Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  She pushed the door of the shop, which shared its smells (and customers) with the adjoining Indian takeaway. She grimaced at the waft of spice and curry; waited at the counter behind a thin bald-headed man haggling over a job-lot of old crockery.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman in charge, a horsy-looking matron with over-white false teeth (not unlike the china she was handling). ‘We can’t reduce our prices. It’s one of Oxfam’s rules.’

  Tessa was familiar with the rule, had regretted it a score of times in the past, though never more so than today. Who would sell a wedding dress for £4.22?

  The old gaffer shuffled out with a curse, but not his cups. The woman cleared them from the counter, then smiled at Tessa with a kindly ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tessa. ‘I was just wondering what you were asking for the wedding dress.’ She pointed to the window, hoping that her offhand tone would conceal her burning interest.

  ‘It’s £19.99 – a real bargain, I’d say! It’s a designer dress, you know, and looks as if it would fit you to a T. The girl who brought it in was very tall and slim.’

  ‘Could I try it on?’

  ‘Yes, ’course you can – if you don’t mind waiting while I get it off the model. It’s quite a job, what with that train, and all the buttons.’

  Tessa wondered how on earth she could find the extra money. She had to have the dress. It was meant for her – she knew that – a style she loved, and exactly the right size. And £20 was peanuts, when it must have cost a thousand, new. It had also turned up when she needed it, just six weeks before the wedding. The whole thing was intended – the fact she’d happened to walk this way, for no particular reason and no plans to buy a thing, as if guided by some power.

  The dress felt weighty, sumptuous, when the woman eventually laid it in her arms; the satin slippery-cool; the embroidery encrusted with tiny gleaming pearls. The only blemish was a slight yellowy patch under each arm – a perspiration stain. Its owner must have sweated at the ceremony – nervous yet elated, as she would be herself.

  She slipped into the tiny cell-like fitting-room, with its skimpy floral curtain and scratchy square of carpet – hardly an appropriate place to try on so grand a gown. She pulled off her old tracksuit, noticing how creased it was, bundled it into the corner like a piece of dirty washing. She held her breath as she stepped into the dress, deliberately refusing to look in the mirror until she was certain that it fitted her and she’d done up all the fastenings. It wasn’t easy on her own – the long back zip kept sticking, and the buttons on the sleeves had maddeningly small buttonholes which called for skill and patience. She wished she had a bridesmaid – no, half a dozen bridesmaids – in stunning midnight-blue, to wait on her and serve her, make the last adjustments, arrange the stiffened petticoats, smooth the flouncy skirt. The saleswoman had asked if she could help, but she didn’t want those veined arthritic hands pawing at the satin. Everything connected with her wedding must be beautiful and fresh.

  At last, she was ready to check on her reflection. Tentatively, she raised her head, astonished at the transformation. She was no longer a scruffy dropout, but a triumphant radiant bride – the shimmering white contrasting with the darkness of her hair; the low scoop-neck revealing just a hint of teasing cleavage; the sleeves balling out at the top, then narrowing down the forearm, clinging at the wrist. There was no room to unfurl the train in the confined space of the cubicle, so she walked out through the curtain and let it flow behind her, enchanted by its swishing sound, the feeling of sheer weight. She practised gliding to and fro, as if she were processing up the aisle, self-consciously at first, but gradually gaining confidence. Every eye had turned towards her; all the other customers admiring and exclaiming.

  The woman who had served her was fairly goggling at the change. ‘It’s sensational!’ she exclaimed. ‘It looks as if it was made for you.’

  Tessa shut her eyes. The people in the shop had become the congregation, awed to solemn silence as she repeated her vows; watching as the bridegroom slipped the gold ring on her finger, then sealed the marriage contract with a kiss. She yearned to prolong that kiss, to linger in the church amidst the fragrant smell of orange-blossom, instead of returning to the reek of Chicken Madras and the pressing problem of how to raise £15.77, and raise it double quick.

  ‘Could you reserve the dress for me?’ she asked. ‘I’m definitely going to buy it, but I haven’t brought my chequebook, and I’m a bit short of ready cash. I’ll have to go and fetch some.’

  The woman scooped a strand of greying hair back into her bun, secured it with two hairpins. ‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to put things by. It’s against the company rules.’

  Damn the rules, thought Tessa, embarrassed when she realized that several people in the shop were listening in, with undisguised curiosity. ‘I could leave you £4.20 as deposit,’ she offered sotto voce, fumbling for her purse.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, it really is forbidden. They’re very strict about how we run the shop.’ She edged a little closer, lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘But look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you promise me you’ll come straight back with the money, I’ll pop the dress on this shelf here. It’s so high up, I doubt anyone else will see it. You’d better give me your name, though, in case I’ve gone for tea. Then I can tell the others you’re coming in, so there won’t be any mix-up.’

  Tessa hesitated, invariably confused when she had to give her name. Was she Edwards? Chalmers? Reeves?

  ‘Hughes,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Pat Hughes.’ Her friend from school was also getting married. She hadn’t seen Pat in an age, had fobbed off all her overtures and phone-calls, pretending she was still unwell, or too washed-out to fix a meeting. Pat had finally got the message and stopped ringing altogether. But April had met Mrs Hughes a month or so ago, and been regaled with all the details of the wedding. April was so impressed – not to mention downright envious – that she still talked of little else: the reception for a hundred guests, the four bridesmaids and two pageboys, the honeymoon in Marbella at the Hotel Emperador, which had a jacuzzi in every bathroom and a real fountain in the foyer.

  ‘You must get back in touch, Tess. You and Pat were once as thick as thieves. I can’t think why you’ve dropped all your old girlfriends. My Aunt Adie used to say one female friend’s worth two blokes, any day. Though, when I come to think of it, she was a bit of an old hypocrite. She always had a string of men in tow, and God help any girlfriend who as much as fluttered her eyelashes at even the less hunky ones. Anyway, if you go and call on Pat, she’ll invite you to the wedding, won’t she? The reception’s at the Manor Park, so we’re probably talking thirty quid a head, and so much blooming champagne you could wash your hands and face in it. I threw out a big hint to Mrs Hughes, told her how you’d missed Pat and would definitely be popping round to say congratulations.’

  ‘Well, I wish you hadn’t, Mum. I’m too busy at the moment.’

  ‘Busy! That’s a good one! You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  She’d been working every hour, in fact, having returned to her Dr Edwards thesis, filling in the early part with the help of Dr Reynolds’ wife. Even her introduction to Paula Reynolds had demanded time and guile: a week of planning, a plethora of lies. A month ago, she couldn’t have cared less about either Pat Hughes or her wedding, but now things were very different. Since she was leaving to get married herself, she needed someone to confide in, someone her own age who could advise her, boost her courage, and especially help with April, who’d be frantic once she realized that her daughter had done a bunk. Pat might even bail her out right now, if she called there straight away and begged a loan. £16 sounded quite a hefty sum, but she had never stinted Pat during their seven years at school together: all that help with homework, all those loans of books, the hours of patient listening when Pat’s first callous boyfriend waltzed off with someone else.

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible,’ she told th
e woman in the shop. ‘Please don’t sell the dress. It’s desperately important.’

  She struggled out of it as quickly as she could; feeling oddly insubstantial once she was standing in her underclothes, as if she’d lost her bones and purpose. The tracksuit seemed so grotty in comparison, she could hardly bear to put it on again; wished she hadn’t shed her winter coat. Yet it was no weather for a coat – the sun surprisingly strong as she hurried from the shop and up the High Street. There was still a week of March left, but spring had hatched already: trees bursting into bud; the recently bare flower-beds bejewelled with crocuses; the sky a confident blue. She shared the season’s optimism, felt better altogether – decisions made, her future assured, the jangling conflicts solved.

  She pounded past the Midland Bank, and round the corner to the Post Office, envying those smug customers who had deposit accounts, or savings books, or money in a building society. Had she really got the nerve to turn up on Pat’s doorstep, after so long and rude an absence, say ‘hello’, and ask for money almost in the same breath? Yet if she wasted time in idle chit-chat before she broached the subject, the dress might well have gone. Spring was the busiest time for weddings, and second-hand designer dresses were extremely rare and likely to be snapped up. She slowed her steps, reflecting. Was there no other way she could get the money quicker? She was tempted to squat down on the pavement with a placard saying ‘Homeless and hungry. Can you spare some change?’

  It wouldn’t be a lie. She supposed she must be hungry (despite the fact she never felt it physically), because she rarely bothered much with meals; managing to convince her mother that she was either out with Ivor, or eating with his family. And she was homeless, too, in the sense that there was nowhere she belonged. Michael Chalmers’ house was still jointly owned by Eileen. He’d got rid of half her things now, but her presence lingered on, her iron grip on the fabric – the very bricks and mortar of the place. And as for her mother’s semi, she felt less and less at home there, oppressed by April’s constant fretting questions: Why did she always look like death warmed up? Couldn’t she make an appointment with the doctor, or at least get more fresh air? Or if there was nothing seriously wrong with her, then wouldn’t she feel better if she went out and found a job? And as for Mr Mystery Man, that sodding stuck-up Ivor, was he really so unnatural that he hadn’t the slightest desire to meet his girlfriend’s mother? And April seemed obsessed with marriage, bringing up the subject several times each day: her eldest niece’s engagement; the recent wedding in ‘Neighbours’; what a fantastic catch Pat’s Tony was – head of a computer firm, with a degree in economics – and if a dunce like that could land him, then what was Tessa doing?

  She realized that her own wedding would solve a lot of hassles. April was obviously finding it a strain, both financially and emotionally, to cope with a daughter she no longer understood. Marriage made for happiness – and not just for the couple. Everybody loved a bride. Look at how those biddies in the Oxfam shop had all cooed and beamed and clucked. Which brought her back to the problem of the money. She wasn’t very likely to light on £16 while she wandered round in circles, with her mind in second gear.

  Reluctantly, she retraced her steps to the High Street. No good approaching Pat. She must keep her friend lined up for something much more vital – to support and calm her mother once she herself had fled – so she dared not risk alienating her by asking her for money. But how else could she raise it? She had no other friends left. Michael was at work, and couldn’t be disturbed; Frank had gone to Kempton Park to put ‘a bob or two’ on Jack the Lad, and Eric was out shopping. Half the world was shopping, judging by the crowds. A woman passed her with a basket on wheels, laden to the brim with groceries and fruit. On top was a red purse – almost asking to be nicked. Stealing was an option she hadn’t yet considered, though the old girl could probably spare three mingy five-pound notes, when she’d clearly spent a fortune on her food and her smart coat. Tessa followed at her heels, the red purse like a beacon, luring her in pursuit. The woman turned to glance at her, as if she’d read her mind and was labelling her a thief. Tessa froze, dodged into an alleyway. The face was Eileen’s – the Eileen of the photographs – an open, trusting, honest face, though pale and rather drawn. Even the hair was similar: short and permed and neat.

  She slumped against the alley wall, scraped her hand deliberately across its rough unplastered surface, welcoming the pain, which at least proved that she was real. Life and death kept merging – Eileen resurrecting; all the Michaels dying, their cold grey corpses stinking out her dreams. Her morals must be dying, too. How could she have even contemplated using stolen money to buy her wedding dress?

  She waited a few moments, till both Eileens had disappeared – the live one in the High Street, and the defunct one in her head – then mooched on down the road. Her attention was suddenly riveted by a notice in a jeweller’s shop: GOLD AND SILVER BOUGHT FOR CASH. BEST PRICES IN THE AREA! NO ITEM TOO SMALL. She clasped her wrist, cursing her stupidity. All the time she’d been searching for the money, she actually had it on her person, in the shape of her charm-bracelet. Well, she could hardly call it that when it held only two small charms as yet, but both were solid gold. Both had also come from Michael Chalmers, who had promised to buy her a new charm every month. He’d chosen the first with tender loving care – a tiny dog like Jasper, complete with studded collar and tongue lolling from its mouth. The second was a horseshoe – for good luck. She was loath to surrender her luck, would prefer to sell the dog – though selling either would make things awfully difficult with Michael. Could she pretend the dog charm had dropped off? Unlikely, when he’d fixed it on himself, secured it with such finicky precision. Well, she’d tackle that dilemma once she’d got the money; couldn’t afford to waste more time hanging round outside.

  The man behind the counter was heavy-jowled and swarthy, with dark suspicious eyes. He examined each charm closely through his spy-glass, then weighed them on a scale; his expression one of snooty contempt, as if they were only gimcrack trifles. She felt outraged for Michael’s sake, guessing he’d spent a lot on them, since she knew he’d buy the best he could afford.

  ‘I’ll give you £5 each.’ The voice was couldn’t-care-less.

  ‘But they’re worth far more than that.’

  ‘Not second-hand, they’re not.’

  ‘But they’re new, as near as dammit. I’ve only had the horseshoe a few days.’

  ‘Okay – £15 the two, but that’s my limit.’

  Tessa tried to control her anger. Right under her nose was a display-case of new gold charms, with their price-tags pinned beside them – £20, £53, £85.50 – the last for a poodle not that different from her own dog. ‘Could you make it £15.77?’ she wheedled. ‘I need the extra 77p.’

  ‘Sorry. Nothing doing.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to sell the bracelet too.’

  He picked it up with a show of weary patience, repeated the performance with the spy-glass and the scales. ‘It only weighs just under fifteen grammes,’ he shrugged, ‘so I can’t give you more than twenty quid.’

  Tessa paused, deliberating. Should she sell the bracelet and keep the charms, or flog the whole damn lot and have some extra money for flowers and veil, white shoes? The charms had been detached now, and she was tempted to keep the horseshoe; needed luck even more than money. Yet there’d be so many other expenses, it would be foolish to turn down an extra fiver. She pushed both charms and bracelet across the counter, watched the man count out the notes, which were old and stained and crumpled like his jacket.

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, glaring at the trays of trinkets as she stalked out through the door – all goods bought cheap, sold dear. She checked her watch. Only nineteen minutes had passed since she’d left the Oxfam shop, and she was back there in another four, panting, out of breath; her gaze immediately directed to the high shelf above the counter. The shelf was bare – no sign of the dress, or of the woman who had served her. The only pers
on who seemed to be on duty was a young and pretty salesgirl she hadn’t seen before, and who already had half a dozen customers. She pushed through them to the counter, tears starting to her eyes. ‘My dress,’ she pleaded. ‘My wedding dress.’

  ‘Oh, are you Miss Hughes?’ the girl asked.

  Tessa clutched the counter, felt weak and strangely dizzy. When people asked her who she was, it was so difficult to know. She shook her head, then nodded.

  ‘The one who went to fetch the money?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’ It helped when people prompted her, reminded her of what she’d just been doing. Her memory kept playing tricks, or sleeping. Weird that, when she slept so little herself.

  ‘Peggy said to tell you she had to put the dress back on the rail. It’s right there, in the corner. If you wait a sec, I’ll serve you, but you’ll have to take your turn.’

  Tessa rushed to fetch the gown, whispered to it, stroked it; exulting once again in its perfection, its sheer style. Everything would be all right – she simply had to trust. And suddenly, to prove it, the older woman emerged from the back room, and greeted her like a friend.

  ‘Ah! You’re back!’ she beamed. ‘I was beginning to get worried. You looked so striking in that dress, I just knew you had to have it.’

  Tessa pressed her cheek against the satin. How extraordinary it was that even strangers realized it was meant for her. Were they also aware, at some unspoken level, of how destiny had played its part, and was even now leading her to a denouement?

  The woman ushered her to a vacant till, like a distinguished special customer, who was allowed to jump the queue. She handed over £20, received a penny change – a shiny-bright new-minted coin, which somehow caught her fancy. She stowed it in her pocket, rather than her purse, kept one hand curled around it. The saleswoman was hunting for a bag. The Oxfam ones were far too small, and all she had come up with was a large but rather tatty plastic carrier.