Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Why did you come to casualty in the first place?’

  She smiled at his mock naivety. As if he didn’t know! ‘To find you, of course,’ she whispered, exulting in the fact that she’d succeeded; that her months and months of waiting had been so dazzlingly rewarded.

  ‘Are you in any sort of pain?’

  She shook her head in surprise. How could she be feeling pain with Michael leaning over her?

  ‘The doctor won’t be long,’ he said, suddenly edging away and making for the door.

  She struggled to sit up, reaching out her hands as if to haul him back. But he had already disappeared, leaving her alone, distraught, and baffled by his words. What doctor could he mean? Michael was the doctor – the only one that mattered – and she couldn’t understand why he had eluded her again. She lay staring at the door, praying for it to open; every sense straining as she listened for his step. She heard other noises, other doctors; lighter feet than his bustling to and fro; a coarser, less attractive voice barking out instructions to a nurse. She could even hear time passing – a mournful, leaden sound which seemed to toll right through her skull, and was only silenced by the bellow of a panicked child in pain. She, too, wanted to scream – bawl out her loss and fury with no restraint or shame. But she willed herself to lie there like a marble effigy, trying to accept the fact that Michael must have been called to an emergency, and she must simply wait – have faith.

  Finally, triumphantly (when she was almost losing hope), the door swung open, and two men in white stepped towards the couch; two faces looming over her: Michael’s and an older one. She was too overwhelmed to speak. She recognized that second face – the blue eyes behind their glasses, the fine-textured mid-brown hair: Dr Edwards returned to his old hospital. He began to ask more questions, but she couldn’t take them in; could hardly grasp the miraculous fact that she had found both Michael Edwardses, and that here they were, standing either side of her.

  She gazed from face to face; closed her eyes as they seemed to merge, combine. Even when she looked again, the two were strangely blurred; the once distinct and separate features now filmed and hazed together – light hair darkening; blue eyes becoming brown. She experienced a stab of shock at the dawning recognition: there was only one Michael – had always only been the one – though she’d been seeing him divided. All this time, she’d confused reality with namesakes; regarded the mirror and the reflection as two divergent forms; split the voice off from its echo, the copy from its carbon. But if she went by touch and feeling, then she knew the truth instinctively: one pair of hands now stroking down her body – Michael‘s gifted surgeon’s hands, back where they belonged. Michael’s voice, as well – that forceful cultured claret voice, impatient and caressing, both at once. Time had turned full circle and they were lovers once again – she his favoured courtesan, his beloved greedy whore. She could tell he still desired her. Why else would he be slipping off her jacket, unbuttoning her blouse? She shut her eyes in submission, offering him her body, everything she had. He was seeking out her most vulnerable secret places, touching her bare flesh, listening to her heart – knowing that it beat at such a reckless pace because he had returned to take command of it. If only she could respond as she had done in the past. He would expect her to be tigerish, as unrestrained and impetuous as he always was himself, but she felt drained of all her energy.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked.

  She didn’t answer – couldn’t – didn’t have words fierce enough to express her brimming happiness.

  ‘I think you only fainted. I can’t find anything wrong. Everything appears to be working as it should be.’

  She nodded, still too dazed to speak. Michael had pronounced her healed, confirmed what she already knew. Her illness had been turmoil and confusion, seeing things distorted and in duplicate. But all those dangerous mirages had been swept away, dispersed, so of course her body was working. She might feel physically weak, but that meant nothing much. What counted was her re-awakening, her reunion with Michael.

  ‘I suggest you have a cup of tea, then if you want to get off home, that’s fine by me.’

  Again, she nodded dumbly, unable to express how deeply she was touched. Michael knew where she was going, understood that she must be on her way, and had just given her his blessing, sanctioned her new home.

  ‘Nurse, perhaps you’d arrange some transport – see if someone can pick her up, or call a cab or something. And she’d better have a biscuit with her tea. She doesn’t appear to have eaten for some time.’

  Tessa stammered out her thanks. She had never known him so indulgent, so concerned about her health. He must have changed, as she had, during their many months apart; learned compassion through despair.

  She sat waiting for the taxi, sipping the tea and nibbling a sweet biscuit – Michael’s strong reviving tea; Michael’s sustaining food. Somewhere in the distance, the newborn baby was crying, but she felt no more involvement. Of course it wasn’t hers: her baby wasn’t born yet – that joy was still to come – and now with Michael’s knowledge and approval.

  He had even got the cab right – an immaculate white saloon, perfect for her wedding – its handsome driver standing to attention as he opened the rear door. He settled her in the back, then purred away, swinging round the corner past the sculpture on the wall.

  ‘Stop!’ she told him suddenly. ‘Right here.’

  Only now did she understand that sculpture, and felt compelled to re-examine it in light of her new certainties. The invalid was her – passive and irresolute, as she had been since the summer; cloaked in her delusions, and depicted with her eyes shut because she was blinded to the truth. And the huge healing hands were Michael’s, since it was Michael who had cured her, opened her eyes, brought her to fulfilment. She was off the danger-list, with no risk of a relapse.

  He had also revived the morning, kindled the grey silence. The first blue was streaking the sky, and eager birds were fluting all around her; the noise of headstrong traffic rising from the road beyond. She kept her eyes fixed on the sculpture, admiring the strong fingers, the cupped and tireless palms. Those hands were still supporting her; would be there always – a prop and comfort through the silent years ahead.

  ‘Michael,’ she said softly, spinning out the name. Only one Michael, but Michael Prince of Light, perpetually breaking through and banishing the darkness.

  She turned away, content; sank back on her seat, watching the gradual lightening of the sky – a quilt of shimmering damask laid across the soiled and lumpy mattress of the clouds.

  ‘Drive on,’ she ordered. ‘Fast, please. It’s my wedding day today and I can’t keep the bridegroom waiting any longer.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Can you set me down just here, please. I’ll walk the last little bit.’

  Tessa paid the driver, ashamed of her meagre tip. She hadn’t budgeted for taxis, but at least the cab had saved her half an hour, not to mention the discomfort of a stop-start bumpy bus-ride. It was only 8.15, which was why she had decided to approach the house on foot. Michael might be still asleep, and she’d no wish to disturb him with the noise of tyres scrunching on the gravel. She also needed to calm herself, prepare for the encounter, and a brief stroll through the countryside would provide the perfect chance. They had left the shabby town behind, and the surrounding fields were so tranquil and unruffled they could have been a painting – an idyllic pastoral landscape enclosed in a gold frame. The day was very still, as if holding its breath, keeping itself tidy for a long-awaited visitor; no puff of wind stirring leaves or rippling through the grasses.

  But when she turned into the narrow lane which led to Kelcott Grange, the hedgerows either side of her seemed to be exploding with new life – coarse and thrusting hogweed unfurling green umbrellas; young hot-headed nettles running riot in the ditch. Birds were busy nesting, constantly surprising her as they flapped up from the hedge or shrilled their raucous greetings to a mate. Some trees looked
bare from a distance, but once she got up closer, she could see their tight-curled buds encased in rosy scales, almost ready to erupt. Others had broken out already – crinkly sprigs, like parsley, on the hawthorns; a horse-chestnut fully clothed and spiked with embryo flowers. The recent rain had washed and freshened everything; the muddy puddles in the ruts only waiting for the sun to make them glitter. She used one as a mirror, peering: down to check that her hair was neat. She didn’t want to prove a disappointment.

  She picked her way between the ruts, gulping draughts of air and sky, wishing she could soar like the lively darting swallows crisscrossing the hazy blue above her. The clouds had paled and thinned; mere gauzy wisps and shreds now, and changing as she watched.

  The lane curved sharply to the left, and her exhilaration mounted as she caught her first sight of the house; its sturdy red-brick walls guarded by a security force of three pines and two gnarled cedars. She stopped to admire the garden – the beds laid out with tulips in rows of stippled gold, and an ornamental lily-pond glinting in the foreground. She had guessed that Michael Edwards’ son would live in style and luxury; wasn’t surprised to find a gardener already hard at work, nor fazed by the imposing drive which swept up to the entrance.

  Yet her steps began to falter as she approached the stout oak door. It was still only half past eight, and there wasn’t a single soul around except that old man with his spade. She moved a tentative finger to the bell-push; withdrew it straight away. Supposing some officious type appeared? They might treat her not as Michael’s bride, but as a suspicious-looking stranger; even send her packing like a tramp. No, that was hardly likely, when she had taken such pains to make herself presentable – put on a smart suit and just the right amount of make-up, remembered to bring her one good leather handbag, to counteract the tatty plastic carriers. Her finger hovered over the bell once more, still not making contact. Then suddenly, on impulse, she pushed the door instead, sending up a prayer of thanks when it opened, let her in. Why did she keep forgetting that she only had to trust, and the power protecting her would open any door?

  She found herself in a spacious hall with panelled walls, a claret-coloured carpet, and an ancient carved stone hearth. The fireplace was no longer used, contained a flower arrangement in place of logs or coals. But the house was warm and welcoming, seemed to exude an atmosphere of acceptance and goodwill. Friendly family noises were coming from overhead – a murmured conversation, a burst of laughter, water running for a bath.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A petite but graceful woman was emerging from a small room on the right, her severe grey hair contrasting with a fresh and youthful face.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tessa. ‘I’ve come to see Michael Edwards.’ She spoke in her best voice – the one she’d used for all her Oxford interviews.

  ‘We don’t usually have visitors this early. Is Michael expecting you? I wasn’t told anything about it.’

  ‘I did write two days ago.’ Tessa put her bags down – an indication that she intended staying put. ‘I’m a friend of Michael’s father, Dr Edwards. Perhaps the letter hasn’t arrived yet. I know the post is …’ The sentence petered out. Had she actually written? She couldn’t quite remember. The last few days had been so confused, so fraught.

  ‘Are you a relative?’ the woman asked, her lake-blue eyes darkening with tiny currents of unease.

  I will be, Tessa thought – the closest person in his life, his next-of-kin, his wife. ‘Er … not exactly, but very close. I’ve known the family for years.’ That was true in one sense. She knew them through her researches; had culled the facts in such rich obsessive detail, she had surely earned the right to call herself if not a blood relation, then at least an intimate. She let spill some of those facts – enough to reassure the woman that she was a bona fide friend of Dr Edwards – lived just round the corner from him, was welcome in his home, familiar with his job, sometimes helped with Jonathan, and knew the whole sad story of his first son.

  ‘Well, there shouldn’t be a problem, then – except it’s still so early. We don’t really like our visitors to arrive before mid-morning, and it’s particularly inconvenient just now. You see, Michael’s being washed and dressed, and then he has to …’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ said Tessa. ‘Don’t worry.’ She could tell the woman was still a shade distrustful; knew it must seem odd to her that someone should swan in at such an hour. ‘I came up with a friend,’ she added, by way of explanation. ‘She prefers driving overnight – you know, to avoid the traffic. We got here at the crack of dawn, and I’ve already waited ages so I wouldn’t be a nuisance and disturb you any earlier.’

  Sympathy and wariness were conflicting on the woman’s face. ‘Look, I’ll have a word with the senior nursing officer. She’s the one who has the final say. Would you take a seat a moment while I phone her?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Tessa, perching on a chair.

  ‘Oh, and I’d better have your name.’

  ‘Tessa Reeves.’ It came out pat, without the slightest hesitation. She knew now who she was – and who she would be. This was her one remaining chance of becoming Mrs Edwards, being accepted as a member of his family; bearing Michael Edwards’ son, carrying on his name. And she knew that they belonged together – both handicapped, both rejects, displaced from home and family, living in a different world from the unreal one she’d just left. She had never told a soul – not even her mother – what the gynaecologist had said when she’d killed her unborn baby: that there was a one-in-twenty chance that she might produce another ‘affected’ child – ‘affected’ meaning crippled, stunted, monstrous (though fastidious Mr Lawson-Scott had avoided such expressions). He had advised genetic counselling, but she’d sat silent in her chair; stunned by the horrific fact that she was a carrier of deformity. No normal man would accept her as a wife – indeed, how could she accept herself? – branded as an outcast, a threat to her own children. But once she married Michael, the whole situation would change. If she and her new husband produced a disabled child, no one would recoil from it – or them. It would be loved here and accepted, regarded as the norm, not hacked out of her body like some malignant cancerous growth.

  ‘Right,’ said the woman, reappearing in the hall. ‘Miss Cookson says it’s fine for you to stay, but you’ll have to wait till Michael’s finished breakfast and had his medication, and she’d like to have a word with you first. She’s tied up just at present, seeing someone else, so I’ll take you to the sitting-room. It’s more comfortable in there. I’m Beryl, by the way – Beryl Hedges.’

  Tessa murmured an acknowledgment, then followed Beryl down a wide high-ceilinged corridor; hearing banging doors and muffled shouts coming from upstairs; the high-pitched wail of a vacuum cleaner; the sudden solemn chime of an old clock striking the quarter.

  ‘It should be a bit quieter in here,’ Beryl laughed, ushering her into a light and airy room which looked elegant yet lived-in. ‘Most of our residents are either having breakfast or still getting washed and dressed. Do sit down – make yourself at home.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tessa, smiling. She was at home, at last.

  She chose the largest of the easy-chairs, taking in her surroundings as she settled snugly into it. The room was well-proportioned, with picture windows and a view across the garden. Books and records were piled up on the shelves, and flowering plants clustered in one corner, a few of them in exotic purple bloom. There was a noticeboard on the wall above her head, covered with a collage of colour photographs – the residents at a garden fete, or away on various holidays: some sitting on the promenade; others lined up in their wheelchairs watching a brass band. She examined all the faces, trying to pick out Michael’s – the hazel eyes and light brown hair she’d seen in the blurred snapshots Alison’s friend had sent, which for some reason were all slightly out of focus. They were also pretty ancient, dating from his childhood, so she had very little notion of what he looked like now, though she’d told Pat Hughes everything she kne
w – that her fiancé was of middling height and colouring; a gentle type who was very fond of animals. She scanned the board for someone who would fit that vague description, paying particular attention to any of the photos featuring dogs and cats – one man on a stick, leaning down to stroke a tabby cat; another with a puppy on his lap. But neither could be Michael – the first too old; the second dark and fat.

  Only a handful of the patients seemed able to walk unaided – some on zimmer frames, but most confined to wheelchairs; a few so torpid and inert, it was difficult to tell whether they were actually still alive when the photographs were taken. Scarcely anyone was engaged in an activity. Two brave souls were swimming in a pool, and a middle-aged woman, with pathetic stumps for arms, was being led around a paddock on a pony – but the majority were immobile, their eyes and faces blank.

  The contrast was the crueller when she compared the one child on the board – clearly not a resident, but a bright-eyed little tearaway careering past a sideshow at the garden fête. He looked four or five years old, roughly the same age as Michael would have been when he was admitted to his first residential home. It was Alison who’d insisted that her son be sent away, despite her husband’s protests; Alison who couldn’t cope, couldn’t accept a defective child, and had finally had a breakdown and landed up in hospital, forcing Dr Edwards to give in. Once she had recovered (and the cause of her collapse been shunted safely out of sight into a children’s home for the handicapped), she had repaid her husband for his months of grief and worry by running off with a wealthy foreign architect. After that, she never saw her son again, refused to visit even once, leaving the whole burden to a shattered Dr Edwards.

  Tessa reached up to the noticeboard, touched the boy’s tanned face. ‘If Michael had been more like you – a normal kid who could play and race around – his mother would have loved him, but I’m afraid no one wants the rejects.’