It
is the English summer of 1988, and in
that faraway place called America Ronald Reagan is into the final
stretch of his tenure as President of The United States Of America. Within the space of a few short years,
the world that he and I now preside over will dramatically alter, as The
Great Eastern Power disintegrates and along with it tumbles the division of
Europe into East and West. But this unimaginable future is still waiting to happen as each of us live out the last familiar years of the 1980's. I have just graduated
from the University of Surrey in Guildford with a Batchelor of Science
Honours degree
in Modern Mathematics. Nineteen-year-old Sis in turn has just begun her first year
of studies in Psychology at The University of Cardiff in Wales. Amongst my accumulated life skills, I can now
calculate the trajectory needed to send a satellite into space and
maintain it on an eliptical orbit around our planet; for medical
applications I can evolve equations that ensure a dialysis machine
exactly
recreates the functions of the very human organ that it replaces; and in
the
field of military applications I can apply advanced mathematical models
to
show that under certain conditions one can predict the outcome of
military
conflicts.
Papa's
dream of educating his daughters to a level not possible in the Spain
of his childhood has indeed been realized. Indeed, aged twenty-four I have far superceded Papa's expectations, yet one unattainable prize still evades me and that is to be English; to have that inner tranquility, the
feeling that finally I belong. I may talk like them, dress like them and outwardly behave
like them, but deep down in the inner recess of my soul, I comprehend that I am
not one of them. This country that I now inhabit, beautiful as
it may be, is not and never will be my permanent home. But neither is it Spain. Eighteen long years have elapsed since I first stepped on the plane taking me away from my island with its sandy black volcanic beaches to this new emerald-green island they called England (see post Share The Moon), but the unremitting passage of time stops for nobody and gradually that six-year-old girl and her island have been consigned to all but a distant and faded memory. Now I find myself neither English nor Spanish. Yet I am at peace, because I now know with certainty that this home I am searching for has
a name and a place and this is called Canada.
The Roma fortune teller that came knocking on our door last Autumn told me so and
I must assume that Roma fortune tellers know their stuff.
Just
before I return to Guildford to complete my last
year of University studies, she knocks on the door of our home at 51
Crescent
Road, and I answer. After showing no interest in purchasing her small
sprig of
flowers, our Roma caller decides to change sales tactics, tosses aside
the
flowers and grabs my hand. Without seeking further consent, she examines
the
palm of my hand in detail and proceeds to share with me the glorious
future she
sees awaiting me. And what a future! She sees me marrying a mysterious
foreign man, she sees me moving with him far away, she sees Mama very
sad to
see me go, and finally she sees Canada.
Needless
to say, I am thrilled to hear all this. Mama standing behind me by the
door is
not. She has heard every word and is not at all happy with the
prediction that her daughter will up and leave in the near future with a
mystery man that the family, let alone the daughter has yet to meet.
‘What stuff and nonsense!’ she declared, ‘As if anyone really believes
that a person can predict the future!' And with this withering
pronouncement our
Roma caller is sent packing. I do not even remember if she was paid; if
not, my
deepest apologies wherever you may be Madame Fortune Teller.
Enter into my life at Surrey University, a few weeks later when I return to resume my studies, fourth year exchange student of Mechanical Engineering, Christopher. Now Christopher is from
Vancouver, Canada and we begin to
date, but after a while it becomes very evident that if I am indeed going to move
to Canada it will not be with him. And for the rest of my year at university,
whilst Sweden, Norway and Germany all cross my path in plentiful abundance,
Canada does not. So here I am now; graduated from University with a degree
certificate in Modern Mathematics under my arm, back home at 51 Crescent Road with
Mama, Papa and Sis, pondering the meaning of life, and along with it trying to work out how I will eventually find Canada. Whilst I am waiting for Canada
to emerge, I receive a letter from Axel in Helsinki, Finland: Axel and I are
old acquaintances, we have already met three years earlier on a ferry crossing between
England and Sweden, and ever since have sporadically written to one another. Now, Axel is strange and so are his letters.
When we meet for the
first time in the ship’s only cafeteria, it is late afternoon and the premises is still full of empty tables, yet he
chooses to sit next to me and then even more bizarrely says absolutely nothing.
After I can no longer tolerate this inarticulation, I decide to initiate the conversation. Axel proudly
tells me that he is Finnish. Now all I know about Finland is that it is somewhere up north, next door to The Soviet Union and very cold. With Axel I also find out that
they are very comfortable with silence. On our twenty-four-hour ferry journey to
Gothenburg he obligingly fills me in on the rest as I unsuccessfully try my
hardest to evade him. However, unless I am ready to swim alongside the vessel into harbor,
on this small ferry there is nowhere to run. Axel is an eighteen-year-old
teenager, and I consider myself a mature woman of twenty-one and cannot believe that he
would even entertain the thought that I would be interested in a post-pubescent
adolescent that has just acquired the right to vote. But he most certainly
entertains the thought and never gives up. It must be tied up to the Finnish
quality called sisu, loosely meaning
to be determination or perseverance, that he keeps telling me about and I do
not know how he manages it, but by the end of the ferry crossing he has managed
to extract from me an address. What an annoying individual. I pray that he
never writes. Of course he does, and I am too polite to ignore his letters so I
write back after a suitable amount of time has elapsed. About three to four
months usually does the trick.
And now I have a new unopened letter from him in front
of me. What does he want now? I think to myself. Axel tells me that he is
coming to England for the summer to work at an Engineering Company in a town
called Leamington Spa. Do I want to meet with him? My immediate reaction is, ‘No
thank you’. There is something strange about him and I cannot put my finger on
it. What on the earth would we have to say to one another? We barely interacted on that
twenty-four-hour ferry crossing three years ago, and when we did most of it was done in silence.
Somewhere along the elapsed three years he has managed to promote himself from pimply
teenager to student of Electrical Engineering at the Helsinki University
of Technology, and his long and rambling letters are punctuated
with updates on how cold it is, how far he
has skied and how much alcohol he has consumed at his latest party.
Frankly, I am not that interested. Then
for Christmas he sends me books about an obscure topic that I know
absolutely nothing about: Finnish military history. Besides, if I were to meet
him I would have to uncomfortably admit that The Unknown
Soldier is still languishing unread on my bookshelf, its virgin pages still
untouched. Absolutely no meeting.
After a few days have elapsed, I recant.
My studies are over, I have a lot of free time on my hands before I
begin my post-graduate career in the Autumn. Well, why not? I guess that
there can be no harm in meeting up. Besides, it will help to while
away the days until Canada finally emerges. And accordingly, I inform
Axel that
yes, I will drive to Leamington Spa for a weekend visit to meet with
him. Just one weekend, after which I will hopefully never have to see him again.
Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
Lovely! Quite enjoyable! Can't wait to read more!
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