Shona, as it turns out, is not the rarest name in a city of seven million.
But now … now I had some of her DNA. I had some of her story. Some of her life. The clues were focused and useful, now no longer just pictures.
Now, they were
words
.
This had all been staring me in the face for so long. The connection I hadn’t been able to make until thinking about the reasons for my own photographs: my
own
story.
So, at home, that night, the wedding done and dusted and an old life now finally behind me, I headed for Google and started to type.
The first three words came easy.
ALASKA
.
As in the building.
RIO
.
As in the cinema.
OSLO
. As in the restaurant.
I thought of the walkway in Highgate Cemetery – the Egyptian walkway – so …
EGYPT
.
I thought of the pub Damien had mentioned he’d taken her to, the moment captured perfectly in my
favourite
photo, her hair whipped by the wind, her cheeks flushed and warmed, the photo I wished
I’d
been in …
ADELAIDE
.
And then, as my head began to spin at the link, as the diamonds began to sparkle in the ground as I found my inner fish, and just as I was about to press search, a thought struck me – and I laughed, and I shook my head, and I remembered the sausage and the sweet tea and the streak of a yellow taxi
light against the black of a back window and the surprise of finding that
I
had been there too.
ROMA
.
As in the café.
And finally, to fill the box, to complete the journey …
SHONA
.
And
click
.
‘A new thing does not come to she who sits, but to she who travels.’
Traditional Shona Tribe proverb, Zimbabwe
Hello.
My name is Shona McAllister.
I am twenty-nine-years-old.
I grew up in the village of Kilspindie, in Perth and Kinross.
My favourite colour is yellow.
My favourite thing is my bike.
And my something-embarrassing is my guilty pleasure. The complete back catalogue of Hall & Oates. Can’t help it. I was born that way, though I realise I am on my own on this one. (‘London, Luck & Love’ is where it all began … Thank you, Dad. x)
And with that dreadful confession made, here’s another, but on a more positive note: I have decided.
I’m going to do it.
I’m starting to feel like myself again.
Shona
x
He’d promised to show her the world.
That’s what I remembered Damien saying.
And so the story of the camera – playing out shot by shot in a 35mm disposable – had been the story of their short relationship. A trip from Alaska to Rio and back again. A story documented in short bursts on the newly bookmarked
MyLifeInProverbs
blog. A whirlwind,
world tour
of London.
Damien was an ideas man, of course. I wonder if he treated the whole thing like a PR strategy. Each date themed around a different place, each photo adding to the story. The perfect set of dates captured as a collection in the same disposable they’d picked up when they first met. The story of a meeting and a split in twelve frames or less.
The more I’d read of her blog, the more bruised she’d seemed to be. There was no mention of what she did for a living (just ‘work’, though I still liked the idea of something with books, maybe, or a university), nor did she make mention of anyone new in her life, aside from a bloke on a bus she was scared she’d catch a rash from.
But the story of her and Damien was there, for all to see, anonymous but familiar.
She was an optimist, but she’d been hurt. I’d stop short of calling her a romantic. She was a realist. An optimistic realist.
There was mention of the night she lost her camera, too, which prickled my skin and made my heart beat faster. I was referred to as both ‘a guy’ and ‘the guy’ in that order. She’d been back to Snappy Snaps the day after, the day I’d seen her while eating my magical pizza in Abrizzi’s, and she’d sat in the café once more that night, too, drowning her sorrows in sweet white tea while I avoided mine a hundred metres away.
And she seemed lovely.
And I knew it could never work.
Because The Girl – I could only call her Shona if I knew her, I decided – had made a decision. If someone wouldn’t show her the world – if she couldn’t see the world
with
someone – then she would see it alone.
She had sold her dad’s car, the Facel Vega from her childhood, the one he’d driven her to Glasgow to see Take That in, the one she’d taken on as her own when he’d passed, and she’d raised the money. She’d given up her flat, alerted HR.
So what chance did I stand now? What chance does anyone stand, when the other person doesn’t even know they exist?
The Girl would be leaving Saturday morning from King’s Cross.
Alone, because like me, she prefers hellos to goodbyes.
Maybe if I’d been in a film, I’d have found out the very morning she was going. I could’ve blamed impulse and urgency and following my heart, for flinging open the door of my flat or leaving an important meeting halfway-through or exiting my ex-girlfriend’s wedding or a million other tiny sacrifices. But I had all week to wait, and all week to think about it, to change my mind, to decide against turning up, to fantasise about what might happen if I did.
And then one night, Friday turned to Saturday, and the morning was soon upon me.
‘No,’
‘You gotta do it.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Level Two. You do.’
‘I don’t, Dev.’
‘You do, Jase.’
‘I don’t, Abbey.’
‘You should, though.’
‘I can’t, though.’
‘You should Make It Happen, Mr Priestley.’
I sat in the kitchen, my packed boxes around me, ready for the move, ready for Level Two, and I watched the kettle boil again and again to the tick of the clock.
I’d woken early. Done everything I could to distract myself. I’d opened my laptop, clicked around, found my way to Facebook, and I’d laughed as I’d seen those same, seven words again.
… is having the time of her life
.
But now they didn’t hurt. They cheered me.
I clicked on the pictures.
Sarah. Happy. Tanning. Her hand across her bump. Gary’s arm around her, adoringly. I smiled.
Sitting in the winter sun, I saw the postman come and go, heard the dog next door bark its welcome.
And as slowly I left the house, and I walked up Blackstock Road, towards Upper Street, and the Caledonian Road, past Power Up! and heading for King’s Cross, I knew I’d just committed myself to something.
I’d always known I would.
At the station I checked the platforms.
Nothing for a while. Cleaners, stewards, men with briefcases and papers.
I felt calm. The person I was looking for didn’t know what I looked like. The people around me would assume I was waiting for a train. For maybe the first time in my life, self-consciousness didn’t come into it. I felt … calm. I was in control.
And then … like I was drawn to the colours …
I stopped for a second, leaned against a pillar, nervously felt for the photos in my pocket, as I’d done all the way from home.
The blue coat. Red shoes. Backpack and bags.
I wanted to run away for a second. To change my mind and turn around. What exactly did I stand to gain here? What was I risking I would lose? What would Dev tell me to do? Well, he’d tell me to Use the Moment, to know that at least something had ended, even if nothing had started, but the thing about—
‘I know you,’ said the voice.
She’d spun around, flashed me a quick smile.
That
smile.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘
Do
I know you?’
I was already closer to her than I’d thought. I pretended to look up at a departures screen, but it was broken, so I looked back again.
This was it.
I had it all practised, I realised. I knew exactly what to say and how to handle this, because despite myself I’d rehearsed this, and not just once. The best course of action was to be forthright, I’d told myself. Be practical and sensible; approach this like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But that all started to crumble now, here, in her presence, around her voice.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Here’s the thing …’
She tilted her head at me, smiled … Was she remembering Charlotte Street, the taxi, the bags, the driver and his fag? Or maybe she’d noticed me in the café that night? Or maybe it was just because I was here, looking at her, like someone she knew.
A moment’s silence, mine to fill. But I couldn’t find the words. So I reached into my pocket, and I handed over the packet, now creased and crumpled and torn, and looking as tired and apologetic as I did.
It took a second for her to realise what had happened. That these were hers. That I’d developed them. That I’d seen something of her. Me – a stranger.
She could have done anything now. Shouted, or run.
But she didn’t. She opened the packet, started to flick through, a half-smile welcoming home some old and sad memories.
‘Obviously … to find you, I mean to give these back to you, because they’re
yours
, I had to … you know …’
I indicated the packet. She bit her lip, nodded. I couldn’t work out what she was thinking.
‘Thanks,’ she said, looking up. Her next question should have been, ‘How?’
But she said nothing. Like she’d been expecting me.
I cast my eyes around. Bags. Purse. Eurostar ticket in hand.
There was no time for anything other than this.
Well, this and maybe one more thing.
‘Listen, um … in case you ever feel like saying hello …’ I said, and I handed something else to her.
My
disposable camera. Twelve moments of my own.
She took it, and smiled like she understood, then looked at me once more. It was a look of recognition, something slowly dawning on her, my face meaning more to her than it had.
‘I
knew
I knew you,’ she said.
‘I think I knew I knew you, too,’ I said.
And then I backed away, and left her, to her bags and her train and her future, and I walked away, out of King’s Cross, to go and find Dev, and Pamela, and Abbey, and Matt, and tell them all about it, tell them that I’d found her but I’d let her go.
And then we’d drink and be merry, and I’d start the rest of my life, from this day forth.
‘So?’ I said, beaming. ‘What do you think?’
‘Amazing!’ said Dev, shaking his head, lost in the moment. ‘Just
amazing
!’
It was an hour since King’s Cross and we were in Postman’s Park one more time.
Pamela, Abbey and Matt had wheeled Dev there under the pretence of visiting an unusual Nando’s, but in reality they’d brought everything we needed: Pamela had made
Krokiety
baps, I picked up a six-pack of
Lech
, and the grand unveiling – with a little blue curtain St John’s had kept from when Princess Anne had opened the science block in the eighties – had gone well.
A new tile on the wall.
DEVDATTA PATEL, Restauranteur and videogame enthusiast
Risked his life on the Caledonian Road to save a stricken cyclist, did not actually die, but with scant regard for personal safety he hurt his leg a bit
.
Dev stared at it, proudly.
‘I’m gonna bring people to see this, y’know,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all, like, “Gosh, is that still there?”’
‘Yes, you’ll have to act embarrassed and humble,’ said Abbey, and Matt made a noise like she’d just said whales wear little hats.
I gave the tile a quick polish. It was a little away from the others, this one, and I’d had to sneak in pretty late last night with the contraband adhesive, but there it was, resplendent in the lunchtime sun.
I felt like Banksy. How long until someone noticed? How long until it mysteriously disappeared? It didn’t matter. It was all about today. Though I liked to think that maybe it might sneak by forever.
‘Here – Pamela … would you mind?’ I said.
From my pocket I fished something out.
She looked at it. It was bright blue with a flash of red text.
Single Use 35mm Disposable Camera
.
‘Is new one?’ she said, and I nodded.
‘Brand new.’
I gave Dev a wheelie to the wall. I span him round, put my arm on his shoulder, and Abbey and Matt squeezed in either side.
Click
.
It’s funny. Dev had always said that disposables were different. That what they contained was more special because you couldn’t instantly see inside. You had to wait. You had to invest in the moment and then wait to see what you got. And those moments had to be the right moments. You had to be sure you wanted this moment when you pressed the button, because time was always running out, you were always one click closer to the end. That’s what it felt like here. But that’s what made it exciting.
I looked at the tiny number at the top of the wheel.
1
.
Eleven more clicks.
What would they be? Who’d be in them? What story would they tell?
I shoved the camera in my pocket, and looked up at my friends.
I was ready for Level Two.
We had to wheel Dev out of the park backwards when we left. He wanted to keep staring at his tile. I could tell what he was thinking. He was thinking, At
last
.
And so was I.
One year later
.
It was love at first sight for smitten Jason Priestley when a girl he saw on Charlotte Street one night left her disposable camera behind!
Lovestruck Jason, 32, developed the film and discovered to his dismay that the mystery girl already had a boyfriend!
But he persevered and tracked her down to King’s Cross train station in London, where he handed over her photos as she left the country to travel round the world – for six whole months!