I’m Searching for a Woman Named Alexandra.

Im looking for a woman called Alexandra.

He ducked under a low, mossy archway, stepping into a London mews filled with slushy, lingering snow. The fourth courtyard hed tried today. A battered playpark, a couple of tired swings, and lads bashing a puck around, spraying grimy puddle-water with every slap. Not that the boys caredyour typical Londoners, utterly unbothered by the drizzle or their sopping feet.

He lingered under the arch, surveying the scene and desperately hoping his memory would catch onto somethingan old shed, a particular bench, even a stubbornly resistant patch of phloxthat would drag up the lost details. But everything was different from how it was, buried in the dustier archives of his mind. Naturally, thoughyears had ticked by. Back then, thered only been washing lines taut with sheets, ramshackle garden sheds, flopping bushes, and the odd bench.

Now well. Even the pigeons looked different.

Everything had to have changed over the decades. Had to. Thats what time does.

Nobody gave the slightly distinguished, older chap in the fur-lined flat cap a second glance. Many of these flats were rented out, after all. London was a city that reinvented itself every few seasons.

The house he needed was to the right of the archof that, he was sure. That bit had stuckthree storeys, his was the second, and the flat was tucked away at the deep end, second right, in the corner. The communal doors had bristled with mismatched doorbells, all labelled with the names of the various residents.

Inside that flat, he remembered everythingthe off-kilter curtains, a wobbly latch on the window, a green kettle, squeaky floorboards, and even the worlds most elusive cockroach, which he and Alexandra once pursued for a full two days. All those little things clung to the inside of his skull, refusing to budge.

But names, numbers the essentials? No. He only recalled the street, and this particular stretch boasted mews after mews, like a row of biscuits in a tinall alike, all easy to muddle, doubt the builders could tell them apart. Was the entrance the second from the arch? Or was that only in his head?

So, he kept wandering.

Second house, second entranceno, wait, second stairwell, as they call them here. Second floor, deep-set flat, maybe number forty-three? Or

When he found an entry system, he pressed 43.

Hello, sorry, Im looking for Alexandra. Would you happen to know?

Usually, hed be cut off sharpishnever lived here, nor her, sometimes not even a her at all. Occasionally, someone would humour him for a momentthen not a chance, mate.

Sorry to trouble you, but its awfully important. Was there ever a woman named Alexandra living in your flat, say, in 1980? Pleaseit means the world.

After the third mews, he started jotting down the failures in a little notebook.

16no dice. 24definitely not. 32Aclueless, recent buy

Too many mews. Hed have to come back, catch the unanswered doors, the missed flats, the half-formed maybes.

Hed trudge up the mean, worn stone steps of each block. Huge, draughty staircases with dusty windows, thick with the smell of catsstill the same, that one, after all these years.

Hello! he greeted, giving a little bow.

Back came a silver-haired lady in a practical grey coat, clutching her shopping bag. The type who knew every rival at the local supermarket and would do battle for the last two-for-one tin of Caramel Shortbread.

Hello, love, and who are you looking for? she asked, one eyebrow cocked.

Im after Alexandra. Shed be about sixty now. Any ideadoes such a lady live here?

And which flats that?

Corner on the right. But it was ages ago. Back when these all were big shared flats, you know. I cant be sure of the address

Corner flat? Nah, thats the Dawsons nowhusband, wife, two little ones. Havent heard of an Alexandra. I ought to knowIve lived here since the Beatles were still clean-shaven.

Thanks, he said, head bowed as he headed back down the scuffed steps.

She trailed after him, curiosity getting the better of her.

Whats the surname, mind you?

If I remembered, Id have found her already. I dont know. I wish I did.

And if you dont mind my asking, who is she to you, then?

He hesitated. How do you sum up a lifetime in a stairwell?

She waswell, everything. Alexandra Sasha Sandy

Love has never cared much for definitions. Its just there, or it isnt. Everything else is just a mess of hopeful feelings and disastrous consequences.

Alexander George had spent an entire lifetime assuming love was fragilethat itd fade with enough time and distance. It hadnt. The bursts of happiness that bubbled up when he remembered moments with Sasha had been both a comfort and a cursethey lifted him and yet ached, too.

Forty years, and hed still not outlived the guilt. His heart was never really the same after those memories. Literallythe last straw had been when his wife, with whom hed spent a lifetime both together and apart, had died. That knot in his chest, and thenheart attack.

He and his wife had never really rowed, never hashed things out. At some point, they just drifted into separate rooms, functioning as housematescolleagues in the business of life.

She thought of the house as hers, and him aswell, someone shed just put up with. Shed tell her equally imperious friends, What else am I going to do with him? Let him stay.

The house was a riot of gilded picture frames, cut glass, heavy, carved furniture, knick-knacks of eye-watering expense, and woolly carpets. Right in the middle of the drawing room: a white grand piano with a gaudy vase of plastic flowers.

That pianoSteinway & Sons, genuine, imported, paid for in pounds worth a small Chelsea flatfelt, to him, like a prop. No one had ever played a note on it. The vase never budged.

A couple of evenings after the purchase, his wife invited actual musicians over, but the piano was a dud for the crowd. They preferred a tape deck belting out Elton John.

Alexander privately called it the worlds priciest flower table. Still, it cost more than a three-bedroom in Ealing.

His wife did try lessons. She stuck out six, then gave up. She never finished anything bar her regular massage appointments or the weekly mani-pedi.

She never finished her only pregnancy, eitherthough this, of course, wasnt her fault. But Alexander had a sneaking suspicion that her self-obsession had been the silent saboteur.

Hed pondered all this lately. Hed known a woman who could have brought that piano roaring to life.

And he missed his wife, too. Things got better towards the end. Both poorly, theyd stroll the courtyard, venture to Hampstead Heath, the park down the road, feeding the ducks by the pond. Alexander took up fishing, of all things. What was there left to prove?

Why did we never come here before, Mags? hed ask, as they sat by the water.

Because we were fools, shed reply, with a nod.

But work had always come first. He climbed, and climbedright up to the Ministry. His father-in-law, the great Sir Edward, made sure he rose quickly, constantly rustling for the next promotion.

It was deserved, in fairness. Alexander was clever, driven, a born organiserhe could take a risk without blinking. Any senior committee chair wouldve been desperate for such a son-in-law.

And yet, at the very start, Alexander had almost slipped through his fingers. The details of how had come out years later, thanks to his wifes loose tongue in a moment of mother-heavy dispute. Alexander himself would only piece it together decades on.

The silver-haired lady from the stairwell pressed him again. But who is she to you?

He hesitated, feeling foolish. She might be the only thing I have left, he whispered.

She didnt ask anything more, her eyes stinging for him. It was clearhe was chasing someone impossibly dear.

And so the search continued. Wet feet, knocks met by suspicion or sarcasm. On and on, through every mews, every block, every echo of memory.

By the evening, he staggered back to the hotel. Collapsed on the bed, in his coat. Legs and back on fire, breath shallow, head thick. But by morning, he set off again to look for her.

***

It had been a ghastly autumn, all drizzle and golden leaves sticking to your shoes. On every street, kiosks and barrows flogged everything from umbrella hats to last weeks tabloids, proper barrow-boy chaos.

Hed been visiting from Manchester, roped into a housing policy conference as part of the governments latest attempt at Renewed Community Spiritwhatever that meant.

Crucial for Sir Edward, who was angling for a move to Westminster. Young Alexander was right-hand man now, entirely by accident: the sort that just got things done.

There was a new factory going up back home, which Alexander was overseeing, though he still felt too youthful for all that responsibility. If life was a train, it looked far too easy to swap tracks and go wherever you liked.

Even in London, he was enjoying himself. Sir Edward shunted him on errands, so when he heard music wafting through the bustling corridor at Oxford Circus, he stopped, mesmerised.

A slender, pale girl in a powder blue beret and a gossamer scarf was playing the violin. She stood against a stained wall, wrapped in a checked coat and little ankle boots. Thin as a ballerina, her case on the ground, collecting coins people flung in with barely a thought.

Alexander stopped dead. The music, her tousled curls, the miserable backgroundthe whole vignette cracked with tragedy and beauty. She must have been chilled to the bone, but it seemed to spur her onher playing all passion and longing.

Barrow-boys hawked their wares, punters drifted by, a few coins clattered into her case. Only Alexander stayed, rooted.

She finished one piece and massaged her chapped hands, her violin tucked under her arm, a shiver wracking her thin frame.

Then, just as she went to play again, a scruffy teenager crouched near her feet, snatched her case, and legged it.

Thief! Catch him! bawled a nearby market woman, her cries tumbling over the violins last note.

The girl kept playing, eyes squeezed shut, music seething as Alexander tore off after the boyup the steps, along the pavement, not losing sight for an instant.

Stop him! Alexander called. A hefty gent blocked the thief, who, after a brief collision, dropped the case and dashed across the street, dodging cars.

No point chasing further. Alexander thanked the man and scooped up scattered coins and the smashed case. The violinist, pale and shaken, appeared.

He dropped it. The case is a goner, but I found all the change, Alexander said, fussing about, eager to help.

She shrugged. Dont. It breaks all the time. Thanks, though.

She seemed upset, but not about the theft. Something deeper.

Does this happen often? He tried to start a chat.

She wasnt having any of it.

Sometimes, she said, and went off along the High Street.

He really shouldve been somewhere else, but he followed, unable not to. The girl walked slower and slower, at last halting on a small bridge. Alexander watched as she stared out over the water, wind catching her blue scarf.

She slowly put her violin case on the rail, holding it out over the wateras if she meant to drop it in.

Nodont! he called, jogged up, his hand grasping the case just as she tried to let go.

She was startled but not angry.

I can’t play in the streetI promised my mum, she muttered.

Your mums a hard woman, Alexander quipped, fumbling, Id never heard real violin until today. You probably saved my soul.

But the girl turned asideI suppose you could call it prideand confided, in that hoarse, beautiful voice, My mum died two months ago.

Oh. Im so sorry, he stammered.

For a while, they walked in silence. The wind played with golden leaves, spreading them in wild, shuffling swirls. Eventually, she spoke softly.

I always played for her, for mum. Now Whats the point?

But you wanted musicthats why you played, wasnt it? Not for money?

She half-laughed. Not really my soul, just my stomach. Im out of moneyout of food

Oh, that we can fix! Alexander rifled his wallet, producing a handful of banknotes. Heretake these, and there’s more at my hotel.

She glowered at him then. You think Ill take your money? What do you take me for? Leave me alone She strode off, but he called after her, Ill be back tomorrow. Pleaselet me keep the thieves at bay! Ill wait for you.

The next day was mayhem; work held him until well past lunch. He dashed to the underpass, but no sign of her. He paced and waited. Three hours of wandering, up and down, in and out, sure Sir Edward would burst a vessel. He dug in his heels.

She finally returnedbarely acknowledging him this time as she unpacked her violin. The market women handed him a little camp stoolapparently, everyone knew hed been waiting. He sat, and she played for him for hours.

When she finishedsmiling, happy, completely spenthe arose and dropped a fistful of fresh twenty-pound notes into her case.

She goggled. Are you barmy? Thats a fortune! She bundled the notes in his hands, eyes wide. Take it! Someone will seeits dangerous!

Almost immediately, a couple of bruisers showed upprotection racket heavies, straight from central casting. The violinist blanched.

How much do you owe, then? she muttered.

Let your fancy bloke pay! they jeered.

A scuffle broke outAlexander could handle himself, but there were more of them. The girl ran for help, and soon police appeared, just in time to chase the thugs away. Alexander sat in a puddle, aching, as the girl fussed nearby.

Hospital?

No, Ill live. This is nothing. He inspected his swollen jaw.

Taxi, then. Where are you staying? Her concern was genuine.

He admitted he couldnt return to his government-rate digs looking like hed lost a fight with a wardrobe.

Come to mine, she insisted.

The flat was a communal affairnarrow corridor, the smell of onions, decades-old linoleum, and a phone being monopolised by a neighbour.

Her twin rooms had high ceilings, heavy curtains, and the unmistakable hush of books everywhere. There was a portrait of her mother with flowers in front of it, a battered upright piano, and a homey mess of lace and elephant figurines.

He was patched up with antiseptic, shared tea with plain digestivesnothing else on offerand she darned his clothes, listening as he rambled about construction and life in Manchester.

Shed left music college behind, she explained, and now worked at the market.

Musicians arent wanted, these days, she said, her smile sad.

Still, they laughedespecially at the panicky neighbour, and the never-ending hunt for that crafty cockroach.

He couldnt leave it. He returned later, arms full of food from Tesco, which she protested but finally accepted. Happiness shone through her wide windowsrowan under the glass, familiar after all this time.

Sir Edward, seeing a bruised assistant, nearly exploded.

But Alexander found his way back. He brought more little luxuries. They wandered London, laughing under bus shelters, buying giant coffees, sharing stilted poetry and happier silences.

They were in love. That simple, that sudden.

He proposedshe hesitated, quoting mournful lines about last meetings and candlelight. He chuckled: No way, not when weve just found each other. Youre coming with me.

But then came the inevitable phone callurgent, summoning him to face corruption charges. Sir Edward, face like thunder, admitted: Marry Margaret, and Ill fix this for you.

Alexander couldnt. I love someone else. Old Edwards patience expired. In that case, youre on your own.

Fear and guilt stalked Alexander for the next day. The police grilled him mercilessly. At dawn, Sir Edward pressed a train ticket in his hand. Get out, fast!

At the station, a violin adagio drifted from a speaker as Alexander, out of sight, burst into silent tears.

***

Back in the present, Alexander twigged that the local bench brigade of pensioners were his best chance of help.

Alexandra? The two old dears exchanged glances. Isnt she the one who died last spring? Son came down in a big old car

Alexanders heart lurched. Thats what hed dreaded. That she hadnt waited. That she was lost.

Dont talk rot, Mavisit was Annette who died, not Alexandra. And that was those flats over there.

Fumbling, exhausted, Alexander trudged block by block. No sign of the old rowan tree. He was halfway to giving up when he saw, across the street, a music shop windowviolins glinting in the sun.

He went in.

Can I help? chirped the fresh-faced girl behind the counter.

Yes, that violin there Could you show me?

She fetched it, smiling.

Would you like a go?

Oh, heavens, noI cant play. I once knew a woman who could. She lived in one of these buildings. Alexandra

Not Alexandra Pemberton? The sales girl was hardly older than his lost memories.

I dont recall her surname. You know her?

Yeah, she lives nearby. Married now, with a lad, about eight?

How old would this Alexandra be?

Id say thirty-something.

Alexander sat, all the wind gone from him, clutching his coat: another dead end.

Staggering outside, he nearly missed the stand of tall poplars by a nearby courtexactly like those from before (or perhaps new trees grown in their place). He wandered, footsore, to a bench.

There, a kindly couple resteda proper, gentle English pair, the type that shared Thermos tea and Werthers Originals.

Excuse me, Im looking for a woman, about sixty. Alexandra. Played the violin, long ago.

They exchanged a glance.

Thatll be Marys girlSandy

You knew them? Alexander barely dared hope.

Course we did! They lived in the end flatthere, second floor, always had rowan outside.

He brightened. There really was a rowan tree?

Oh yeschopped down years ago. Mary raised Alexandra alone. Hard days. Alexandra rented to students, gave lessonsshe fought hard. But her daughter, nowfamous violinist. Makes good money.

He grasped for hope. Where is Sandy now?

Moved, not sure where, the old lady sighed.

He slumped.

No, pop up and ask the daughter. Shell know. Shes in the same old flat, famous violinist. Alexandra Pembertonhousehold name.

Bone-tired, Alexander approached the right entrance, found the corner flat. Pressed the buzzer.

Yes? came a male voice.

He faltered, breathless.

Um I

Yes? Who is it?

Im looking for the Pembertons. Could I speak to Alexandras daughter?

The door buzzed open.

Up the steps, a doctor met him, catching him as he nearly fell.

Sit, please. Im Michaellet me check your pulse, old chap. In you comedont fuss with your shoes.

The room was unrecognisable. A girl in casual homeweareerily familiar, like a copy of the Alexandra hed once knownwalked in.

He stared. Of courseher daughter. It was all too much. He clutched his chest.

Their son, a cheerful eight-year-old, popped his head in.

Whats your name, champion? Alexander asked.

Sandy.

He smiled, shaking his head.

And your middle name?

Michaels, after Dad. Mums Alexandra Alexandrovna.

Michael gave him his jab and a lecture about reluctant patients. Alexander apologised.

Id so dearly like your mums address, lovehows she doing?

Well take care of that later. You need tea and a sit-down, Alexandra insisted, and you must tell meare you my father?

He almost choked.

Bless me, I never knew. I should have

They moved to the kitchen. He sniffed. No cockroaches now?

She laughed. Terrified of them. Mum used to hunt them with a slipper.

He dabbed his eyes with his sleeve as she recounted their lifeher mother working three jobs, raising her alone, student lodgers everywhere. They survived.

Eventually: Your visit means everything, you know. Mum always hoped youd come back. She still does. Shall I call her?

No, pleaseI want to come myself. Let me have that.

Michael, grumbling, agreed to drive himon condition that he checked in to hospital afterwards. Deal, said Alexander, patting his grandson on the head.

The tower blocks grew newer as they pulled in. Fifth floor, flat 118. Michael handed him the key, worrying still.

The door opened instantly. Alexandra herself stood thereolder, her cheekbones softer, hair tamer, but still unmistakable.

They both hesitated. Then she stepped asideinviting him in.

He looked into her eyes, lost for words, before blurting, Im sorry, Sandyso, so sorry, and collapsed to his knees.

Instantly, she knelt too, gathering him in her arms.

Oh, Sandydontplease. Are you alright?

They talked over each other, clutching sleeves and shaking, both pouring out the lost decades.

I found you Ive been so slow, so scared But I never knew about our daughter! Please believe me

Yes, I know. I always knew youd turn up. I waited, she whispered.

He choked out lines of poetry theyd sharedshe joined in, hands trembling. When he tried to phone for help, she said softly, No, hes waiting just outsidehe drove me here.

Soon, Michael was escorting them to the car, rushing them to hospital. They sat in the back seat, fingers entwined, Alexander clutching her hand tight. Tears ran down his cheekswhether from relief or the devastation of all the wasted years, no one could quite tell.

Dont cry, love. Now well always be together, she soothed, stroking his hand.

She recited poetry as the London streets swept by, the car a little capsule of past, present, and their redemption.

He hadnt missed his happinessnot this time. Hed made itjust in time.