Im searching for a woman named Alexandra.
Passing under a low archway, I entered a courtyard in central Manchester, still mottled with half-melted snow. It was the fourth such court Id checked today. Childrens playground equipment rested in puddles, while a handful of boys played ice hockey with a battered puck. Water splashed everywhere as they smashed it back and forth, but none of the boys cared.
I stood below the arch, scanning the square, hoping memory would latch onto some detail and dredge up the past more clearly. Nothing here seemed as it wasback in those distant days. Of course, so many years had slipped past. Then, there were only lines of washing, makeshift sheds under peoples windows, clumps of phlox, and the odd wooden bench.
Now well, everything changes over such a stretch of time. Really, nothing can help but change.
No one paid me much heeda distinguished older gentleman in a tweed cap with fur trim. Here, amid the cluster of four buildings, many let their flats out. Manchester
I needed to go to the house just to the right of the arch; that much, at least, was certain. The second floor, I remembered, and a three-storey building. The flat was deep in the corridor, the second on the right, tucked into the corner. There, on the doorframe, a cluster of buzzerseach an odd shape or colourmarked with the surnames of communal tenants.
I remembered everything inside: the folds in the curtain, the warped little window latch, the kettles forest green, the squeak of floorboards, and even the cockroach that took two days to catch. Every detail, hidden in the guts of that home
But I couldnt remember her flat number or the building number itself. Only the street. The courtyards here all looked much the sameManchester built a hundred of them in the same pattern. And I wasnt certain about the entranceit might have been the second from the arch. The buildings were identical, like siblings.
So I wandered from courtyard to courtyard
Right-hand building, second entranceno, second main, as theyd call it here, second floor, door up the back Flat forty-three? Or?
If there was a caller box in the building, Id punch in 43.
Hello, Im looking for Alexandra. Can you tell me, please
Sometimes theyd cut me off, tell me no one by that name lived there, sometimes even that thered never been such a person. I had to try again.
Im sorry, but this is very important to me. Would you know if, perhaps in the spring of 1980, there was a woman named Alexandra in your flat? Please, it means a great deal.
After the third courtyard, I took out my notebook.
16 nothing, 24 definitely not, 32A dont know, they bought it
So many courtyards. Id have to double back to some of the places where no one had answered, or where questions hung in the air.
I climbed the wide, gently sloping steps to the silent, echoey entrance hall. Tall windows hazed with dirt, the air redolent with the smell of cats. That scent had been there even in the old daysI remembered.
Good afternoon, I said, bowing slightly.
A kindly older woman in a sensible grey overcoat, shopping bag in hand, was coming toward me.
Hello, who are you here for? she asked politely.
Im looking for Alexandra, a woman about sixty or so. Do you know if someone by that name lives here?
Which flat?
The corner one, on the right. But it was a very long time ago. When there were still communal flats I cant recall the exact building.
Corner flat? No, thats the Evans family in therehusband, wife, and their two kids. Never heard of an Alexandra. Ive been here since I was a girl, she replied.
Thank you, I said, lowering my head and starting to descend the worn steps.
She followed a few paces behind.
If you dont mind my asking her surname?
If I knew, Id have found her in the phone book or somewhere like that. I dont remember, or rather, I never knew.
Really? Who is she to you, if you dont mind my asking? she was curious, obviously.
I looked back, hesitated. I wasnt sure what to reply.
She?
And who was she, really?
Alexandra Alex Sandy
Love doesnt give a neat definition. It just isor it isnt. The rest is a hodgepodge of feelings and the possible fallout.
Id always believed love was fragilea delicate thing, unable to survive a long absence. That it would fade, vanish. The occasional bursts of happiness from memories of those days kept me upright, yet pierced as well.
I blamed myself. Ive lived for forty years now with a broken heart.
All these memories, perhaps, kept my heart beating. When my wife passed awaythe woman with whom Id spent almost my whole life, but with whom, in recent years, relations cooledsomething crumpled inside. The heart tapped outa heart attack.
We rarely fought, even as we drifted, separated by an invisible wall. We retreated to separate rooms and shared only domestic words, treading politely around each other.
My wife saw the house as hers. In the presence of her many elderly friends, shed say, What can I do? He just lives here. May as well let him stay.
The house was crammed with gilded, gaudy paintings, glittering crystal, ornate imported furniture, patterned trinkets and plush Persian carpets. In the centre of the lounge stood a gleaming white grand piano, bearing an expensive vase of silk flowers.
That piano was a fraud to me. Not that it wasnt realit was a genuine Steinway & Sons, imported from America. Still, it felt like a fake, for no one here ever played it, and you had to move the vase to lift the lid, which nobody did.
My wife threw a few parties and even hired a piano teacher for herself, but, in the end, she lost interest. She rarely finished anything but a manicure or facial.
She didnt follow through with the only pregnancy, either. Though, in fairness, I shouldnt blame her. Still, I always thought her vanity played a part in motherhoods denial.
Lately, Id been pondering it all. Id known a woman, once, who could have made that piano come to life.
Regardless, I missed my wife. In our final years, we softened. Both unwell, wed take slow walks around the court or in the park, feed ducks at the big pond nearby. I took up fishing, oddly enough. We had nothing left to prove to each other.
Why didnt we walk here earlier, Sue? Its really quite lovely, Id say as we sat by the waters edge.
Fools, werent we? she always nodded with a faint smile.
Before, wed been runningalways to fill a role, to chase advancement. Id made my way through the civil service, rising as high as the Ministry in London. My father-in-law coached and pushed me. No sooner did I adjust to one office than his hands were at my back, ushering me up again.
It was deserved, I admit. I was capable, industrious, good at leadingthough, truthfully, I took risks and demanded a lot. My father-in-law, Sir Ignatius Parker, once Deputy Chairman of the Ministerial Council and Head of the State Construction Committee, had big dreams for me.
But that very ambition nearly led him to lose me at first; plans were hatched. My wife told me years later, after her fathers death, after a falling out with her mother.
And what is she to you, if you dont mind my asking? the older woman pressed again.
I looked back, hesitatednot sure what to say.
She? Shes all I have left, really.
She asked nothing more. She saw the pain in my eyes and understoodI was searching for someone precious.
I trudged on, to the next courtyard. My feet were wet. I rang buzzers, knocked on doors, braced the harshness and confusion, and sometimes spent long moments explaining myself. Then it was on to the next court, and another…
That evening, I returned to my hotel worn thin. I flopped on the bed with my coat still on, closed my eyes, and waited for the pain in my legs and back to subside. Breathing was heavy, my head aching. The next morning, it all started over againI went out, searching for her.
***
It had been a wet autumn then. Manchesters pavements lay under a golden crust of leaves, and the rains never let up. Street trading thrivedstalls, carts, sellers with goods balanced on tarps everywhere.
Id come to the city with my future father-in-law from Newcastle, invited for a building conference, amidst all kinds of new political and economic reforms.
For Sir Ignatius, then Secretary of the County Council, it was importanthe hoped to be posted to London. Young Alex Morrismewas only hoping to prove myself. Id come up fast on the coat-tails of party activism but didnt really plan my life or career. I just worked.
Id been overseeing construction of a new factory in the region, carrying responsibility I was too young to gauge fully. Life felt manageablelike I could spin it how I wanted.
In Manchester, though, I was swept up in the city itself. The mood was glorious. Sir Ignatius had me running errands, and it was while running through Piccadilly Circus that I heard ita sweet, flowing violin melody. I strode, not out but toward the sound.
A slim, pale young woman in a powder blue beret and a gauzy scarf was playing violin. The wet, grimy wall behind her looked bleak, her short plaid jacket damp at the cuffs. She had slender ballerina legs in short boots. An open violin case on the pavement took coins from passers-by.
I stopped, transfixed. There was something altogether poignant in it: the melancholy of her tune, the blue scarf fluttering, her halo of curly hair, chapped hands and the streaked wall. She shivered a littleit was clear she was freezingbut played with an edge only cold can give.
Stallholders watched, buyers haggled, someone bought an apple, someone else tipped a few coins. Most didnt linger; only I stood rooted.
When she finished, she tucked the violin under her arm, rubbed her stark red hands, and pushed the sweater sleeves under her coat.
Then violin up, bow overheadher own autumnal dance. Eyes closed, her music poured out in a kind of farewella strange, abject kind of gift.
So much sadness in that tune! The music seemed to crawl up the stained wall and stretch to the sky, arguing for something words could never express.
I was lost in the music when
A teenage boy suddenly squatted clumsily by her feet, snatched the violin case, and sprinted off.
Thief! Stop him! Thief! a stallholder shrieked, her voice cutting through the melody.
The girl didnt even open her eyes, still playing, more fiercely if anything.
I chasedthe first to react, bounding up the steps undeterred. Stop that boy! I yelled.
A burly man stepped in front of the fleeing lad, who crashed a shoulder but lost his grip on the case. Seeing me, the thief panicked, flung the case aside and bolted across the roaddarting between braking cars.
I let him go, gathering up the scattered coins. The case was damaged, lid broken off. The violinist was making her way up, looking rattled.
He dropped this. Broke the case, the wretch I was still scanning the ground for coins. Here, its all I found, I said, handing her the change.
No, thats enough, dont bother, she replied, voice deep for someone so delicate. The case was old anyway. He didnt really break it. Thank you.
She looked serious but didnt seem as upset as Id expected. Something deeper weighed on her.
Does this sort of thing happen often? I tried to get her to talk.
She turned away: Sometimes. Her answer was flat as she walked off.
I should have gone the other way but found myself following. She stopped on a small bridge, setting the violin case on the rail, gazing at the water below.
To my shock, I realised she meant to throw the violin in. I sped over.
Please, dont do that! I cried.
She hesitated, startled by my presence, but then we both held onto the case, suspended over the river.
You again? Why?
I cant let you I spluttered.
I let her down. I should She almost dropped it, but I clung on; the case balanced between us.
I managed to lift it to safety. The instrument slid out, unharmed.
See? She resists. She still wants to sing, I smiled. Why would you do that?
I swore never to play in subwayspromised my mother.
Tough promise. But todays the first time Ive heard real violin, you know. If you hadnt played there I trailed after her, desperate to keep her talking. Youve a strict mother, dont you?
Mum died two months ago.
Oh! Im so sorry Forgive me, I
Wind rustled the gold leaves in silence before she spoke.
I always played for her. For her sake. Now theres no one. No reason to play or live.
But you yearned for music. Why else come here?
Its not for my soulits for my belly. Ive run out of money. Im starving.
Thats fixable! I said, relieved, and dug for my wallet. Here, not much but Ive some at the hotel tootomorrow Ill bring it.
She shot me a scolding glare.
You really think Id take your money? Really? Dont follow me.
She hurried on. Im an idiot, I know! I called. Tomorrow, though! I’ll wait for you in that subwayall day if I have to! Ill chase off thieves!
But the next day was difficult. It took all morning to slip away. By afternoon, I was racing to Piccadilly. No violinist. The stallholders said she hadnt shown in the morning either.
Three long hours I wandered that square and Street, up and down the Underground, waiting instead of attending Sir Ignatiuss urgent business. At last, I was rewarded.
She arrived, glancing my way but ignoring me. She busied herself, started to play. A matronly stallholder handed me a folding chaireveryone could see Id been waiting all day.
I listened for hours. She smiled, oncethat was happiness enough.
By now the sellers had left, and when she began to pack up, I slipped a handful of generous notes in her case.
What are you doing? Her eyes flashed as she scooped up the cash in alarm. Take it back. Its too much!
Its your due. I’ll pay what I like.
She pressed the money into my hands. Youre a fool! This is dangerous. Lets go, quick! She hurried me up the ladder.
Two stocky men were descending. She sighed.
I had no notion then that local gangs ran things in those daysno one made a living on the street for free, everyone paid, especially new faces. The day before, she hadnt paid; now theyd spotted her admirer.
Alright, how much do I owe you? she asked fearfully.
Let your gentleman friend pay up! they leered.
A fight began. I was used to scuffles, but two more thugs joined in
But she ran for a nearby shop and arrived with the police. Just in timeI was being battered against a grimy wall, as people muttered about declining city morals but did nothing.
The officers broke it up. Bruised, but relieved, I thanked them.
She hovered over me.
Hospital?
No, honestly. Ill be fine.
Then back to my placequick. She helped me to my feet, hailed a cab, and gave the driver her address. Id try and remember it for years, but it would always escape me.
In the communal flat, the hall smelled of onions, dust, and old shoes. Somewhere a phone burbled. She opened her roomreally two rooms; a bright sitting room with a tiny bedroom off to the side.
High ceilings, heavy curtains at the sash windows. In a corner, a portrait of a young woman, encircled by flowers. Against the wall stood a piano, dressed with a lace cloth and little elephant figurines.
Books. Books everywhere.
These memories travelled with me all my life, slipping into consciousness when I was low, sometimes bringing quiet joy, sometimes melancholy isolation.
She treated my bruises with a foul-smelling ointment while we ate digestives with teashe had nothing else, not even sugar. She darned my torn trousers, and we talked.
I told of my factory work, why Id come, my life in Newcastle. She explained hersshed quit the conservatoire, was to help a neighbour with a market stall.
But youre an incredible player! I protested.
Its just musicians arent needed these days, she said, handing back my patched trousers. Hereput them on. First trip and Ive already stripped you of your dignity!
Her laughter was enchanting. I left, but soon returned with bags of sugar and groceries, insisting she accept them. She grumbled, relenting only for my promise to visit again.
Beaming, I looked up at her window; she waved back, smile broad. Second floor, rowan tree under the window Yes, a rowan treeI remembered. Behind the house, tall poplars.
Sir Ignatius, clocking my bruises and black eye, was furious.
Where have you been? Hospital? You stick with me from now onunderstood?
But he grew busy, and I soon slipped away.
I found her court, the house, the flat. Came with cake and groceries. Alexandra chided me, but that day we roamed Manchester together, dashing through rain from one awning to the next, sipping hot coffee from a massive mug, reciting poetry in the drizzle.
She was radiant.
We eventually kissed, and I asked her to come to Newcastleasked her to marry me. She suddenly recited lines from a poem
This is the song of our last meeting.
I looked at the dark house.
Only in the bedroom, candles
Flickered disinterestedly yellow
Why last? I want to be serious. Please, marry me I implored.
Come with me, come on, she tugged.
There, in her room:
Are you sure you want this?
Yes, I want it Stay tonight.
I rang Sir Ignatius, spinning another storymore hospital drama. Maybe he didnt believe me.
She played a lively march on the old piano in my t-shirt, we chased the flats one surviving cockroach, and the night
Later, huddled on the windowsill, watching rain pelt down, she recited:
The world succumbs to disaster,
Tides turn to breakers,
And all music diesthrough the agony
Of being apart from you.
Youre coming with me! No more sadness! I promised. Ill say I fell in love and left Manchester only with my fiancée.
The next day
The flats old neighbour called out for mean urgent call waiting.
Sir Ignatius wasnt angry; he was quietly regretful.
Theyre opening a criminal case, Alex. Serious charges, he said.
Alexandra looked at me with a strange sadness.
Ill come back. I swear. It must be a mistake
Of course you will, she said softly. Im sure. And while I gathered my things, she recited more lines: I secretly conjure my future if the evening is deep blue, and foresee a second meeting, an inevitable meeting with you.
But I was already afraid. I was called in for questioningminor infractions, expenses, corruption. I didnt sleep that night.
Sir Ignatius handed me a train ticket. Leave. Quickly. Well sort the rest.
As I reached the station, a violin concerto played on an old radio by the newsstand. I hid behind the building and wept my first adult tears.
***
I soon realised that the older ladies on the benches could be the best source of information.
Alexandra? Two elderly women exchanged glances. You mean the one who died last spring? Remember, her son came in a flashy car?
A chill hit my chest. This was my greatest fearthat shed not waited, that shed died. It would feel like my own end.
Dont say that! the other rebuked her. He said the right-hand entrance. That was Anastasia who died, not Alexandra. Those were the other flats. She turned to me. Dont fret
Oh, right, yes, Anastasia the second confirmed.
I went onringing, knocking, retracing my steps to those courts where Id had no answer, searching for rowan trees. I began to feel dizzy from the sheer effort.
On my way back to the hotel, I glanced at the broad road and spotted a music shop. Violins gleamed in the window.
I crossed and walked in.
Can I help you? a young assistant asked, tidying bows behind the counter.
Yes, may I see that violin?
She handed it over carefully.
Would you like to try it?
Oh, I dont play. I once knew a woman, thougha virtuoso. She lived nearby. Alexandra
Alexandra? Alexandra Pritchard, by any chance?
I dont remember the surname, I replied. You know Alexandra Pritchard, the violinist?
Yes.
I think Im looking for herIve been searching for three days, I admitted, though in truth it was a lifetime. Do you know her address?
Not exactly. But she and her family still live herein these buildings. Why?
Shes married, then?
Yesoh, and a little boy, maybe eight. The assistant faltered, realising shed said too much. Shes about thirty or so?
Mind if I sit? I asked weakly, sinking onto an armchair and fumbling with my coat.
Are you alright? Can I get you water?
No, thank you. Its justI cant find her cant find her I muttered as I left.
Out in the street, poplars stood tall behind one courtyard. Only one. My heart pounded as I made for that court, knowing I couldnt check many more.
An elderly couple were strolling.
Excuse meIm looking for a woman in her sixties, Alexandra. She once lived here, back in the 70s or 80sa violinist in her youth, I said, by now quite used to repeating my script.
The couple exchanged a glance.
Marthas daughterSandy
You knew them? I could barely breathe.
Oh yes, yes. Are you alright, young man? Come, sit
We sat on a bench. They lived herethose were her windows, second floor.
There used to be a rowan tree outside. Do you remember?
Yes, yesthere was, for years She spoke fondly. Her mother worked hard. Sandyd always run about with her violin. Martha died young, and Alexandra was left alone, pregnant. She scrubbed our stairs for a while, took on lodgersa few students. Taught music too. Her daughters quite renowned now
But where is Sandy?
She moveddont know where, the old woman shook her head.
Despair settled in again.
Ask her daughtershell know. She still lives in that flat with her own family. First entrance, second floor, corner flat to the right. Really, you should go up.
Her daughter lives here?
Yes, yes. Shes quite a well-known violinist herself. Everyone knows her.
My legs shook as I pressed the entry buzzer.
Hello! a mans voice responded.
I hesitated, words eluding me.
Er, I
Yes, who is it?
The Pritchards Im looking for Alexandraprobably your mother-in-law.
The door clicked. I climbed slowly, breathing hard, and a young man came hurrying down.
Are you all right? Here, lets get you sitting. Im a doctor. Dont worry, just take your shoes off and lie back.
I obliged, slumping into the nearest sofa. I hardly looked at the flatit was all a blur.
A moment later, she appearedthe woman Id followed in the street, mistaking her for Sandy. She wore a simple house dressa replica of what Sandy had worn that last night. In every detail, she was her mothers image.
Good heavensher daughter! My head spun as they fitted me with a blood pressure cuff.
Your BPs high, and your pulse A heart attack, was it?
Yes, a few years ago.
Im calling an ambulance. Hospital is best.
No, Im just tired. Some rest and Ill be fine.
Im not sure about that, the doctor insisted. Ill give you something to help.
He left to confer with his wife. Into the room peered a small boy, maybe eight.
Come here, lad, I beckoned. Whats your name, then?
Sandy, he answered proudly. Well, Alexander really. Alexander Michaelson. Dads Michael, Mums Alexandra.
The doctor returned with a syringe. Sorry for intruding, but this is important, he smiled. Now, what did you want, really?
I need your mums address, Sandy. How is she? I asked the young woman.
Well have tea firstherbal, for the blood pressure, she said kindly. Mums fine, yes. Did you know her?
A long time ago. I used to visit this flatwell, not this exact room, one further right. That was a heavy-drinking mans in those days.
Yes, we knocked through two rooms into this big lounge about fifteen years agoafter we bought the communal flat. Abroad work paid off. Nowe havent any cockroaches, if thats what youre looking for.
None? Oh, there used to be. Your mum waged war on them in slippers, I smiled.
We sipped tea; whether the jab, the company, or simply my daughter and grandson at hand, I wiped away tears disguised as a sniffle.
Tell me, Alexandrawas it very hard for you and your mum?
My husband will take Sandy for a board game, she said, sending the boy away.
We managed, she told me honestly. My birth saved her, she always said. Gave her purpose. We took lodgers, she worked several jobs, taught music to neighbourhood kids. We survived.
Im so sorry, for everything. I should have so much.
How did you live? she asked. I tried to explain what happened all those years agothe misunderstandings, the pressure, the way circumstances had torn us apart. Mum always said it was just fate. She wanted a child anyway. But I know, she waited for youall her life. Shed say, The second meeting will happen. I feel it.We ought to call her. She still waits for you.
Noplease, let me come to her myself. Please, I said.
Her husband reappeared, stern. You really ought to be in hospital But no one listens to the doctor, do they?
I have to see Sandy today. Afterwardhospital, if you insist.
All right, he relented. But Im driving you both ways.
As we left, I paused on the landing, looking at daughter and grandsontwo Alexanders. Ive lived never realising what family I really had.
It wasnt farmodern high-rise blocks.
Fifth floor, number 118. Theres a lift, and heres the entry fob. Dont startle your mother!
I could hardly lift my feet for nerves and age.
I reached flat 118. Pressed the bellwhat would I say? She might ask, Whos there? and Id just reply, Alexander. Would she know?
The door opened without a word.
She hadnt changed muchher hair now softer waves, cheeks gentler, the awkward beauty of youth filling out but still unmistakably, irrevocably her.
She stared right at me, waiting for me to speak. I felt mutechoked up.
Sandy, I please, forgive me, Sandy My legs buckled.
She knelt by my side without pause.
Oh, Alex! Alex, get upare you alright? Oh, pleasehow?
We sat there, by the entrance, clutching each other’s elbows, talking over and through each other.
Ive found you! Why did I take so long? Everythings wasted I gripped her tight.
You didnt know about our daughter, I know I waited. I knew youd return one day.
Ive been a fool, Sandy. I abandoned you. You should never forgive meI dont deserve it
She pressed her fingers to my cheek. No, Alex. Theres nothing to forgive. I knew what you faced. I was never angry. I waited
We both recited the poetry she loved, sharing lines as we used to.
But I wont call your son-in-law, she murmured as I started to tire; hed be furious if I didnt rush you to hospital.
Hes downstairs, I smiled weakly.
What?
He brought me here.
We climbed into the car, hands interlaced. The doctor handed me an inhaler and I breathed easier.
I dont want a hospital, Sandy. I just found you.
Ill be at your side. Now and always, she said, stroking my hands. Dont cry, Alex! All will be well. Youll recover and well be together.
Yes. Only together
To calm me, she recited that old poem one more time:
I conjure the future in secret, if the evenings a deep blue, and I foresee a second meetingan inevitable meeting with you.
Manchester flew by outside the window as the car rushed to hospital, carrying someone to the life hed always hoped fora life with the woman hed loved from the very start.
He had not missed his chance at happiness. At last, hed made it.
