Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  She sipped it from the tall-stemmed glass, relishing the fact that she was now part of the champagne crowd, celebrating May Day in the approved traditional fashion – even if her escort was continuing to attract distinctly hostile glances by scooping ice-cubes from the ice-bucket and crunching them between his teeth.

  ‘What d’you fancy to eat?’ he asked, flicking through the menu.

  ‘Oh, eggs and bacon – toast.’

  ‘But you just said you were starving. Why don’t we start with fillet steak, and have the eggs and bacon afterwards? Supper before breakfast, since I haven’t had mine yet.’

  ‘Okay,’ she grinned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘And strawberries first. I can’t stand prunes, can you? Can’t stand any health foods. The word’s a con, in fact. In ten years’ time, they’ll be begging us to eat cream cakes and butter, and chuck away our wholemeal bread and lousy low-fat spread.‘

  Tessa didn’t answer, still couldn’t quite believe that Michael was a doctor. Weren’t doctors the ones who advocated health foods, deplored the double cream he was now ordering with their strawberries? She glanced at him again. Whatever his diet, it had glossed him with good health – his complexion glowing, his eyes so bright and vibrant they looked as if they’d been taken out and polished.

  ‘What made you take up medicine?’ she asked.

  He paused a moment, the dark brows drawing down. ‘Well, I could give you the usual spiel about doing good, healing people, all that sort of guff, but if I’m honest with myself, there’s probably something of an ego-trip mixed up in it as well, maybe even a need to be top dog. I suspect many doctors feel the same, except they’d prefer not to admit it, would regard it as bad form. But a surgeon’s got the power of life and death, and that’s very close to playing God. Funnily enough, it connects back to my name. As my Ma enjoys reminding me, Michael means ‘‘Godlike’’ in Hebrew.’ He took a gulp of his champagne, held his glass between both hands, staring at the bubbles. ‘When you cut into a body, it’s as if it’s dead, in one sense, unable to resist you. And you’ve got the skills and tools to resurrect it, yank it back to life, cheat nature, if you like. That’s pretty heady stuff, you know.’

  Tessa shifted on her chair, aware that she was vaguely shocked. And yet wasn’t power the motive in so many walks of life? Just two terms of her Oxford course had taught her that already.

  Michael was still talking, his voice intense, aggressive. ‘Physicians are such ditherers. They sit around discussing what to do, while surgeons get on and do it.’ He tossed an ice-cube into his glass, used another to cool his sweaty forehead. ‘And cardiac surgery is like a sort of Star Wars at the moment – so many new developments you get dizzy keeping up with them. In twenty years or less, heart transplants may be history. We’ll just give the heart a rebore, like a car engine, or bung in an artificial heart, once we’ve solved a few odd hiccups with pump technology. But then we’ll have to wrestle with all sorts of new ethical problems. How much d’you spend to keep a bod alive, and how long d’ you keep him going? And does it make a difference if he can fork out the cash himself?’

  ‘I envy you,’ said Tessa. ‘I mean, a degree in history seems pretty marginal compared with those big issues. And I’ve never …’

  ‘So you’re reading history?’ Michael interrupted. ‘I was about to guess English, or maybe modern languages.’

  ‘I wanted to do English, but there was this teacher at my school – Miss MacDonald – who kept pushing her own subject, and since she was the only one who believed in me, I changed to history, so I’d have her on my side. You see, no one went to Oxbridge, no one even applied – not from Emberfield.’ She broke off, embarrassed, hadn’t meant to talk about her school. It seemed so long ago now – tubby Miss MacDonald dwindling with the ugly concrete buildings and their Portakabin overflow. Yet she could suddenly smell the Emberfield bouquet: sweaty feet and bubblegum, and the whiff of Pat and Debbie’s fags as they lit up in the toilets (which themselves smelt pretty foul – farts and disinfectant mixed). Pat had failed her A-levels and was now working as a dogsbody in an insurance office, and Debbie was married with a new-born baby son. She’d known Debbie seven years, shared everything from confidences to lipsticks, but her once-best-friend had moved away to Sheffield, and was submerged in feeds and nappies, too tired to keep in touch.

  ‘Ah!’ said Michael. ‘The strawberries.’

  Tessa eyed them greedily, glad of a distraction from nostalgia and school smells. She wolfed the biggest down, first piling on white sugar and whipped cream.

  ‘Good to see a girl who eats,’ Michael said approvingly. ‘There’s nothing worse in my opinion than a female on a diet. I went out with this nurse once, who always pushed away her own food, then looked enviously at mine; watched my every mouthful like a hungry slavering dog. And she kept banging on about calories, totting them all up, until, in the end, I wasn’t eating steak or pork, but just a plate of lethal numbers.’

  Tessa laughed. ‘I’m afraid I’m quite a pig.’

  ‘Thank God for that! But do use the right vocabulary. You’re not a pig, you’re an epicurean, like me. The Romans got it right – endless creative feasting and not a whiff of guilt.’ He picked up a fat strawberry with his fingers, raised it slowly to his mouth, sharp white teeth impaling soft pink flesh. ‘The most crucial decision in life, Tessa, is whether one’s a puritan or a voluptuary. And to put it frankly, puritans should be shot. All they do is ban things – like Cromwell’s little lot, who cracked down on everything, including all the traditional May Day celebrations. If the Lord Protector had had his tight-arsed way, we wouldn’t be sitting here at all. And the Calvinists were worse. They forbade the use of spices – even sugar would you believe – called it Satan’s helper, just because it adds a bit of zest.’ He showered sugar on his last remaining berry, as if deliberately defying all such strictures. ‘Ready for your steak yet?’

  She nodded, glancing at the waiter as he brought their juice and coffee, removed their empty bowls. He looked a bit of a puritan himself, with his thin-lipped mouth, his expression of disdain, as he mopped iced water mixed with strawberry juice from the once pristine tablecloth. Was he condemning them as gluttons as he returned with two huge steaks, the fried potatoes piled so high they were overflowing the plates? She waited till he’d gone; relieved to turn her attention back to Michael, who was larding his steak with both French and English mustard, then letting rip with the pepper-mill, obviously determined to rile the anti-spice brigade.

  They both cut into a mushroom at exactly the same moment, caught each other’s eye, started chewing swiftly, as if they’d entered an unspoken competition as to which of them could eat it faster. They repeated the performance, throwing mushrooms down their throats, and then the grilled tomatoes, copying one another, barely bothering to chew now. Tessa sliced a chunk of meat off, gulped it down – one bite. Michael followed suit. It seemed a waste of steak, in one way, especially such expensive steak, which she hadn’t had for months, yet there was some provocative excitement in challenging him, competing, eating at this crazy rate. And she was aware that he was watching her, admiringly, delightedly, as she walloped down the food, demolishing the pile of fried potatoes, leaving nothing on her plate but a strip of fat and a parsley sprig, beating him by seconds.

  He parked his knife and fork, made a flurry with his napkin. ‘Right – that’s supper over. Still got room for breakfast?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘Shall we pause for coffee first?’

  She poured it for them both, met the disapproving glance of a man at the next table; was suddenly aware of the silence in the room. Hardly anyone else was talking – several people communing with their newspapers; a grey-haired couple too busy boning kippers to spare time for conversation; another oldish couple glumly munching toast. She and Michael were by far the youngest there. She wished she dared to ask his age. He seemed a different generation from slender boyish Rob, though the whole atmosphere and setting hel
ped emphasize the gap. Rob had never taken her to a four-star country restaurant, only to Pizzaland and the Chinese takeaway, and they’d gone by bike, not sports car.

  She passed Michael his cup. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask if you take sugar.’

  ‘Three spoonfuls, please, and cream, not milk.’

  They laughed together, the sound stunning the hushed room; tried to stifle another laugh when the waiter brought their eggs. His face was pained, lugubrious, as he set down two more loaded plates – second mammoth helpings of mushrooms and potatoes, as if the ones they’d only just consumed had somehow sprung to life again.

  ‘Bet you can’t eat that lot,’ Michael taunted.

  ‘Bet I can!’

  It seemed vitally important that she did. It wasn’t just a matter of a wager, or sheer greed, but some mysterious trial of strength, in which he’d laid down the gauntlet and challenged her to prove herself as a fellow epicurean in their own private May Day ritual. She seized her knife and fork, prepared a daunting mouthful of potato, sausage, bacon, mushroom, egg; forked it deftly in. He copied her exactly, making it a game; both of them speeding up as they checked each other’s plates. All the different flavours were fighting in her stomach – the sweetness of the strawberries recoiling from the sting of mustard; the greasy sausage hiccuping as it hit the champagne fizz. Yet she felt wonderfully alive – not over-stuffed or queasy, and with no twinge of indigestion. Each different food seemed to pep her up, recharge her, inflame her appetite, so that she was reaching out for toast now, smothering it with butter.

  ‘No, wait! We must have croissants. You claimed I ruined yours, so I owe you a replacement.’

  ‘The waiter’ll die of shock.’

  ‘He’s died already, judging by his face.’

  They laughed like silly kids, then Michael changed his voice to churchy, to match the waiter’s pompous monotone, and ordered croissants – hot.

  ‘D’you know how croissants originated?’ he asked, turning back to Tessa.

  She shook her head, couldn’t speak; her mouth engaged with toast and egg.

  ‘It’s one of those bits of useless information that Tristram’s always spewing out. He ought to enter ‘‘Mastermind’’. Apparently, Austria won a victory over the invading Ottoman Turks. Don’t ask me the date – I’m lousy when it comes to dates and they’re your department anyway – and to celebrate the thrashing, the bakers made some pastries in the shape of the crescent on the Turkish flag, so that the Viennese could gobble down their enemies at table, as well as defeat them on the battlefield.’

  Tessa swallowed, wiped her mouth. ‘I never quite believe those stories. They always seem too pat.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ The jokey tone had vanished; his voice was harsh, defensive.

  ‘No, of course I’m not. It’s just a problem for me generally, especially on my history course. I mean, our tutors are always warning us not to take things at face value, and to challenge all the data, but they still continually bombard us with so-called objective facts. I’m always wondering about them – how many were reported wrong, like that game of Chinese Whispers, or were changed by the chroniclers into their own subjective version, or even wish fulfilment, and whether history should be facts at all, or more imagination, or … I’m sorry, Michael, I’m not putting this too well. The point I’m trying to make is …’ The black bulk of the waiter was blocking out the light again. He had glided up on castors, with yet another loaded plate. ‘Oh, the croissants,’ she said lamely.

  ‘Already? That was quick. Well, let’s devour our enemies, since I rather like the story, and refuse to let you doubt it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll believe you. But I haven’t any enemies.’

  ‘Now I ‘m the one who’s doubting. Everyone has enemies.’

  Tessa searched for candidates. Mr Blakenham, perhaps, the lefty Head of Sixth Form? He had certainly opposed her when she’d suggested trying for Oxford – but then he’d really had her good in mind, feared she might not make the grade, and would settle down more happily at East Anglia or Bristol. Or how about her father, Dave, because he hadn’t married her mother and now lived with a younger wife? Except her mother wasn’t bothered, and she herself had always thought it normal to have a Dad ten miles away, with his own separate house and daughters. The word ‘enemy’ seemed too extreme, not just for easy-going Dave, but for any person in her life.

  She watched Michael bite the neck off a hot croissant. ‘So who are your great enemies?’ she asked him.

  ‘D’you mind if I postpone that subject? I don’t want to spoil my breakfast.’

  ‘I think it must be tea by now, since we’re eating bread and jam.’ Tessa dolloped apricot preserve on her own thickly buttered croissant.

  ‘I’m still eating marmalade, though it’s pretty tasteless stuff – that jelly sort, with no bite to it, or body, whereas I like it full of peel.’

  ‘You mean Oxford marmalade?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do. Though I wonder why it’s called that?’

  ‘Perhaps because it’s sweet and bitter, both at the same time, like life is up at Oxford.’

  ‘You’re really quite poetic, Tessa.’

  She flushed, unsure if he was mocking her, or had meant it as a compliment. ‘I wanted to be a poet. When other girls were dressing up in nurses’ uniforms at the age of nine or ten, I told my mother I’d decided to be the Poet Laureate.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘‘‘Less gab and more grub. Cut the cackle, Pipsqueak, and eat your egg and chips.’’’

  He laughed, and sucked the jam spoon. ‘There are quite a lot of Oxford words, when you come to think about it – not just Oxford marmalade, but also Oxford sausages, though God knows what they are. Maybe made from piggish tutors or ground-up grouchy dons.’

  ‘And Oxford accents,’ Tessa said, still nervous of his own.

  ‘And Oxford bags.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Trousers – very voluminous ones. And there’s Oxford shirting, too, which I suppose you wear with the bags.’

  ‘And Oxford blue.’

  ‘And Morris Oxford cars – though they’re a bit before our time.’

  ‘And Oxfam,’ put in Tessa, thinking of her local branch where she often found good bargains – old clothes which she could renovate, transform from tat to treasure.

  ‘And Oxford frames.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of those. I’m sure you’re cheating.’

  ‘I’m not! They’re the ones with cross-shaped corners. And how about Oxford brogues? You can’t call those a cheat. And there’s even an Oxford vaporizer. I saw it in a catalogue.’

  ‘Okay, you win,’ said Tessa, only now aware that it was another competition. She had won the breakfast marathon herself, since he’d left a sausage on his plate, and at least half his second croissant. One all.

  Michael pushed his chair back, tried to catch the waiter’s eye. ‘All this talk of Oxford makes me feel we should stay out of it. How are you placed for time? We could drive on to the Cotswolds, do a spot of walking, work up a decent appetite for lunch.’

  She groaned.

  ‘You don’t like walking?’

  ‘I love it. But I think I’ll skip the lunch.’

  ‘You disappoint me, Tessa.’

  ‘Do I?’

  He suddenly knifed up to his feet, took a pace towards her, leaned down and kissed her mouth – a fierce kiss, long, determined. He pulled away, at last, rubbing his own lips as if the kiss had stunned or bruised them.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Actually, you don’t.’

  Chapter Three

  Tessa stood at the entrance to her college, waving Michael off as he hurtled round the corner, the crimson of his car still throbbing in her head. Long after he had disappeared, she stayed there, motionless, watching other, less remarkable cars lumbering down the road. Her eyes kept returning to the corner, as if hoping he might reappear, electrify the street.

  ‘Excuse me,
’ said an impatient voice. ‘We want to get in here, please, and you’re blocking the whole entrance.’

  She moved her gaze reluctantly from the tingling ghost of Michael to the clutch of frazzled tourists encroaching on the doorway with their armoury of shopping bags, damp and crumpled raincoats, and an unwieldy double pushchair. She stepped back to let them through, then followed the long cavalcade, several of them now scrabbling for their guidebooks. They’d be reading in those condescending pages how disappointing the architecture was – substandard nineteenth-century, on the whole, with the older parts pulled down, or so heavily restored they’d lost all their original character; how the front quad was lopsided, and the garden quad not strictly a quad at all. They maddened her, those books. The buildings were fantastic, and today she was more worthy of them. Michael had upgraded her, made her eminent, distinguished – all the things the college was itself.

  She was still following the party, unable to overtake, since the pushchair blocked the path. ‘It’s one of the oldest of the colleges,’ a bespectacled northcountryman observed, stopping for a moment to read the entry in his guide. ‘‘‘Founded in 1263 by Sir John de Balliol’’ – whoever he might be.’

  ‘Funny name,’ his friend remarked, adjusting his binoculars so he could peer up at a carved stone shield.

  Never mind the name, Tessa longed to interrupt. It is the oldest college. Don’t believe Merton, which insists it’s one year older, or University College, which lies through its teeth and claims it was founded by Alfred the Great. That’s myth, pure and simple, like those notorious burnt cakes. And if you go and see the library, just over on the left there, it’s still mainly fifteenth-century, and has a hundred thousand books.