Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Goodness! Look at that sunset!’ Michael exclaimed, as they were turning out of the park towards the car. He shaded his eyes against the dazzling fiery red, which had dyed his drab grey anorak, flushed his pallid skin.

  Tessa had been struck by it already, and now stood stock-still, feasting on the spectacle. The snow was crimson-tinged; the small mean houses in the street transfigured and ablaze, so fiercely bright she had to look away. Everything was dramatized – by snow, by fire, by flame – the dreary road spectacular; the dull lacklustre window-panes glowing like stained glass. She breathed in the whole scene, so that she could store it in her mind; knew it was symbolical – a sign to her of how Michael would transform her life; sweep her from a leaden grey to a resplendent, scorching red.

  Suddenly, impulsively, she flung her arms around the other (smaller) Michael. ‘Thank you,’ she exulted.

  ‘What for?’ he asked, electrified and bashful both at once.

  ‘For the walk,’ she lied. ‘And Jasper. And tea out in a tea-shop.’ But her other voice was shouting to the sky: ‘For Michael. For the conqueror.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Does Michael like his beef well done, or rare?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Tessa, more concerned with the cluttered kitchen table. She wished they had a proper separate dining-room, so they could spread themselves a little, instead of rubbing shoulders with the oven and the sink. If they weren’t forced to take in lodgers, there’d not only be more space, but she wouldn’t have to introduce poor Michael to two embarrassing ‘uncles’, as well as to her mother.

  April basted the roast beef, then turned the oven down a fraction. ‘Well, you don’t know much about the love of your life, that’s for sure. Every question I’ve asked so far, it’s been ‘‘dunno’’ or ‘‘couldn’t say’’.’

  ‘He’s not the love of my life, Mum. And don’t talk like that in front of him, or I’ll die.’

  ‘What? I’m not allowed to ask him how he likes his beef?’

  ‘You’re not allowed to mention love, or anything personal at all – and say nothing about me. You can just chat about your job – or his – or the weather, or …’

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with the man? Anyone would think you were bringing home the blooming Prince of Wales! ‘‘Don’t say this, don’t say that, make sure you say the other …’’ I’m not used to being told what I can do in my own house.’

  ‘Look, you promised, Mum, you swore.’

  ‘Okay, okay, don’t shout! Anyway, I’d better go and change. He’ll be here in quarter of an hour.’ April removed her apron, cast an approving glance at Tessa. ‘I’m glad you’ve made an effort to look nice, Toots. I always like you in that get-up, and you haven’t worn it for an age. I was beginning to think this Michael of yours must be a rag-and-bone man, the way you’ve let yourself go.’

  ‘Mum, listen …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You do realize he’s quite a bit older than me?’

  ‘Well, if I don’t, I must be deaf or daft. You’ve told me twenty times. The problem is, you’re always so damned vague. What’s ‘‘older’’ supposed to mean? Are we talking ten years, fifteen, or what?’

  Double that, thought Tessa, preparing water for the sprouts. ‘I don’t know his actual age.’

  ‘There you go again – don’t know, don’t know, don’t know! What do you know, for heaven’s sake? You spend enough time with the creep. Anyway, it’s asking for trouble, marrying an older man. They could pop off any moment, or start piddling the bed or losing their teeth, when you’re still in your prime.’

  ‘I’m not marrying him – or anyone.’

  ‘Well, I sometimes wish you would. It would be a weight off my mind to see you settle down.’

  ‘But you’re always saying you can’t wait for me to get the hell back to Balliol and finish my degree.’ Tessa sprinkled salt into the sprout-water. Even the word Balliol sounded rather strange now, and the place itself had become increasingly remote. She had a sudden vision of herself sitting at High Table in her scholar’s gown, next to her new tutor, Robin Bowden, who was passing her the port. But both figures looked unreal; stuffed-shirt illustrations from some esoteric book.

  ‘You can be a married student, can’t you?’ her mother was demanding. ‘You know, like whatshisname – that dark-eyed little fellow I met your second term, when I came up with the meringues.’

  ‘That’s different. He’s from Paris.’

  ‘Oh, they make special rules for frogs, do they? Typical! Once we get into this blinking Common Market, it’ll be fancy treatment for everyone but Britain.’

  ‘We’re in it, Mum, already – been in it twenty years. And, by the way, you’re not to start on politics. You’ll only upset Michael.’

  ‘He’s not one of these loonies, is he? – the sort who march with banners for save the lesbian whales?’

  ‘No. He’d never march for anything. He’s quiet and rather shy.’

  ‘The quiet ones are the worst, Toots. He’s probably hiding something. My Uncle Leonard used to say, ‘‘Never trust a silent man.’’’

  ‘Mum, have you been drinking?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re sounding sort of manic.’

  ‘Manic? What’s manic? I wish you wouldn’t use these foreign words. I’ve had one small glass of sherry, if you must know – well, maybe one and a half – and anyway I reckon I deserve it after cooking Sunday lunch for my ungrateful daughter’s sugar-daddy.’

  Tessa stalked into the sitting-room, replaced the cork in the Bristol Cream, then stared out of the window at the messy, dripping garden. It had been snowing on and off for the last two weeks or so, but a thaw had just set in and everything was slushy-grey and sodden. A few splodges of unmelted snow still carbuncled the lawn, but it was dull and dirty snow, with no sun to light it up. The sky was pale and listless, and the whole day seemed despondent, cringing like a sick and shivering dog.

  She bustled around, tidying up the room – which she’d done three times already – wishing it was as easy to transform the wintry garden: hang new leaves on the trees, plant a few bright flowers. Michael’s house was always neat, and he groomed and trimmed his garden as he must have once groomed and trimmed his Westies.

  ‘Jasper, sit!’ she whispered, picturing her companion sinking to his haunches in split-second obedience. They’d had half a dozen walks together, since that first tramp in Bushey Park. She’d begun taking him out in the mornings, while Michael was at work, and now Jasper recognized her knock, raced down the hall to meet her as if she were a doggy Father Christmas with a sack of marrow-bones.

  ‘You’ve really made a hit with him,’ Michael had remarked last week. ‘It was love at first sight, you realize. He’s never been like that with anyone, except my wife, of course. I suspect Brian and Bev are just a wee bit jealous. They’ve had him for five months, you see, yet now he’s lost his heart to someone he’s only known five days.’

  She’d been secretly delighted by his words, though outwardly making light of them, mumbling something in reply about Jasper being a friendly dog who doted on all comers. But she knew that Michael was right. Her bond with Jasper was a source of pride and some surprise. Why should he have taken to her like that? Unless even a dumb animal understood instinctively that her life was meshed with Michael’s. Jasper was the link between them; the natural acknowledged reason why she continued seeing Michael, the first thing they always talked about. She had spent almost every evening with him since they’d first met eleven days ago. He’d usually pick her up at six, when he had finished at the golf club, and they’d eat together at his home – uncomplicated foods like scrambled eggs or sausages, with Instant Whip for pudding, or tinned peaches with tinned cream. He never let her do the cooking, always waited on her, as if she were an invalid or child who had to be looked after. And they never did grown-up things like going out to theatres or dining in smart restaurants, but simply sat and tal
ked.

  She had told him quite a lot – about the termination (which had affected him so deeply, he’d actually broken down and cried again); about her loss of Oxford, and her parents’ odd relationship – but she’d still said almost nothing about Michael. He was the father of her baby – that she had admitted – but whenever she’d attempted to describe how much he meant, how far he ruled her life, she’d become completely tongue-tied. She remembered Miss O’Brian, her English teacher at school, who always used to rave about the language – how rich it was, how expressive, how fertile its vocabulary. Yet when it came to Michael, that vocabulary seemed totally inadequate, so that she could never hope to find the words to do him proper justice.

  It had been easier to explain her much more recent ‘boyfriend’, the one she had invented. She had merely told him the truth – well, part of it, at least – how she’d needed to be alone at Christmas, to escape April’s constant questioning, and give herself a breathing-space. Now she wished to God she’d never mentioned it at all; had ditched the whole senseless plan when it was still a sickly notion in her mind. Supposing Michael got it wrong; forgot his ‘mother’ up in Essex, who’d been so recently bereaved; or overlooked the ‘fact’ that they’d spent Christmas Day together? He hated lies – he’d made that very clear – had only agreed to come today because she’d been so terribly upset when he refused.

  She checked her watch – eight minutes to go – though he’d probably be early, turn up any second. He never kept her waiting, never let her down. She suddenly realized she was missing him, as much as she missed Jasper; knew her tension would evaporate once he was ensconced in their small sitting-room, giving April his full polite attention, listening with that seriousness she liked so much herself. Even if he fluffed his lines, would it really matter? Her mother would be hooked by then. She couldn’t fail to warm to his sincerity, the way he made you feel important, drinking in your every word, even if you were rambling on about nothing in particular.

  Ah! There was her mother now, teetering into the room, singing ‘I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair’ in a loud off-key contralto. She was dolled up in her catsuit, which was shocking-pink – and tight – with a daringly low neck, and a vulgar gold appliqué flaunting on one hip. The high-heeled shoes were also gold, and adorned with a rosette on each peep-toe; looking for all the world as if they’d been left over from the Christmas decorations.

  ‘Mum, you can’t wear that!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it makes you look like a tart, that’s why! And it’s far too dressy for Sunday lunch.’

  ‘Well you’re dressed up.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  April fumbled for her cigarettes and lighter. ‘I bet I know what’s eating you! You’re worried that your Michael’s going to take a shine to me, instead, especially seeing as he’s probably nearer my age.’ She gave an exuberant laugh, which turned into a cough as she lit up, inhaled deeply with her eyes shut. ‘I was reading this story in Woman’s Realm, where the daughter’s boyfriend runs off with the mother. She dies, though, in the end. Funny – you never used to have a death in women’s magazine stories, not even a few years ago. Things have changed – no more happy endings.’

  ‘Mum, isn’t there anything else you can wear?’

  ‘It’s too late now. By the time I’ve struggled out of this little lot, he’ll be knocking at the door. Or d’ you want me to greet him in my birthday suit?’ April grabbed the sherry bottle, steered Tessa towards the sofa. ‘Come on, pet, get a drop of this down you. It’ll help you to relax. I’ve never seen you in such a state. Anyone would think your mother was an ogre.’

  Tessa refused the drink, watching with disapproval as April refilled her own glass, slopping a few driblets down her cleavage. ‘At least take those awful earrings off.’

  ‘What, my sozzle-eyed pink elephants? But they make the outfit, Tess, and they’re exactly the right colour. I spent ages choosing them. This man of yours sounds a right pain in the arse. I always say a bloke without a sense of humour is worse than one without an arm or leg. Which reminds me, love, there was a piece in the Express today about a poor old geezer with no arms or legs at all you know, one of those thalido-whatsits. His mother took that awful drug in the sixties. Rosie, she was called, and he was Tom – or was it Tim? Anyway, he was nothing but a stump. They showed him in his wheelchair with his shirt-sleeves sort of flapping and a rug across his lap. And would you believe he’d married this quite pretty girl, who said he was a laugh a minute. I suppose you don’t miss arms and legs if you’re rolling in the aisles.’

  ‘Well, if I brought a stump home, I’d never hear the end of it.’

  ‘He may be a stump, for all I know. You’re so secretive about him, I’m expecting a member of MI5 crossed with the Invisible Man. I only hope undercover agents are partial to banana loaf. He will stay for tea, as well, won’t he?’

  Tessa nodded. ‘I don’t see why not. And he has got a sweet tooth.’

  ‘Good Lord! The child’s come up with a solid fact, at last!’

  ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘I know,’ said April wistfully, the sudden sad expression on her face contrasting with the dangly leering elephants. She reached out for her daughter’s hand, clasped it in her own. ‘We used to be so close, Toots. What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not ashamed of me? I know I’m always banging on about it, but I sometimes can’t help thinking …’ She let the sentence peter out, released her daughter’s hand, as if sensing that neither her words nor touch were welcome. There was silence for a moment, apart from some radio announcer’s voice droning down the hall from Eric’s room. April made to flick her ash in the skull-and-crossbones ashtray, missed, and blew it off the sofa. ‘Now listen, pet,’ she said, putting on a cheerful voice, and lolling back on the sofa, to demonstrate that problem-time was over. ‘You’re not to fret about today. I’ll really make a fuss of Michael, I promise. Though I wonder where the heck he is.’ She pushed her bangles up her arm, so that she could see her glittery watch. ‘We’ve got to eat at half past one, whatever time he gets here. Frank’s going bowling, and he has to leave by three.’

  Tessa grimaced at the mention of Frank’s name. ‘I wish to hell he’d push off now. He’s been unbearable all morning, making all these cracks about Prince Charming.’

  ‘As bad as me, you mean?’

  Tessa shrugged, pulled at the fringe on the peony-printed cushion. There were no flowers in the garden; too many in the sitting-room – flowers from every season blooming in mid-January on cushions, sofa, curtains, chairs.

  ‘He paid for the roast beef, you know, so you can hardly grudge him his lunch. Beef’s a shocking price! But I thought it would be nice for Michael. I mean, now he’s lost his wife, he must miss things like home-cooked Sunday lunch. Poor soul! He’s really been through it. First his wife, then his mother, and all within six months. You know what they say – deaths always come in threes, so I only hope …’

  ‘Mum, whatever you do, don’t talk about his wife. He’s still terribly upset about her, and you’re bound to put your foot in it.’

  April lurched up from the sofa, tugged her jumbo earrings off, then drained her glass of sherry in one gulp. ‘Okay, I’ve got the message. I’m not to say a single word. In fact, better if I don’t exist at all. Why don’t I just vanish, and leave you and bloody Michael to eat your beef alone?’

  Tessa trailed over to the window, stood peering out disconsolately at the liquefying garden, feeling ashamed now of her carping. Her mother had been cooking since eight o’clock this morning, preparing lunch and tea, and though Frank had bought the topside (out of a recent win at ‘Jackpot’ in the Sun), April had paid for all the rest. She’d splashed out on cream and wine and fancy cheeses; really gone to town on the desserts – made a raspberry pavlova as well as peach and walnut pie. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said, at last. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
>
  ‘Well, you have – you do. You’ve been like this for weeks. I just can’t understand you. We’re like strangers to each other.’

  ‘I’m a bit on edge, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’ April forced a laugh, took a long drag at her Silk Cut. ‘Come on, love, let’s cool it, both try and simmer down. We don’t want Michael to find us flipping our lids. And talking of lids, I’d better put the sprouts on.’

  ‘Not yet, Mum. It’s far too soon. We can’t drag him to the table the minute he walks in.’

  ‘When’s nosh?’ demanded Frank, suddenly appearing at the door in a primrose-yellow sweatshirt proclaiming ‘WORLD‘S GREATEST LOVER – DON‘T ALL RUSH AT ONCE‘.

  ‘One-thirty sharp,’ said April, ‘though it’ll be burnt nosh at this rate. I’d better turn the oven down again.’

  ‘And where’s his nibs?’

  ‘Ask Tess.’

  Frank strode over to the window, clicked his heels to Tessa, made a low and sweeping bow. ‘Prince Charming let you down, darling?’

  Tessa stalked out of the room, and up the stairs, bumping into Eric who’d just emerged from the bathroom and was still zipping up his flies.

  ‘When’s lunch?’ he asked. ‘I’m ravenous!’

  ‘If anyone else asks me when …’

  ‘Okay, keep your hair on! It’s just that I promised this poor mate of mine I’d …’

  ‘I know, I know, you’re rushing off! So’s Frank. And Mum insists on watching Alex Higgins, so Michael will be sitting talking to himself by the time we reach the cheese.’

  ‘Can’t he talk to you? Any why are we havin’ cheese? We never usually do. No, hold on a sec – I get it. It’s VIP treatment for boyfriends. I s’pose she’s laid on brandy and cigars, and them after-dinner mint things.’