Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  She was more aware than ever of the parallels between them. Like Heloïse, she’d been driven from her house and home on account of one cruel man, and was living like a nun, shut away from the outside world and all its former pleasures; renouncing sex completely, and no longer bothering overmuch with clothes or food or sleep. Yet today she had the feeling that Heloïse had withdrawn from her – refused to come to Dave’s place – perhaps wary of its atmosphere, or opposed to the deception. She missed their usual contact, the sense of someone listening, but if she plugged away at her letter-writing project, her soul-mate’s living presence might well come stealing back.

  She picked up her copy of the Letters, which was breaking apart at the spine from over-use – countless phrases marked and underlined.

  ‘My heart was not in me, but with you,’ Heloïse had written in her first letter to Abelard (and she herself had paraphrased, to Michael). ‘And if it is not with you, it is nowhere. I implore you to make sure it is with you – as indeed it will be if only you treat it kindly, offering it love in return for love, crumbs in return for a banquet …’

  She rechecked her own version, trying to improve it; wondering if she would ever capture the frantic mix of reproach and passion, bitterness and ardour, which Heloïse had poured out from the cloister, and which came over still more powerfully in her famous second letter. ‘If I lose you,’ Heloïse had cried, ‘what is left for me to hope for? What reason for continuing on life’s pilgrimage, for which I have no support but you, and none from you save the knowledge that you are alive? For I am forbidden all other pleasures in you, and denied even the joy of your presence …’

  Tessa closed the book. She wouldn’t copy that, wouldn’t even think it. She might be banned from Dr Edwards’ home, shooed out of the Health Centre every time she hung around hoping for a glimpse of him, but that didn’t mean she’d be denied the joy of his presence. He was visiting tonight – Christmas night – and once they were on their own, removed from Joyce’s clutches, and the whole restraining influence of his surgery or his house, they would be able to communicate, establish a true closeness. In fact, she ought to phone him now – not wait, as she had planned, and then discover to her horror that his spell of Christmas duty had ended in the early afternoon. It would be terrible to miss him, face a long dark evening all alone. The light was already failing, swallowing up the houses in the street, returning them to the ghostly gloom which had shrouded them at dawn. The sun had failed to show itself all day; seemed like Michael up in Newcastle – keeping its distance deliberately, refusing to brighten up her Christmas, or disperse the threatening shadows.

  She wiped her clammy hands before picking up the receiver; braced herself against the wall, trying to summon the courage to dial Dr Edwards’ home. Easy to ring the surgery, listen to a recorded message, but any second now she would hear his actual voice, have to answer when he said hello.

  ‘Hello?’ He’d said it twice, repeated both his number and his name. She couldn’t stand there any longer in tense and trembling silence, or he’d simply put the phone down.

  ‘It’s … er … Tessa Reeves,’ she faltered.

  He made no response at all. She might as well have given strangers’ names – Pat Hughes or Debbie Bailey. Did her own name mean nothing to him, or was he still enraged about the débâcle of the babysitting? She must somehow rouse his sympathy, concern.

  ‘I’ve had a haemorrhage,’ she blurted out. At least she knew the symptoms, could make it sound convincing. All she had to do was fill in the grim details from the emergency twelve weeks ago, when she’d collapsed bleeding on the stairs. She continued for a minute or two, then broke off to let him speak – expecting to be told that he’d be on his way immediately, once he’d grabbed his coat and car-keys.

  ‘No!’ she almost shouted, when she heard different words entirely – he would phone through for an ambulance and she must rest in bed until it came. She began to backtrack swiftly, appalled at the thought of landing up in hospital with wrecks or crocks all round her. ‘The bleeding’s stopped,’ she insisted. ‘And it wasn’t all that heavy in the first place.’

  ‘Do you think you could be pregnant again?’ His tone was cool, dispassionate.

  Her second ‘No!’ was even more emphatic. How could he imagine she was sleeping with just anyone, when her whole heart and mind and body embraced him, and him alone?

  ‘Is there any pain?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said, third time. It was essential that she removed his mind from hospitals; made him see it was him she needed, not some faceless foreign doctor in a casualty department. ‘It was more the shock, I think. It frightened me, you see, and I’m still feeling a bit jittery.’

  Now she’d gone too far the other way. His voice was almost casual as he advised her to go to bed and rest, and to ask her mother to ring him, if there were any further problems.

  ‘She isn’t here. I’m all alone in an empty house in Croydon.’ Another stupid move. She had hoped that he’d feel pity, even horror, to hear she was shut up on her own on Christmas Day, but once she had revealed she was in Croydon, a good ten miles from home, he said it was out of the question for him to drive that distance, and she must phone a local doctor.

  They went back and forth, back and forth – he suggesting yellow pages and her father’s friends and neighbours; she insisting she knew no one in the area, possessed no local directories, and was too weak to leave the house. Soon she was in tears; had never envisaged such a battle to persuade him to come out. She no longer needed to invent – she was genuinely ill now – ill with deprivation, the dark stirrings of despair. She remembered Heloïse’s words: ‘What is left for me to hope for, what reason for continuing life?’ – began to echo them again, not on paper this time, but weeping down the phone.

  As she paused for breath, she realized he was wavering – his voice becoming softer, more compassionate; the way it had been when she’d seen him in his surgery. Her own voice was incoherent still, but she continued trying to speak, doggedly repeating Heloïse’s reproaches.

  Suddenly, abruptly, he cut through her tirade. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll come. Give me the address.’

  She was so overwhelmed with gratitude, so astounded, so relieved, she could barely spell out the street-name; begged him to repeat it to make sure he’d got it right.

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she exulted, laughing now as well as crying – the two mixed up together: her body soaring with relief, while tears streamed down her face. She started flooding him with directions – which junction to take when he came off the main road; how he should look out for the Mason’s Arms, so he wouldn’t miss the …

  ‘I know Croydon pretty well,’ he interrupted, his tone tetchy, almost rude. ‘And I’ve got to get a move on. I was just on my way out to see another patient. I’ll call round after that – okay?’

  She was about to speak, stammer out her thanks, when she heard his curt ‘Goodbye’ and then the click of the receiver. It didn’t matter. She, too, must get a move on; had to prepare herself, transform herself; do her hair and face in exactly the same way as when she had seen him in the surgery. He’d held her hand on that occasion, leaned close and spoken lovingly, whereas every time she’d seen him since, he had been much more inhibited. The only problem was, her hair and face had changed; complexion dingy-pale; hair thinner and more lank. But she had brought her make-up with her, her curling tongs and volume-spray, and would probably have the best part of an hour by the time he’d seen his other patient. She was glad she hadn’t eaten; didn’t want her belly full of half-digested stodge, when he ran his hands across it; had no need for food at all, now that he was coming. The whole nation would be stuffing – gorging Christmas cake and trifle, turkey and mince pies – but the more empty she remained herself, the more Michael Edwards could fill her.

  She ran upstairs to Dave and Antonia’s bedroom – the only one which contained a double bed – checked the whole room quickly, to make sure that it looke
d welcoming. It was elegant but chilly, since she hadn’t turned the central heating on. It was almost second nature for her to economize on heating, but she’d been especially careful not to take advantage of her father. The house was gift enough, without wasting his electricity. But she could probably find a fan-heater, to keep Dr Edwards comfortable; thaw her own numb body, so that he wouldn’t flinch away from her.

  Fifty minutes later, she was glowing – blood pounding round her veins from sheer elation; her face enhanced with highlighter and blusher. He would expect her to look ill, of course, but she had opted for a fever, not a pale and shivery illness; wanted everything high octane and high colour. She had even lit the fire downstairs – Dr Edwards was used to a log fire – and they might relax there for a while before retiring to the bedroom. She was sitting right in front of it, to retain her warmth and flush; clad only in the nightie – bridal-white and slit from thigh to ankle. She had taken off her watch, but the clock on the mantelpiece was ticking ponderously: a nerve-wracking reminder that he’d be arriving any second; his Citroën sweeping up to the house, his footsteps on the path. She had already heard two cars, but neither had been his. She scanned the shadowy street once more, beginning to hate the patient who was taking up his time. It was probably Alicia de Courcy, or some other bitchy type, who was deliberately delaying him, using all her wiles. She stalked back to the mantelpiece, turned the clock’s face to the wall. Pointless to count seconds, or curse a dawdling minute-hand. After all, it was quite a trek to Croydon, and he might have missed the junction – that tricky one she’d been trying to explain.

  She stared into the fire, but she could still see other patients – all female and all naked. He must have examined countless women in his time – his skilful fingers parting moist pink labia, or plunged deep into cunts. She watched them stripping off for him, opening mouths and legs for him, flaunting perfect breasts. That was the price you paid for loving a doctor – you were forced to share him with droves of unknown women, whose wombs and tongues and nipples he had savoured. She lay back, pushed her nightie up, tried to turn her own hand into his, astonished by its fierceness. Where had these voracious feelings come from? – wild images of Michael gushing out from some invisible projector, in Technicolor and Sensurround: Michael at the picnic, or naked in his flat, thrusting on his hands and knees, or pressed against her body, mouth to cunt.

  She scrambled to her feet again, slapped her feverish hand. She must wait until he came; didn’t want to greet him dishevelled, out of breath. She started pacing round the room instead, pouncing on the Christmas cards which crowded every surface. So many fervent messages from so many avid females: Samanthas and Alicias, Cecilys and Sukies. She knew damn well where Michael was – not ministering to a patient, but to all these fancy creatures who’d sent him love and kisses; insinuated their way into his life. She hadn’t had a card from him – had nothing from him, nothing – not even a prescription. A prescription was a sort of letter, scribbled in his handwriting and personal to her; something she could keep for ever, refuse to surrender to the chemist. She’d suffer almost any illness, just to have him write one; would risk paralysis or breakdown to receive a proper letter. She thought back to her project – the letter she’d been working on an hour or so ago, based on Heloïse’s. If she hurried, she could finish it, and he could read it when he came. It shouldn’t take her long – only lacked two sentences, and a brief word of introduction – and the task would help to calm her down, keep her mind on painless things like adjectives and verbs.

  She returned to the cold dining-room, sat down at the table where she had left her work spread out (first removing the crisps and Coke can, to make it more a desk). She opened the Letters at random – always needed it beside her as a guide and inspiration – began reading the short passage she’d highlighted in red:

  ‘The lovers’ delights which you and I enjoyed together are so sweet to me that I am totally unable to erase them from my thoughts. Wherever I turn, they thrust themselves before my eyes, kindling new desires and lusts, which obsess me even in my dreams.’

  Her hands were shaking so violently she could hardly hold the book. Heloïse had returned! Her voice was ringing through the room – not the usual quiet confiding tone of their sisterly discussions, but an impassioned flood of words: erotic and uncensored words, all the more extraordinary on the lips of a chaste abbess shut up in her cloister with a bodyguard of virgins – a frustrated tortured nun who was actually admitting that even during Mass, she was so preoccupied with what she called ‘lewd visions’, she couldn’t put her mind on prayer at all.

  ‘I should be groaning over the sins I have committed, but I can only sigh for those I have lost. Everything we did, together with the times and places where we did it, are engraved so vividly on my mind that I am continually reliving it, when awake or in my sleep.’

  She no longer needed to read the lines – Heloïse was still crying them aloud – sobbing out to Abelard the very words she’d written to him all those centuries back, but now including Michael in her onslaught. A week ago, she herself had copied that same text, meticulously transferring it to her own stiff-backed college notebook, but not until this moment had she experienced its power and pain with such unbearable intensity. Yet Abelard had dismissed that pain in his sanctimonious reply, which had been not so much a letter as a sermon. He’d preachified at length about the sufferings of Christ, and urged his former mistress to devote herself to God, rather than to him, since he’d been motivated in their affair by lust and lust alone. ‘I took my fill of my wretched pleasures in you, and that was the sum total of my love.’ He had already trashed those pleasures in his letter, denouncing them as ‘pollution and contagion’, ‘filthy and obscene’, and had described himself and Heloïse as ‘wallowing in the mire’. He’d even said he welcomed his castration, since it had rid him of his ‘vile and shameful parts’, and she too must thank the Lord for it – for saving them from any risk of further ‘contamination’.

  Tessa jerked up from her chair, shivering with cold and fury mixed. Men always looked at everything in their own self-justifying terms; couldn’t grasp the concept of all-consuming love – the sort of agonizing love which would go through fire for one soft word, and was a million miles from lust. Neither she nor Heloïse would ever dream of denigrating what once had been the high point of their lives, nor turn their torrent of desire into a cesspit and a sewer.

  Dr Edwards was every bit as pitiless, equally rejecting and cold-hearted. It was already nearly six, yet he still hadn’t showed his face; was probably sitting snug at home, shrugging off her own love as ‘wretched’ in some other sense – threatening, inconvenient. Or maybe he was dead. Christmas was a dangerous time to venture out at all – idiot drunken drivers weaving all over the road, overtaking recklessly, speeding through red lights.

  She strode into the sitting-room, the Letters in her hand still, though she couldn’t bear to read them any more. Better to watch some fatuous soap on television, to take her mind off pile-ups on the bypass. Like Heloïse before her, she would rather die herself than have to face her lover’s death, since the only reason for living was that he shared existence with her. She remembered the story in the Chronicle of Tours of how Abelard’s cold corpse had stretched out loving arms to embrace his wife’s dead body when she was laid in the same tomb. But she wasn’t Michael’s wife. If he reached out arms to anyone, it would be to tepid Joyce, or to that loathsome girl in Newcastle.

  She turned up the sound on the television, trying to blast away her thoughts – the fact that she’d had no letter postmarked Newcastle for twelve demeaning weeks. But who was she to complain? Heloïse had heard nothing for nearly fifteen years; imprisoned in her convent without a word of comfort from her lover and still-husband, not a single passing reference to their love, their plight, their child. And even when he did write, in response to her own outburst, he’d not only deeply wounded her by debasing their great love, but also insisted that she put away her b
itterness, since it endangered her immortal soul, and upset his peace of mind.

  His peace of mind, for God’s sake! And what about Heloïse’s peace? She’d been living in inner torment since he’d packed her off to the nunnery, and when at last she’d bared her soul, he’d drafted her a homily about the efficacy of prayer. No wonder her poor sister was beside herself with misery; her soft voice choked, distraught.

  ‘Of all wretched women, I am the most wretched, and amongst the unhappy I am the unhappiest. The higher I was exalted when you preferred me to all other women, the greater my suffering over my fall …’

  ‘Save your breath, Heloïse!’ she shouted. ‘He doesn’t give a damn. Oh, I know he said he’d come, but he was lying, wasn’t he? He deceived you from the start, when he kept telling you he loved you. It wasn’t love at all. But don’t you dare complain! You’re not allowed to bitch at him, or even show your feelings. It upsets his precious peace of mind, puts him off his work.’

  She slammed the book shut, hurled it on the fire. It smouldered for a moment, then kindled into flame; the fragile pages curling in the blaze – her words and Heloïse’s totally wiped out. No point writing letters or sobbing down the phone – Abelard and Michael were deaf to all entreaties. Heloïse had used every skill she had to pour her passion on the page, yet what had been the use? She had never felt her lover’s skilful hands again, stroking down her body from throat to breast to thigh, or his wild mouth fused with hers; had never seen her child again – her son and his a stranger.