by Alison May
Well that would be enough to scare anyone off, thought Alex.
Emily filled the silence. ‘Like tonight, he wouldn’t even tell me what he was doing. He got all weird when I asked him.’ She shook her head. ‘Dad’s getting married. Dom’s avoiding me. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to end up alone.’
Alex groaned.
‘What?’
‘Well listen to yourself. You’re twenty-five. Why are you thinking about “ending up” anything? You should be having fun. Sowing wild oats. Drinking worryingly coloured shots. And so what if you end up alone? Being alive isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. It’s about what you do on the way.’
‘And who you do it with?’
‘Exactly.’
She smiled slightly. ‘So live in the moment?’
Alex grinned. ‘The moment’s all you’ve got.’
And this time he didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, and paused for a second. She lifted her face towards him.
Emily
‘No.’ I push him backwards, and jump off the sofa. I’ve got my shoes on before Alex has managed to negotiate the transition to standing up. I grab my coat. ‘I have to go.’
‘Wait.’
I ignore him. All I can think is that I need to get out of here. The front door is locked on the latch. I fumble to open it, which gives him time to catch up with me in the hallway.
‘Just wait.’
I shake my head. Finally, the door swings open. ‘This didn’t happen.’
‘What? Nothing did happen.’
I look at him. ‘The nothing didn’t happen. Okay?’
He nods.
I stride down the street, not thinking, just walking. I make it to the end of the road and turn left and stride down the next road. I go right at the end, and along the next street. Then I turn left. Then right again. Then left. And then I realise that I don’t know where I am. It’s dark. It’s unfamiliar, and I’m completely alone.
This time I feel it coming, but knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any better. My throat tightens and my skin prickles to goosebumps followed by a flush of sweat. I try to swallow but every gulp makes me feel like I’m drowning. I know I have to breathe. I focus all of my attention on the voice in my head that’s telling me to breathe. Nothing else matters. I drop to my haunches and then forward onto my knees, so I’m kneeling on the pavement thinking only one thing. Breathe.
Eventually my body responds. I pull the mouthfuls of lovely cool air into my lungs and close my eyes for a second before I look around. There’s a street sign a few feet in front of my, and I’ve got my phone in my bag. I tell myself it’s going to be ok. I just need to get back to people – real solid people I can rely on – and everything will be ok.
I stand up and call for a taxi, but that means I have to wait and waiting gives me time to think. I didn’t kiss Alex. Nothing happened. I haven’t cheated. I haven’t done anything wrong. Another voice in my head is yelling at me that it’s not that simple. Cheating isn’t just the person you kiss or the person you sleep with. It’s the person you share stuff with that you wouldn’t share with your lover. It’s wanting something to happen, even when it doesn’t.
I close that voice down. I walked away. I did the right thing. I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who has been a little bit distant lately, but who is good and kind and smart enough to realise that going round there and spending the whole evening with a man with stupid eyes is on the cusp of something much, much worse. Alex is a shiny bauble. Dom is what’s real. We have plans together. We’re going to have four children and a nice house and we’re going to be a family. I don’t want to be young. I don’t want to be irresponsible. I want everything to be fixed. Forbidden moments are all well and good but you can’t live a life of moments.
Helen
Helen balanced her sister’s iPad on her knee. The baby was asleep. She had a glass of wine. If she was going to do this, it was as good a time as any. She logged back onto the dating site. She’d tried to explain to Alex that she was giving up after the first disastrous messages, but apparently that did not constitute her ‘being the change she wanted to see in the world.’
One new message.
She opened the message. Andrew from Wiltshire worked for the Crown Prosecution Service, and loved theatre and hill walking. Helen sighed. Nothing too objectionable there. People would always need prosecuting, and the love of hill walking would at least get him out from under her feet for part of the time. She wondered whether working out how much time you could acceptably spend apart was the best starting point for a healthy relationship. A box popped up on her screen: This user is online. He would like to chat with you. Live chat?
She pushed the iPad onto the cushion beside her, and eyed it suspiciously, as if Andrew from Wiltshire might emerge fully-formed out of the screen. Did she want to live chat? One of her motivational sayings popped into her head: ‘What would Alex do?’ The actual printout had said ‘What would Jesus do?’ but Alex had crossed out the saviour of mankind and popped himself in his place. Alex would definitely chat. Actually Alex wouldn’t be hiding behind an internet browser. He’d be out prowling the pubs and clubs, but Helen didn’t fancy that. At least this way she didn’t have to wash her hair and could down wine in copious quantities to calm her nerves. She pulled the iPad back onto her knee and clicked Ok.
A few seconds later a window opened on her screen and the first message appeared.
Hi.
Well that was inoffensive. Helen typed her reply. Hi.
So this is weird.
Yes. It was. I know. Is this your first time online dating?
Yes. How about you?
Same. First time.
Which seemed to put the ball back into his court. What on earth were you supposed to chat about on these things? What on earth did you chat about on a real first date? Helen tried to remember. All that came back to her was the certainty that she hated dates. She wasn’t good at them. She was either too quiet, or too loud, or too dowdy, or trying too hard. She was terrible at chit-chat. Overall Helen suspected she was a bit of an acquired taste.
So tell me something about you?
That was a horrible question. She rehashed some of her profile information. I’m Helen. I’m a university lecturer. I’m twenty-nine.
What do you do for fun Helen?
She remembered Alex’s insistence that reading journals couldn’t be classed as a hobby. What did she do for fun? What was the most fun she’d had recently? Sitting with Dominic in the meeting at work? Probably not something she wanted to share. I like reading.
My ex loved reading.
Was talking about an ex this early in the conversation okay? Helen wasn’t sure. She didn’t have exes. She had Dominic.
How about you? Do you like reading?
A bit, but she loved it. She would devour books – 2 or 3 a week. Okay. This was definitely too much ex talk. Helen started to type but Andy from Wiltshire hadn’t finished. There’s still some of her books in my flat. Do you think I should take them back to her?
Helen took a big swig of wine. There was a feeling growing in her belly. Logically it ought to be disappointment. She paused and savoured the emotion. Not disappointment. Relief. How long ago did you split up?
About three weeks.
And do you know if she’s seeing anyone else?
I don’t think so.
Helen sighed. She was in friend and counsellor mode now. Much closer to her comfort zone than dating. Sorry to ask but why did you split up?
I was busy with work. We drifted apart. I probably could have paid her more attention.
Helen smiled. I think maybe you should take her the books. Three weeks isn’t that long. Maybe you could talk to her about what went wrong too?
You think she might take me back?
Helen had no idea, but she knew what it was like to be in love with someone and be too cowardly to take a shot. It’s worth a try, she typed.
Alex
Alex s
tared at the notebook in front of him. The words were in his writing, but he couldn’t get his brain to make sense of the scribble. Across the dining table from him Helen shook her head. ‘I thought you wanted to help me with this.’
‘Sorry.’ He tried to smile. ‘Where were we?’
‘I’d given you my brilliant “why I want to work here” answer. Traditionally at that point the interviewer asks another question.’
‘Sorry.’ Interview practice. That was the thing. He was helping Helen prepare for her interview. ‘So why do you want to work here?’
Helen leant across the table and took the notepad from his hands. ‘We’ve done that one. You should now be asking me ...’ She skimmed through his notes. ‘Where do I see myself in five years’ time?’
Alex dragged his attention into the room and clasped his hands in front of him in a serious-interviewer sort of a way. ‘So, Miss Hart—’
‘Doctor Hart.’
‘Don’t interrupt the interviewer. It makes you seem snarky.’
‘Well if they don’t know that I’m a doctor I will be snarky.’
‘And also unemployed.’ Alex reclasped his hands. ‘So Doctor Hart, where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’
Helen wittered something about further research goals, and working towards senior lecturer status. Alex zoned out. Five years’ time. In five years’ time he’d be thirty-two. He did the maths in his head. When his Dad was thirty-two, Alex was already eleven. That meant that when his parents were his age, they had a six year old child, and a mortgage, and a sensible car. When his parents had been his age, they were already grown up. Alex was a child by comparison. It was the sort of realisation that he normally greeted with pure relief. He looked across the table. ‘But really?’
Helen looked confused. ‘What?’
‘Forget the interview answer, where do you really see yourself in five years’ time?’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Well I want to extend my research in to domestic work and gender divisions. I’m really interested in male household roles, and how they were perceived.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I said not your interview answer.’
‘But that is what I want to be doing in five years’ time.’
‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘What about you?’
Alex froze. ‘I have no idea.’ He closed his eyes for a second and tried to picture the future. He’d never been able to picture anything very much beyond his next meal, and he’d never wanted to. He’d meant what he’d told Emily. You had to live in the moment. Right now was all there was.
Emily
The new library is clad in gold and silver panels. It’s a concrete and bling nose-snub to the idea of austerity in public spending. I go in and make my way up the escalators to the history section. It’s vast. To the left there are banks of computers, and two rows of other things that look like a picture of a computer drawn by someone from the 1960s. Off to the right are shelves of books, directories and newspapers.
In front of me there’s a sort of high shelf with a computer on it, and a women standing next to it. She looks bored. She also looks like she misses having a proper desk. She manages to smile as I approach. ‘Can I help you?’
I take a deep breath. ‘On your website it said you hold birth, deaths and marriage records for Devon and Cornwall.’
She nods.
‘And local newspapers for Cornwall as well?’
‘We do. Are you looking for something in particular?’
I explain that I’m looking for a particular person, and give her Tania’s name and rough age.
‘Is it a relative?’
I pause. ‘My aunt. She was estranged from my dad’s family. I’m trying to find out a bit more about her. Maybe track her down, get them back in touch.’ I listen to my own voice telling its little lie. It’s only a white lie, and everyone knows they don’t count. It’s not because there’s anything wrong with what I’m doing. This is all for my dad, but I can live without anybody else going on about how it’s none of my business.
The woman nods. ‘Well I can check the births, deaths and marriages for you. What if I get you set up with some local papers to have a look at while I’m doing that?’
‘Thank you.’ I expect her to reappear with arms full of papers for me to flick through, but instead she leads me to one of the 1960s computers.
‘Have you used microfiche reader before?’
I shake my head. I realise that I have seen them before though. There are a couple shoved in a corner of the university library, but I’ve never known what they do. All the academics think I’m the genius though, because I can fix a copier jam in thirty seconds flat. The librarian gives me the two-minute tutorial in using the reader, which seems easy enough. Far easier than fixing a photocopier certainly. Then she shows me where the local paper films are kept. There’s a whole drawer just for Penzance. They’re arranged by date, with six months on each film. There’s an index list but it only lists the main story for each edition. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. This is going to take hours.
I decide to start by looking for a birth announcement. It’s not much, but it would be a start. I find the films for the year Tania says she was born. It’s laborious, and boring, but I manage to scan through the whole year. After the first couple of weeks I get an idea of where in the paper the birth announcements appear, and I get quicker at whizzing straight to them. There’s nothing, and nothing else in the name Highpole either. No weddings, no baptisms, no funeral announcements.
The librarian taps me on the shoulder. ‘I’m afraid I can’t find the birth you wanted. Are you sure it was in Penzance?’
I shake my head. ‘Not a hundred per cent.’
Maybe I should give up. Maybe everyone else is right. If Dad’s happy, maybe that’s all that matters, but I can’t let it go. He might be happy now, but she’s hiding something. He deserves to know what it is.
More in hope than expectation, I go to the index file, and flick through the pages, hoping something catches my eye. I start in 1965. That’s two years before Tania says she was born. There’s nothing that grabs my attention. I’m scanning through the pages on autopilot, barely even taking in what I’m reading. My stomach gurgles with hunger. I ignore it. At some point the librarian comes and asks if I’m okay. I must nod or answer or something because she goes away again. I keep going, scanning through the index. It’s brain-numbing. I can’t for the life of me understand how Helen and Dom do this sort of stuff for a living. I’m almost ready to give up, when I see something. A headline from 2001 Circus Showman Dies. Something Tania said rings the tiniest bell. Didn’t she say her grandparents were in the circus?
I find the film and load it into the machine. My fingers are shaking from hunger and tiredness. I check the date on the index again. 5th October 2001. I find the right edition of the paper, and read the story.
Local politician, showman and circus proprietor, Jozef Polanski, also known as The Amazing Poldini, has died at the age of 82. Polanski was a well-known local figure, who served three terms as a local councillor after retiring from the circus business.
There are two pictures of Polanski. One, apparently recent, shows him in a suit unveiling some sort of plaque. The second shows a much younger man, dressed like a traditional circus ringmaster. I skim the rest of the story. There’s nothing that suggests he had anything to do with Tania at all. The final line says that there will be a full obituary and tribute in the following day’s paper. I scroll forward to the next day’s edition, just to be thorough. The tribute is on page two and three. There are quotes from the mayor and from various local dignitaries. They use words like ‘colourful’ and ‘one of a kind,’ which I take to imply that they detested the man. I concentrate on the pictures. Some are recent – the local councillor in suit and tie. Others are older – showing Polanski the performer, but then there’s one that stands out. It’s another picture of Polanski, but this time in a shirt and cords standing in
a garden. Judging from the clothes it was taken in the seventies or maybe early eighties. He’s with a woman who I guess must have been his wife, and a teenage girl. I squint at the picture. The girl has dark hair, and she’s young, but there’s something about her face. The shape of her jaw, and lips and eyes. It’s Tania. I’m sure it is. Gotcha. I read the caption. Jozef with his wife, Albinka, and granddaughter, Tina Polanski.
I read the rest of the article and then set about my search again. I was sure she was hiding something, but this is worse than anything I would have guessed. Once I know what I’m looking for I find everything I need in less than an hour. I want to run home and tell my dad straight away, but I force myself to think. I need hard evidence. I call the librarian over. ‘Can I print from this thing?’
She shrugs. ‘Normally, but it’s not working. They’re supposed to be coming to fix it at the end of the week. Friday.’
That’s too long. It’s Tuesday today. The wedding is on Saturday. The midsummer party is on Friday night. I need enough evidence to make her understand that this whole charade is over before then.
‘I can print things for you when it’s fixed. You could come in and collect them.’
‘Could I send someone to collect them for me?’
She nods. ‘I don’t see why not. It’s nothing confidential.’
I tell her someone will come in on Friday afternoon and I show her which articles I need. I skim through the details again before I set off for home. Oh Tina. I can certainly see why you changed your name.
Dominic
The first two recruitment interviews were uneventful. The panel of Dominic, Professor Midsomer and Mrs Addams from Human Resources ran through their questions and made cursory notes on the responses, but the candidates were unable to set the room alight. The first hadn’t finished her PhD yet and was clearly way out of her depth. The next was an external candidate who seemed more qualified for Theo’s job than for a basic lecturer’s post. Dominic glanced at his application. Not currently employed. No reason given for leaving his last post. Clearly a story of some sort there, and not one Dominic wanted to deal with the fallout from. Two strong Nos to start the day.
