in longing, in sounds stilled
All for the sake of our partingme from you

Therell be no parting, Sasha. No more sadness. Ill tell everyone todayIve fallen in love, and Im bringing home my fiancée!

Then, morning.

A sharp knockAlan, youre wanted on the phone. The whole house must have known where he was.

Roberts was on the line, uncharacteristically somber.

Theres troubleAlan, theyre opening proceedings against you.

Sasha watched him, silent.

Ill be back. Ill settle thiswait for me, Alan promised.

Of course Ill wait. I believe you. She quoted softly:

I secretly lay spells on the future,
Should the evening turn deepest blue,
Feeling sure a second meeting awaits me,
An inevitable meeting with you

Alans mind reeled with confusion. What was happening? Who would falsely accuse him?

If someone had told Alan then it was all a lie, he might not have believed themthe trouble was well orchestrated, with official papers, interviews, numbers. Malpractice, overspending, corruption…

Hed signed papers in a hurry, as he often did, out of naivety. And Roberts? He was a seasoned hand.

You know what this means? Twenty years, hard time. Youll come out a broken man. Dyou think I havent tried? My hands are tiedunless

Roberts toyed with his pen. You know my daughter. She dotes on you. Marry her. Ill turn the world upside down to get you out of this.

Alan looked at the older man.

I cant. I love someone else

Who? That violin-playing waif? Youll forget her. All this, its a passing tour. Marry on a whim, will you? Dont be stupid. Or face whatever comes.

Alan panicked. A detective came that day, asked questions, pounced on every irregularity. Alan sweated, sleepless. Morning saw Roberts handing him a train ticket, urging him to leave.

At the station, a violin concerto played through loudspeakers. Alan hid behind the ticket office, punched a brick wall, tears unexpectedly sharp.

***

Alan soon learned that old ladies on benches were the best sources when looking for someone.

Alexandra? two pensioners exchanged glances. Wasnt she the one who passed away this spring? Her boy came in that big car.

A weight dropped in Alans chest. That was his greatest fearthat she had died, not waited, that he was too late.

Stop it, youll frighten the man. He said right-hand staircase. That was Anastasia who died. She was in the other block. And to Alan, Are you alright? Want us to call someone?

True, trueAnastasia, rest her soul the other old woman confirmed.

He called at doors again, searched in vain for the rowan tree. His mind played tricks. Walking back to his hotel, he suddenly spotted, from behind, a woman with a blue scarfthe familiar walk.

Sasha! he tried to call, but found only a feeble croak, Sasha!

She didnt turn. He hurried after and tapped her shoulder.

Sasha!

The young woman turneda resemblance, but

Sorry, I must have been mistaken.

Happens all the time. My names Sasha too, she replied, and her laugh chimed just so

Good Lord, who was he searching for? Not this young woman with the blue scarf, but a Sasha now in her sixties. He was sixty-five, Sasha was a little younger. His mind was playing tricks

He returned to his hotel, weary and hollow.

He would spend one final day searching Londons terraces.

That morning, he slept late, energy long depleted. Last nights heart medicine still fogged his mind. He gulped tepid tea, called a cabhe couldnt face walking.

He stood across from a familiar courtyard, not knowing where to start. Then, over the road, he spotted a music shop, strings displayed.

He crossed and entered.

Anything I can help with? asked a girl behind the counter, nose dusted with freckles.

Yes, may I see that violin?

She handed it over, careful and precise.

A musician, are you?

Ohno, Alan said, But I knew a woman who played beautifully. She lived just there, in those blocks. Alexandra

Alexandra? Not Alexandra Pemberton, surely? the shop girl asked.

II cant remember her surname. But you know her?

Certainly! She and her family live over there. Beautiful daughter too.

She lives? She married?

Oh yes, a little boy too, about eight. Im not sure of her agethirty-something, I suppose.

Alan asked to sit, lowered himself into a soft chair, unsteady.

You sure youre alright? she asked.

I amorno. I didnt find her. Not after all this He got up and left, muttering, Didnt find her, didnt find her

Outside, the old poplars stood visible above one courtyard only. After so many years, could they be the same trees? He walked that way anyway.

A kindly couple was walking arm in arm. Alan approached.

Excuse me. Im seeking a woman, in her sixties, named Alexandra. She lived here in the 1970s-80sa violinist, perhaps only in her youth

The couple exchanged a look.

Thats Marys daughterShirley the woman said.

You knew them? Alan asked, not daring to breathe.

Oh yes, but youve gone pale, sir. Come, lets rest.

They sat. They lived herefirst stairwell, there, those second-floor windows.

Was there ever a rowan tree outside?

Yes, yes! But its long gonebig renovations, you see. They struggled. Mary raised her only girl alone, and when Mary died, Shirley had to manage by herself, and expecting, no less. She took lodgers and taught violin to students. Still does. Clever girl, now quite a success.

Wheres Shirley now?

She moveddont know where. But her daughter lives in the old flat with her family.

Her daughter?

Indeed. Go on, dont be shysee for yourself.

So he made his slow way up the steps, buzzed the first entryphone. How strange, hed thought it was the second.

Who is it? a mans voice barked.

A moments panichis speech failed.

ErI

To the Pembertons, yes?

II might faint Alan gasped, collecting himself, Im looking for Alexandra, perhaps your mother-in-law

The door buzzed open.

He climbed with painful slowness; a young man met him halfway.

You alright?

Just the address of Shirley, if you have it, Alan managed. The man guided him into the flat.

Lie downdoctors orders. Shoes off if you like.

Alan sat on the sofa, didnt look around.

And then, she enteredthe young woman hed mistaken on the street. In a long t-shirt, legs bare, just as Sasha had been that night, a spitting image.

She, clearly Sashas daughter.

He was measured, monitored, device strapped to his arm.

High blood pressure, the son-in-law pronounced, and tachycardia. Heart condition?

Heart attack before, Alan admitted.

Ill ring for an ambulance

PleaseI only need to rest.

The man left. The door opened again: a boy of eight.

Come here, hero, Alan beckoned, Whats your name?

Sandy. My dads Michael, my mums Alexandra Pemberton.

Michael returned, explained the medication.

Im so sorry, all this bother. I need your mothers addresshow is she?

Well have tea first, chamomileit helps the nerves, the daughter said. Mums alright. Did you know her?

He nodded.

I was in this very flat years ago, though in a different room. That one had a heavy drinker in.

She laughed. We knocked those two rooms together after buying out the bedsit, thanks to work overseas and a bit of good fortune. Mum now has her own place, just nearby.

I need to see her. Forgive an old man asking, but which year were you born?

She smiled. Eighty-one, July. And youre Alan? Are youmy father?

Alans heart skipped. Not for the first time, he clutched his chest.

By all thats holy, I never knew about you, Sandy. But I should have

Her husband ushered their son out for chess. Sandy stayed with Alan.

We got by. Mum says my birth saved her. She fought hardworked three jobs. We took in lodgers for years, violin students always coming and going. We survived.

I wronged you both. I did.

What happened, really? I never understood. Why did you part? Sandy asked.

Mum always just said fate intervened. She told me she wanted a child, but I know she waited for you. Always waited.

“Lets call her now! Sandy said, springing up.

Noplease. Let me go to her myself. Please, Alan said softly.

Her husband poked his head in. I really think you ought to go to hospital. After you see her, alright?

Alan raised both hands. Deal.

Leaving, Alan looked over his new-found family. So thats the life I lived, eh, Sandy? And all along, I had all this

They were soon at Shirleys blocka newer estate, high up, flat 118.

Do you want me to come in?

No, let mejust let me have this.

“Alright. Fifth floor, remember to call if you need me. Go easydont frighten Mum!”

Alan shuffled to the right door, heart pounding. He rang.

No question came from within. The door opened, and there she was: grey now, hair softer, cheeks less full, but still the same Sasha. Only two days, all those years ago, and yet their lives had twined for eternity.

She looked at him, and he at her. Expectation and turmoil in her eyes.

Sasha, I… I Forgive me, he began, then collapsed at her feet.

She knelt instantly.

Alan! Are you alright? Sit up, hold on

There on the floor, hands clinging to elbows, they wept, stumbling over one another’s sentences.

I found you Why did I wait so long? I didnt even know about Sandy Alan whispered. Please, forgive me. I was so lost.

Theres nothing to forgive. I always knew youd return. I waited, Alan. I just waited.

I should never have left. I remember what you told me then

I remember too. ‘Nature succumbs to decay…'”

They sat together. Sasha stroked his brow. My son-in-laws a doctor. Lets ring him.

Hes outside, Alan smiled.

In short order, her son-in-law was driving them to hospital, Alan clutching Sashas hand in the back.

I dont want to go to hospital. I only just found you, he pleaded.

Ill stay by your sidealways now, she soothed. He squeezed her hand.

Tears welled uptears of sorrow for lost years, but also a hard-won joy.

Dont cry, Alan. Its alright now. Were together, arent we? Sasha comforted him, then murmured the old lines:

I secretly lay spells on the future,
Should the evening turn deepest blue,
Feeling sure a second meeting awaits me”

And so they sped through the city, towards healingnot just of heart and body, but of old wounds and lost time. He was not too late for happiness, after all.

He had made it home.

***

Sometimes, the sum of a life lies not in grand gestures, but in the courage to searchhowever lateand open your heart for love again. For even when decades slip by, its never too late to reclaim hope, forgiveness and a second chance at joy.