Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘We’re shut,’ he said. ‘An hour ago.’

  ‘But the door was open, and it says you close at eleven.’ Tessa gestured to the notice on the wall.

  ‘Not New Year’s Eve, we don’t.’

  ‘You can’t just change the times like that.’

  ‘Oh, can’t I? Thanks a lot.’

  ‘But I’m … I’m meeting someone here, and he won’t know where I am.’

  ‘Tough shit! Now, move your arse.’

  ‘But …’

  He marched her to the door, made a point of locking it with exaggerated relish – jangling keys, shooting bolts, while he griped about the ‘bleedin’ weather’ and ‘fuckin’ useless British Rail’ – buggered up, as usual, by a few flakes of ‘soddin’ snow’.

  British Rail, she repeated to herself. Perhaps not so fucking useless. They would have a waiting-room – free again – and maybe even warm. And there was a buffet on the station where she could get a cup of tea, and where people wouldn’t object to her hogging a whole table when she was on her own and only spending a mingy 5op. The snow was whooshing down still – furry white where it coated roofs and ledges, but a dirty soupy grey beneath her feet. Well, at least it kept most people safely indoors, which meant far less chance of meeting someone she knew, who might report back to her mother that Tessa Reeves had been spotted all alone (with her coat soaked through and her hair in dripping rats’ tails) just an hour away from midnight.

  She struggled down the street and round the corner; snow stinging on her face, sneaking down her neck. Some trains must be running, whatever that rude slob had said. She could hear one rumbling past; instinctively quickened her pace to match its rhythmic chug. She liked the sound, which reminded her of the judder of the washing machines, and seemed to comfort and exhilarate at once. Stations were exciting places, like beautiful launderettes – busy travellers arriving and departing, reaching longed-for destinations. There was no sign of any ticket-collector, so she wandered on to the platform, and along further to the buffet; found it locked and barred. Well, that had saved her 5op, and the waiting-room was just as good – more appropriate, in fact, since she was studying for a new degree in Waiting – waiting for the chimes of midnight, waiting for the Prince.

  The metal bench was cold; the chipped stone floor patterned with fag-ends; the ancient heater dead. Two girls were sitting opposite, giggling, prattling, dressed up to the nines. Their cheery talk increased her sense of sterile isolation, so that she was relieved when they breezed out to catch the 11.21 to Waterloo. Quite a little crowd had alighted from the train, and were surging along the platform, jostling up the stairs. They all had places to go – dinner-dances, parties, snug and welcoming homes. The last one straggled out of sight, and she settled back to wait again; the station now abandoned; even the busy snowflakes beginning to slow their hectic pace.

  She realized she was starving, tipped out her handbag on the bench in the hope of finding some chewing-gum or a lone forgotten toffee. She stared at all the clutter – things she barely needed any more: lipstick, diary, notebook, keys. Why was life so snarled up with possessions – trivia which once had seemed important? Her university reader’s ticket had fallen on the floor. That she would need, when she resumed her course at Balliol next year. She stooped to pick it up, glancing at the photo on the front. Was that really her, with those chubby cheeks and that stupid jaunty grin? She put her hand across the grin, but the eyes still smiled and shone – deceitful painted eyes. She hesitated a moment, then tore it into two – right between the eyes – chucked both halves into the litter-bin. Why go back to Oxford and continue her degree, when history was a sham?

  She remained standing by the bin, riffling through its contents to find something she could drink from. If she was going to toast the New Year, then she must do it in style, not guzzle from the bottle. She pounced in triumph on a polystyrene cup, shaking out the coffee dregs which had muddied at the bottom, then filled it to the brim with cherry brandy; keeping one eye on her watch, so she could time her toast for the dot of twelve o’clock. There was a sudden rustling noise, and she shrank away in horror as a small grey rat scampered across the floor. It seemed equally alarmed by her and froze in the far corner, its tail coiled round its body, its whiskers quivering. She stood her ground, scared that if she moved at all, it might run across her feet, but it sat so still, it could have been a stone rat. She let her breath out slowly, checked the time again. Two minutes to go. Now she’d recovered from the shock, she was almost glad to see it there, to have a bit of company. Only tramps and failures were alone on New Year’s Eve.

  She counted seconds under her breath, then raised her glass to her small friend. ‘Happy New Year,’ she whispered, taking the largest gulp she could; spluttering and choking as the liquor hit her throat. The rat was looking at her, as if pleased to be included. ‘Have a good year,’ she urged it. ‘No traps or dogs or poisons.’ It flicked its tail, suddenly scuttled out of sight behind the heater, vanishing as abruptly as it had come. It had been startled by the Tannoy announcing the last train: the 12.02 to Esher, Hersham, Walton, Weybridge, and all stations to Guildford. She blundered out of the waiting-room, leaving half her belongings on the bench. High Pines was at Walton, and Michael was at High Pines – chafing with impatience, pacing up and down as he listened for her step, ready to sweep her into his arms for the last waltz.

  ‘Steady!’ warned a doddery old man, trying to climb down from the carriage as she pushed wildly on. She sank back on the seat and closed her eyes. She was feeling rather strange – groggy and half-dazed – but once she reached the golf club, the Prince would wake her from her slumber with a kiss.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’ asked the steward.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tessa. ‘I … I’m looking for my husband.’ She glanced around the plush and tasteful lounge. Things weren’t quite in focus, blurring at the edges, but this was definitely Michael’s world – luxurious, exclusive – with bowls of hothouse flowers, bulky leather chairs, gleaming silver trophies in mahogany display-cases, and even the weather kept at bay behind sumptuous velvet curtains. She slipped off her wet coat. The steward appeared affronted by it; even more so by the sad state of her shoes. She had got lost on her way from the station, tried to take a short cut across a muddy field, then ended up having to clamber through a hedge. ‘I’m … er … sorry I’m so late,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t get a message to my husband.’ It gave her a real thrill to say ‘my husband’, and she’d used the words several times already – to a car-park attendant, a waitress going home, and two chauffeurs in peaked caps, leaning against their gleaming snooty cars.

  ‘What’s his name?’ The steward seemed suspicious still, eyeing her scratched hands with disapproval.

  ‘Dr Michael Edwards,’ she announced, bending down unsteadily to remove the offending shoes – mustn’t spoil their carpet.

  He shook his head, his frown so deep it was shuttering his eyes. ‘He’s not a member, madam, so I’m afraid he won’t be here. This is the members’ private lounge. I suggest you try the bar – first right along the passage.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said graciously, then zigzagged through the door, keeping as close as she could to the wall, in an attempt to regain her balance. Although it was easier to walk barefoot, the floor kept surging up to meet her.

  ‘Good evening,’ she smiled to a couple in the corridor; next greeting an old fossil with silver hair and whiskers, who’d stopped in an alcove to light his fat cigar. They might be Dr Edwards’ friends, so they must be treated with respect. She was glad she’d made an effort to dress up. All the men she’d seen so far had been wearing dinner-jackets; their partners looking glamorous in formal party frocks – though most of them seemed to be leaving: kissing, hugging, calling out goodbyes.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said to no one. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’

  She paused to get her bearings, peering into a large room on her left. The dining-room, the dancing-room – though more or less
deserted now. Drunken streamers straggled down the walls; a stray balloon was expiring on the floor, while its mates hung smugly above it, pink and plump and looped with silver bows. The food had all been cleared away, except a few odd wilting parsley sprigs and a waterlogged bread roll. But they’d kindly left some bottles out – claret, sparkling wine, even vintage Bollinger. Most of them were empty, or very nearly so, but if she mixed all the dregs together, she could almost fill a glass. And the glass was really elegant – not a polystyrene cup. She sipped her heady cocktail, then stuck a frond of parsley into the disintegrating roll, and bit into it greedily. She wished the rat could share her soggy sandwich, hoped it wasn’t hungry, or moping on its own. ‘Happy New Year,’ she murmured again, to the rat, the room, the world; toasting them in bread and wine. She mustn’t be too long, though – she’d come here to claim Michael, not to fill her stomach. She took one last bite before relinquishing her dinner, then tottered on towards the bar, stood uncertain at the door, bewildered by the throng of faces. She clutched at the wall, almost keeling over. There was Dr Edwards – or at least his broad black back – leaning down to kiss a fluffy blonde. No sign of Joyce at all – no sign of any woman, save that obnoxious little tart.

  ‘Michael!’ she screamed, her voice rising in a hysterical wail as the girl opened her wet lips and closed her eyes.

  There was an instant damning silence as everyone wheeled round to stare at her aghast; drinks frozen in shocked hands, conversations broken off, the kiss itself aborted. The man also turned his head – he was fair, with a moustache, and years younger than Dr Edwards. She met his eyes – cold grey eyes, hostile and accusing. She staggered from the bar and lurched along the passage, half-blinded by tears, but still sobbing Michael’s name. She had to find him, leave with him, keep her resolution. She had sworn to supplant Joyce Edwards, to be the new and only woman in his life. Joyce was a mere stand-in, a temporary and disposable wife, who cramped his style, made him tame and timid, stifled those fierce passions she would unleash in him herself. Midnight had struck, so it was time for her to make her solemn vows: to love, honour, cherish and obey him, till death did them part – even beyond death, and eternally.

  ‘Michael,’ she kept calling, frantic now to find him; swerving round a corner and bumping into a group of men who were roistering down the other way. ‘Michael?’ she repeated, as her eyes scanned every one, trying to pick his features out from the swimmy blur of faces.

  ‘Someone wants you, Michael,’ crowed a raucous jokey voice. ‘A damsel in distress!’

  Vulgar guffaws reverberated round her, followed by a tramp of feet as the bodies barged on past. Silence for a moment, then a softer and more kindly voice said, ‘Can I help? I’m Michael.’

  She stared at the new face – a pale and rather insipid face, with thinning hair cut neat and short, sandyish in colour, but greying at the sides. The eyes were hazel, and surrounded by fine laughter-lines; deeper, sadder lines etched into his forehead. He was slim and fairly short, an inch below her own height, whereas Dr Edwards was tall, broad-shouldered, younger.

  She shook her head, turned wretchedly away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not Michael.’ People were always deceiving her, promising they’d come, then sending someone else; slipping out of a dinner-dance just seconds before she’d got there; claiming names which weren’t their own. She slumped against the wall, had no more strength or spirit to go on.

  ‘But I am,’ the man insisted. ‘Michael Chalmers. And I work here, in the office, so maybe I can help you find your own Michael.’

  She raised her head, a tiny flame of hope flickering in the ashes of her mind. This man understood – had just referred to Michael as ‘her own’, must realize that she had to track him down. Yes, she tried to shout – yes please, I beg you, search him out, do anything to find him. But the words had made no sound, simply blown away like smoke, and her legs were sand and cobweb, could no longer hold her up. She was aware that she was falling, made one last desperate plea – ‘Michael. Find him!’ – then collapsed into his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tessa peered at the bunny-patterned wallpaper. She’d had rabbits on her bedroom wall when she was a child of five or six; had often lain in bed counting them or christening them – once had been ticked off for colouring in three tails. She wasn’t in any sort of state to try to count them now. Her brain was completely immobilized; her whole body taken over by a monster of a headache, which seemed to claw her in its talons, throb and pound and hammer through her skull. She pressed her fists against her eyes, as if to knead away the pain; glancing in surprise at the long sleeve of her nightdress. She didn’t own a nightie in pink-flowered winceyette; hadn’t worn long sleeves in bed since she was a podgy and unglamorous thirteen. Even more peculiar, she still had her bra and tights on, underneath the flowers. She turned over on her back, frowning in perplexity; couldn’t work out where she was, or how she’d landed up there. All the solid landmarks she normally awakened to had disappeared entirely; in their place a wicker chair, a fluffy rug, and a print of Jemima Puddle-Duck quacking on the wall.

  The curtains were still drawn, but enough light was filtering through them to reveal the room quite clearly – a warm and kindly room, which, despite its unfamiliarity, seemed to assure her she was safe here; that if she lay patiently and quietly, somebody would turn up with some medicine or Lucozade. She ran her tongue across her lips, longing for a drink. Her mouth was dry and scratchy; its usual moist pink lining stripped off in one piece, and replaced by offcuts of sandpaper, whose edges didn’t meet. She half-sat up, to listen: someone was bustling about downstairs. She must be still a child – ill in bed and waiting for the doctor, while her mother tore round like a steam-train tidying up the mess. April had always treated doctors like visiting royalty – every speck of dust attacked before they stepped into the house, and at least the worst of the clutter bundled into cupboards or stuffed haphazardly in drawers. No time to do much now. She could already hear his footsteps on the stairs – slow and heavy footsteps, stopping just outside her room. There was a tap-tap on the door. Doctors didn’t knock.

  ‘Come in,’ she called, confused.

  At first she hardly recognized him. He was wearing not a dinner jacket, as he had been at the golf club, but a brown home-knitted cardigan over neat but dull grey slacks. His face looked even paler, and a strand of sandy hair had fallen over his forehead; the hazel eyes anxious and uneasy. She couldn’t bring herself to meet those eyes, felt too ashamed and overwhelmed as the horror of the night before began replaying in her head – the general plot still vague, but every scene condemning her. She turned to face the wall.

  She heard him clear his throat, take a wary step towards her. ‘I’ve … brought you up a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, trying to focus on a bunny, a blue one with a carrot in its mouth. The ‘thank you’ seemed to give him courage to walk right up to the bed, set the cup down on the bedside table.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said again, knowing that her debt to him went far beyond the tea. This stranger, this Samaritan, had brought her to his home, somehow managed to undress her (considerately leaving on her underclothes), lugged her semi-conscious form upstairs and heaved it into bed. Yet he probably weighed little more than she did. Or perhaps his wife had helped. There must be a wife, since she was sleeping in their child’s room. Wives could leave, though – walk out of a marriage, bugger off with someone else. She rolled over again to face him, to see if he wore a wedding ring. He did.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he enquired, sounding genuinely concerned. His eyes were very sensitive, instantly reflecting his slightest change of mood. They were no longer apprehensive, simply kind.

  ‘I … I’m not quite sure. My head hurts.’

  ‘Shall I fetch some aspirin?’

  She nodded, scared she’d cry. He was waiting on her, nursing her, not shunning her as a stupid drunken fool. By the time he returned with two aspirins and a glass of
water, she had already drained the tea and now gulped from the tumbler he’d put into her hand. Her thirst was so intense, she could have knocked back the entire contents of the Thames.

  He remained standing by the bed, like a conscientious doctor, checking that his patient had taken all her medicine. ‘Look, I … don’t know who you are – I mean, not even your name or …’

  ‘Tessa.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Tessa,’ he said with mock formality. ‘And you know I’m Michael, don’t you? Michael Chalmers.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know you’re Michael.’

  He took the empty glass, kept hold of it, as if relieved to have something to do with his hands. ‘I do hope you don’t object to my bringing you back here. I couldn’t take you home, you see, since I’d no idea where you lived. My friends suggested calling the police, but I didn’t like the thought of you waking up in a cell on New Year’s Day.’ He gave a nervous laugh, still fumbling with the glass, fingers stroking round its rim. ‘But what I’m really worried about is whether you were expected back last night. I mean, is there someone I should phone? They must be in a frightful state by now – out dragging ditches, or searching for a corpse – your Michael, for example?’

  She didn’t answer. ‘Your Michael,’ he had said – in a frightful state about her, dragging ditches to find her precious corpse. She could kiss this man, worship at his feet.

  ‘Or you could make the call yourself, if you’re feeling well enough. The phone’s down in the hall.’

  She shook her head. It was April who’d be going spare; who wouldn’t have slept a wink last night, wondering where the hell her daughter was, and why she hadn’t rung. But she felt too weary and whacked out to face her mother’s anger, fob off all her questions, fabricate more lies. Instead, she lay back on the pillows, pulled the duvet right up to her chin. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to sleep my headache off.’