Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  She stopped outside the ‘Palace of Fun’, a huge covered central area full of video games and slot machines, where the lights were thankfully low, and she could escape the wind and glare. Yet the instant she stepped inside, she was assailed by noise instead – whoops and bleeps from the machines, the clatter-jangle-chink of coins, and a pounding manic rock-rhythm blaring from the amplifiers. The place was packed with bodies, everyone intent on winning – or destroying; faces creased in concentration as they shot down spaceships, blew up planes, steered Ferraris round the race-track, wrestled, boxed or bombed.

  She fed her five-pound note into the change-machine, picked up her cache of coins, chose a game in which she had to gun down aliens, tiny writhing figures with bloated heads and green stick-arms and legs. They looked familiar, somehow, floating in space with their blind but staring eyes. They had to be exterminated – that she did remember – and as soon as possible. It was easier and safer if you didn’t wait too long; didn’t waste weeks dithering, while they grew bigger by the hour. ‘Zap, zap!’ went her guns, and another three collapsed, exploding in a puff of scarlet smoke. Three a minute, wasn’t it, seven hundred every working day? She could kill far more than that; her finger jabbing at the button so fast that it was aching. Who cared about the pain? The aliens felt pain, but you ignored it or denied it; refused to hear their anguished cries when the suction-tubes blew them into bits.

  ‘Bang-bang!’ Another four blitzed. She was becoming quite an expert. Two hundred thousand every year; a million in America; sixty million in total, if you counted every country in the world. It was so quick, so easy, all over in ten minutes. Her five pounds was almost gone, but that was fair enough. Destroying things cost money, and these tiny fragile aliens were more complex than they looked. They weren’t just globs of tissue, or pictures on a screen – and not at all like rotten teeth – but had heartbeats, brainwaves, livers, lungs, which must be pulverized, destroyed.

  She could hear the heartbeat now, a weak but steady throb-throb-throb, pulsing from the machine. It had to be snuffed out before it grew louder and more powerful, became the roar of Life. There was enough noise as it was – the music stabbing, strident, punching through her head; a cascade of coins rattling from a fruit-machine; a boy’s shrill laugh as he pocketed his winnings. Her finger hit the button with even greater force, smashed a dozen hearts. The only problem was that she was running out of cash, but the bank should have her money ready, so she could play the game a second time – for real.

  ‘All sorted out,’ the cashier smiled, as he handed over a wad of crisp new notes.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, whipping through the door, across the road, then right, and up the hill. There wasn’t a second to lose – she’d hung around too long. She felt stronger and more hopeful with the money in her hand, and anyway she’d proved that she could do it – anyone could do it – just close your eyes and kill. Even the nausea had completely disappeared, leaving her hollow and half-starved. She tried hard not to notice all the cafes; every other door she passed a restaurant, tea-shop, snack-bar. Well, it would all be over soon, and she, too, could sit and stuff herself, or at least beg some tea and toast.

  She peered up at the sky, which looked grey and leaden, threatening heavy rain. Already the first drops were spattering on her face, increasing very suddenly to a vicious drenching downpour, which stung her legs, glued her flimsy dress against her skin. She had left her mac in the clinic, which was still a good half-mile away. There was no shelter anywhere. The shops were all behind her, and the trees were few and skinny, so she dived back to the nearest café – a sandwich-bar and takeaway – stood shivering in the doorway, explaining to the waitress that she wasn’t allowed to eat or drink, but could she stay there till the rain eased off?

  ‘’Course you can. Sit down, dear.’

  She chose a bench-seat near the window, so that she could watch the weather, make a move the minute it cleared up. Her hair was dripping down her neck, her cheap brown sandals squelching. It would be almost a relief to strip her clothes off and slip on a white gown; allow the anaesthetic to waft her to unconsciousness, disconnect her brain. She’d been awake and worrying too long.

  The small boy sitting opposite was drinking a milk-shake, slurping through his straw. Her eyes kept flicking back to the tall glass ringed with chocolate-froth, the rich dark colour of the shake, the effervescent bubbles blinking on the top. Far from feeling queasy, her mouth was actually watering – the first time in three weeks. She felt an almost-lust for something chocolatey. Perhaps it was a craving, the sort pregnant women were always meant to get. She called the waitress over. ‘Do you do milk-shakes to take away?’

  The woman nodded, reeled off a list of flavours.

  ‘Chocolate, please – a large one.’ That would provide some sustenance for after the operation. As far as she remembered, the clinic laid on meals, but no doubt they’d cost extra, like the drugs. It would be far more economical to bring in her own snack, rather than paying through the nose for half an ounce of chicken and a teaspoonful of trifle.

  The boy was draining his glass with a tantalizing gurgling noise. She turned her back, so she wouldn’t have to watch him – watched the rain instead. It was slackening off now, definitely, so she paid for her milk-shake, then hurried up the street again, not stopping till she reached the clinic. The residential road was quiet, the pickets gone – thank heaven – just a few odd pamphlets dirty in the gutter. She picked one up, leafed through it. ‘At eight weeks, all the organs are present and the milk-teeth are just forming.’

  Rubbish, she thought irritably, tossing it away. Why should foetuses have teeth, when, even after they were born, their only food was milk and slops? The whole thing was a pack of lies – like the way those gormless pickets had called her ‘Mother’. She couldn’t be a mother. Mothers didn’t kill. Mothers nursed and nurtured. Mothers also looked after themselves; made sure that they ate properly, so their unborn babies’ milk-teeth could develop.

  She sat down on a low stone wall, the brown bag from the café cradled on her lap. She could hear the counsellor’s voice again – that fusspot at the clinic who had run through the instructions what seemed like twenty times. ‘Now remember, Tessa, it’s essential that you fast from midnight. If you eat or drink a single thing, however small, then we won’t be able to operate. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘of course,’ then plunged the straw through the lid of her milk-shake, and drained it without stopping.

  Chapter Ten

  Tessa opened her eyes, glanced at the alarm clock. Ten to nine. She turned over on her back, startled by the eager morning light, luxuriating in the fact that it was Saturday, and sunny, and her first day off in a month. There was no need to get up, no need to do anything except lie there and recover from the long hours waitressing each day, the late nights babysitting, the Sunday morning coaching – a twelve-year-old called Duncan who needed help in basic grammar, as much as history. She shut her eyes again, tucked the duvet right up to her chin. She and the baby would enjoy a lie-in until noon. They deserved it after four weeks’ solid slog.

  She placed her hand across her stomach, which was just beginning to swell, though no one else had noticed. She couldn’t feel him move yet, but according to the books, he would already be swimming and somersaulting; could turn his head, curl his toes, swallow, squint and frown. She had made her own calendar of pregnancy, so that she could tick off all the weeks – sixteen now – which meant twenty-three to go. He would be born in early February – an age away from the hot and sultry August they’d been sweltering through – lawns parched, tourists wilting, the first yellow leaves blemishing the trees. Even at this hour, the sun was surprisingly strong, butting at the curtains, trying to barge in.

  She already felt at home here, having done her ‘House and Garden bit’, as Alexandra called it. Hardly garden – that was still a jungle – but her bedroom did look good, especially compared with Alexandra’s bare wh
ite walls and Liz’s cluttered tip. She only wished the loo wasn’t downstairs; hated the long trek when she was half-asleep, or, worse still, in the middle of the night. A pregnant bladder seemed an irritable demanding thing, always whimpering for a pee like a badly trained dog. It was whining at this moment, so she struggled out of bed and down the stairs; made herself a cup of tea before returning to the bedroom. She drank it by the window, with her feet up on the bed, re-reading for the hundredth time all the cards and letters she’d received since mid-July. She started with the postcard showing a fourteenth-century Book of Hours, which was signed Ruth Sylvester, and said how gratified she was to hear of Tessa’s First in Honour Moderations, and might she offer her congratulations? Tessa sat savouring her tutor’s stilted phrases, still hardly able to believe that they were actually addressed to her – the prat from Emberfield.

  She’d been even more incredulous when she’d scanned the list in Schools and seen her name right near the top – as few as thirty in Class I, out of a total of three hundred, and only a dozen of them females. She had rushed to phone her mother, dashed off a note to Michael; received more congratulations – a boxed satin card from April, complete with scarlet bow, and from Michael a Victorian postcard of the Tyne. She treasured his four cards – one for every week in August – each only a few scribbled lines, and more or less illegible, but proving that he missed her, that his bleeding wrecks of patients hadn’t pushed her from his mind.

  He’d gone up north alone, in fact, having decided it would make more sense if he sussed the job out first; checked on his surroundings and the condition of the flat before she joined him there. Two weeks ago, he had phoned to say he’d settled in, the flat was fine, he’d even bought a double bed, and it was high time that they christened it. She’d been tempted to drop everything and catch the next train up, but was still in such a turmoil about admitting the existence of the baby that she ‘d postponed the trip, pretending to be ill. She had agonized since then, changed her mind from hour to hour, then finally sat down and written him a letter – the most difficult exhausting letter she’d composed in all her life. That had been two days ago, so now, at last, Dr Michael Edwards was aware he would be a father in five months.

  ‘Tessa! Are you deaf? There’s someone on the phone for you. It bloody woke me up.’

  She dashed downstairs again, flinging an apology to the disgruntled Alexandra, but too keyed up to feel guilt. It must be Michael phoning. He’d have got her letter and would want to talk things over, tell her his reactions – shock, delight, annoyance, pride – or a mixture of all four – or maybe even fury and suspicion. She picked up the receiver, out of breath, hands sweaty.

  ‘Who?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, it’s a bad line. Oh, I see. This morning. No, that’s fine – I’m free. I’ll see him at ten-thirty, then.’ She subsided on the sofa with a sense of total anti-climax.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Alexandra, who had hung around to eavesdrop.

  ‘Bang goes my lie-in! That was Mr Collingsby – Duncan’s father – asking if I could come today, instead of Sunday.’

  ‘You should have told him to get stuffed.’

  ‘I can’t. He pays too much. Ten pounds an hour’s a fortune, compared with my slave wages in the café.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’ Alex mooched into the kitchen, to switch the kettle on, then banged about with plates and cups. ‘I’m doing the late shift at Freud’s tonight, but the sods don’t pay me extra for working after midnight. Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’ve had mine, thanks, but I’ll join you for some breakfast. Or are you going back to bed?’

  ‘No. I’ve got too much to do – all my washing, for a start. And Julie’s coming round at twelve, with half her flaming family, so I’ll have to buy some food and stuff.’

  ‘I’ll get it, if you like. I’m going past the shops.’

  ‘But you did it last time – and the time before – lugged back half a ton.’

  ‘I’m just building up my credit for when I’ve had the baby. It’ll be your turn then. You can wash the dirty nappies.’

  Alex made a face. ‘Won’t you use disposable?’

  Tessa shook her head. ‘Can’t afford it.’ She went to fetch the bread, then turned on Radio Oxford to fill the awkward silence. She knew what Alexandra thought – that she couldn’t afford to have the kid at all, not in any way – was crazy to attempt it, or imagine she could continue working for a degree with a squalling new-born infant soaking up her money and her time. Both Liz and Alexandra had been stunned, not only by the bombshell of her pregnancy, but also because she was adamant about staying on at Balliol, making as few changes as she could. She’d tried to convince them she could cope – convince herself as well. She’d discovered there were special grants for single-parent students, and though she had to admit that time would be a problem, finals were still two years away, and the second year was supposed to be a doddle, compared with the rigours of the first. Of course she did have doubts – full-blown terrors, sometimes – but there was no alternative. She could neither kill her child nor chuck in her degree.

  ‘Has the postman been?’ she asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

  ‘No, he’s always late on Saturdays. I suppose you’re itching to hear from whatshisname?’

  Tessa nodded, reflecting once again how peculiar it was that Alexandra seemed totally incapable of remembering Michael’s name, whereas for her that name chimed endlessly, setting up reverberations, ripples; was branded on her body, tattooed into the skin. But then Alex wasn’t keen on men; looked butch herself with her cropped dark hair and heavy khaki combat gear. The word ‘heavy’ seemed appropriate in several other ways – heavy features, heavy jaw, heavy sullen moods. Yet they’d grown closer in the last few weeks – thrown together by circumstance, as the only two who had moved into the house yet. Liz was living at home until September, and Vicky was on holiday in Greece, so she and Alexandra had no other available company. They’d even started confiding in each other, enjoying late-night chats, when wine or sheer exhaustion encouraged them to drop their guard. Tessa was relieved to have found an ally when she’d more or less lost Charlotte, who’d been indignant to hear that after all her efforts and her parents’ hospitality, the ‘patient’ had absconded from a clinic she had personally recommended. The memories were galling still – Charlotte’s scorn and huffiness, the way she’d banged the phone down with the briefest of goodbyes.

  Another person she’d upset was Colin. He’d written to her several times, suggesting that they met, and she’d eventually confessed in a short but sheepish reply that there was another man in her life. Colin’s own six-page response had been an outpouring of regret and self-reproach, unredeemed by its Tennysonian imagery. She felt highly apprehensive about meeting them both next term – Colin wretched, Charlotte curt – and herself swelling unequivocally each day.

  Though the new academic year still seemed a million miles away from this hollow summer Oxford. Without its tide of students the town had lost its heart and purpose, and become a sort of stage-set for an audience to gawp at – those hordes of Japs or Yanks who were deposited en masse by daily plane and coach, with their programmes and their opera-glasses. The main actors (dons and students) had departed on their holidays, or gone back to their homes, but the spectators still poured in to applaud the empty stage.

  Balliol, too, was utterly transformed, and had been playing host to conferences for a good part of the vac – management consultants prowling through the library; quantity surveyors conferring in the quad. At present it was closed; even its own students were allowed only as far as the post room, then chivvied out immediately, like dangerous intruders. She’d felt a certain indignation not just at being excluded, but at living out at all; losing her two rooms in college, which she’d come to feel she owned. Though there were advantages, as well. College life could be really claustrophobic – the non-stop gossip about who was shagging whom; the casual way that anyone and everyone could knock on
your door and expect to swan in for a chat, regardless of how busy you were. She was beginning to enjoy sharing a whole house with just one other person; far removed from Sloanes like Charlotte, or those ex-Harrovian hippies who spent their time in college posing as East Enders, so they wouldn’t offend against the canon of Balliol’s fervent anti-elitism.

  ‘You did actually post that letter, then?’ Alexandra asked, intruding on her thoughts. ‘I was sure you’d lose your nerve.’

  ‘So was I!’ said Tessa, who had actually forgotten the all-important letter for at least two-and-three-quarter minutes. ‘I stood by the pillar box for what seemed like a good hour, with it poised halfway through the slit, but I just couldn’t let it go. And even when I did, I instantly regretted it, and hung around for ages again, wondering how the hell I could get it back.’

  ‘You’re mad!’ Alex heaped her branflakes with brown sugar, sniffed the milk to check it wasn’t sour. ‘I only hope you demanded your rights. He ought to pay his whack, you know.’

  ‘Well, no, I …’

  ‘Christ, Tessa, you’re pathetic! I’d bloody make him sweat. And some girls would go much further and expect not just commitment, but even marriage and …’

  ‘He can’t get married, Alex, not at this stage. A wife and baby would put the kibosh on his career. He’s incredibly ambitious, but he’s got years and years to go yet. He hasn’t even taken his primary FRCS.’

  ‘And how about your career? A babe-in-arms is hardly going to help you.’

  Tessa didn’t answer. Of course she wanted marriage; had fantasized about it long before she knew that she was pregnant. But it had always been a future prospect – a rosy, hazy future, when she’d got her own degree, and Michael was established – the two of them miraculously unencumbered by jobs, responsibilities, or bills, but making endless love in moonlit woods. The baby had changed everything, brought her down to earth, forced her to think practically about Michael’s life, as well as hers. She couldn’t inflict a child on a busy SHO sweating it out in casualty, often working nights and always with emergencies, who hardly had a minute to himself. Great to be his courtesan, his astounding brazen mistress, but not a bloody millstone round his neck.