Michael

Michael

 

 

 

I could see I wasn’t going to make it. A five hour journey from the west country, by bus, train and tube, culminating in a breathless and inelegant dash through Kings Cross station, had ended with me standing forlornly on platform three, watching the 6.35 to Edinburgh pull out of the terminus, without me on it.

 

    “Bugger” I said out loud, still puffing, and dropping my heavy case to the ground with a thud.

    “Yeah, I feel you.” A voice behind me agreed.

    I turned, ready to apologise for my bad language, to see a diminutive young woman, perhaps twenty years old or so (I find it increasingly difficult to judge the age of young people) dressed from head to toe in fur, peering at me over huge, pink-framed sunglasses. 

    “I do apologise, I said, I’ve missed my train.” Stating the obvious.

    “Don’t sweat it pops,” the young woman said, “Me too. And that ain’t no cultural reference, ya feel me?”

    She was a striking looking person, with luxurious hair, curled and teased in a style that made me think of those pin-up girls from the 1950s, and I could see now that the fur outfit was a long coat with a high collar covering almost her whole body, leaving only her face and her red-patent ankle boots on show. Her high-cheekboned face was exceptionally beautiful, and did not seem unfriendly.

    “You’re an American,” I observed. I’m not sure what made me feel I could be so forward, perhaps it was that she had spoken first, and at my age one becomes used to being invisible to anyone under sixty, so this exchange was already unusual to say the least.

    “That is true, the woman said, and you are staring at me.”

    I flushed at this, “I’m so sorry. I um… I”

    She raised a hand and smiled, “I’m teasin’ you pops relax. Ya probably don’t see many characters like me where you’re from, am I right?”

    I thought about my village in Devon, from where I had travelled that day, with its narrow lanes, cob cottages and gnarly inhabitants. “No not really, I agreed. We could probably do with some variety if I’m honest.”

    “So what are you gonna do now?” the woman said,

    “Do?” I said, rather stupidly.

    “Yeah, you missed your train, how far were you going?” she said. She was chewing gum and every now and again I caught a glimpse of her porcelain white teeth, which looked perfect, almost unreal.

    “All the way, I was travelling to Edinburgh.” I said.

    “Ya got business there?” she asked, now stepping closer and taking off the sunglasses completely, as if to study me more closely.

    I was so unused to another human being this close I took a step back and nearly fell over my suitcase. “I’m delivering a lecture. Or at least I was; at the Archeological Institute, tomorrow.” I said, pushing my lop-sided spectacles back up my nose, feeling somewhat flustered.

    “So you’re like a professor or something?” she said, raising both sculpted eyebrows.

    “Um, yes, exactly ‘like’ a professor.” I confirmed. Her expression told me she hadn’t missed the slightly sarcastic tone.

    “Well Edinburgh’s where I was headed too. And I have a job to do tomorrow as well. So looks like we are in the same boat.” she shrugged, pulling her coat tighter around her. it was January and cold. 

    We stood awkwardly for a while, this exotic young woman in her head-to-toe fur and Judy Garland shoes and I in my, oh so obviously, tatty, belted raincoat, scuffed brogues, very probably odd socks, and twice repaired glasses.

 

    At this point I noticed a large man, dressed in plain, dark clothes, standing off to one side, who seemed to have an interest in our conversation. My fellow traveller turned her head in the direction I was looking and commented, “Don’t worry about Eddie, he’s just looking out for me. I don’t usually travel alone, ya know?” she said cryptically.

    “Oh, I see,” I said, not seeing at all. “Well I suppose I had better go and try to make alternative arrangements.” I half nodded and half bowed, turning to pick up my suitcase and make my way back to the ticket office, when I felt a hand on my arm.

    “Say, I thought an english gentlemen always introduced himself to a lady?” she said with mock petulance. Eddie took a step in our direction.

    “Oh, I’m sorry, forgive my manners, I’m rather worried about missing the train. My name is Michael, Michael Truscott and you are?” I asked, wondering what was going on.

    The young woman paused for a second as if only then realising that in critiquing my manners she had incurred an obligation to reveal something about herself, “It’s Sheri, just Sheri.”

    “Well, just Sheri, it was a pleasure to meet you, I do hope you get to Edinburgh in time for your appointment.” 

    I took a few steps towards the exit gate when Sheri called out, “There are no more trains today, you won’t get there until at least tomorrow afternoon.” She pronounced tomorrow ‘tamara’

    I turned back to face her, feeling anxiety in the pit of my stomach. My face must have told a story as she immediately walked up and, without hesitation, placed a hand on my shoulder, which she could barely reach. “Look I have a car and a driver, we have to be there tonight, I can’t miss my appointment. Would you like a ride?”

    When I hesitated to answer, she added, smiling, “It would be nice to have someone to talk to.”

    I looked down at Sheri, and many questions ran through my head. If she had a car why was she on the platform? Why would she offer a lift to a complete stranger, especially one old enough to be her grandfather. Why did she have what appeared to be a bodyguard shadowing her? 

    I looked at her face; young yes, but what was wrong with that? And although made-up, I saw no guile, and something told me it would be ok. 

    Which is why for perhaps only the second time in my predictable, comfortable, risk-free, life; I made an impulsive choice, and said yes.

 

    An half-hour later I was sitting in the back of a large black limousine and we were turning on to the North Circular Road. It was raining hard and the wipers emitted a small squeak on each pass of the screen. Eddie the bodyguard was driving and although he didn’t say much, appeared to be a nice enough chap. He had insisted on carrying my case to the car.

    Sheri had been on her phone since we’d set off conversing with someone called ‘B’ or perhaps ‘Bee’ in what might as well have been another language. Things were ‘bussin’ or ‘cap’ and sometimes she was ‘dead’ or she was going to go ‘extra’. 

    When she finished her call she sat back and looked at me.

    I said, “You must allow me to contribute something to the fuel costs Sheri.”

    She obviously found this hilarious and between giggles kept asking  Eddie if he wanted some gas money.

    “I’m just trying to do my bit,” I said, a little huffily.

    She rested a hand on my arm, “I’m sure you’ve done your bit bruh, I don’t need any money it’s a pleasure.”

    “And there’s no such word as delusionship,” I said. Instantly regretting it.

    “Oh so you been eavesdropping on Sheri now, Mr Michael ‘professor’ Truscott.” She said indignantly.

    I felt myself colouring and cursed myself inwardly for being rude. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. it wasn’t my place.” I said as humbly as I could.

    She looked at me with what appeared to be pity, unless I imagined it.

    “You worry too much Michael, it’s all good,” she said kindly. Then, changing the subject she asked me, “Do you like music? I bet you listen to Beethoven and Mozart and dig that classical vibe don’t you?”                 

     She was arranging electrical equipment of some kind, untangling leads and plugging cables in to sockets in the centre console of the car as she said this. 

    I started to reply but then music began to play and I felt it rude to talk over it.

 

    Firstly I heard a violin, not an acoustic instrument I didn’t think, but an electric one. The player was good, the notes soaring and descending in a  delicate vibrato with the fluidity of birdsong. After this short introduction an incongruously heavy beat kicked in and almost drowned out the strings. I grimaced at Sheri and raised my hands to my ears. She gently pulled them down and asked me to keep listening.

    A female vocalist joined the performance and began half-talking, half-singing words in a halting rhythm. A mournful melody, which I was pretty sure had been poached from Ralph Vaughan-Williams, underpinned the lyrics. The voice was pitch perfect and crystal like in its quality. 

    I couldn’t get every word but the general gist was that the singer was tired of being abused by a ‘baby-daddy’ who didn’t care about her or her children and was going to leave him for another kinder, albeit less exciting man. In the penultimate verse her new lover is killed by her jealous husband and she retaliates by in turn killing him with a knife from their kitchen. 

    The final stanza makes us aware that she is writing her song-poem from prison, where she had been incarcerated for life. The effect was, admittedly, quite moving.

    When the music ended, we both sat for a moment or two. I, digesting what I had heard and Sheri, I believe, waiting for my opinion.

    “Was it you singing? I asked.

    “Yes it was.” She answered, appearing shy now. 

    “I really haven’t listened to much modern music, in fact I’ve never really listened to any.”

    “I kind of guessed that,” said Sheri.

    “I liked it, It’s very good, very moving.” I said, truthfully.

    “For real?” she seemed doubtful.

    “Yes, as you say, for real, you have a powerful, expressive voice.” Have you ever listened to Carmen?”

    “Is that like Opera?” Sheri said.

    “Exactly like Opera.” I agreed.

 

    By the time we passed Nottingham and stopped for fuel I had listened to several of Sheri’s songs and found them to be of a very high quality, both in their production and in the artistic interpretation of her subjects.

    Not all of the songs were about tragedy or shattered families. One titled ‘Joy’ dealt with spiritual themes and the need for humans to seek out love in their lives. They were all performed with real feeling and considerable talent. We listened to Sheri's songs and talked about music and what it adds to the human experience.

 

    After what must have been a few hours, the warm car and the soporific effect of the swishing tyres on the motorway surface made my eyes heavy. I noticed Sheri was looking tired too, and, after thanking her for the music, suggested we try to get some sleep as we both had an important day tomorrow.

    Sheri fell asleep quickly and before my eyes closed, her head had rolled onto my shoulder.

 

    When I awoke the car was empty, stationary and parked outside my hotel in Edinburgh. A few seconds later my door opened and Eddie passed me a coffee before climbing in to the driver’s seat.

    “Where is Sheri” I asked him?”

    Eddie turned in his seat, grunting with the effort of adjusting his big frame, “She had to go and prepare for her… appointment, but she wanted you to have this.” he said, and handed me an envelope. On it was written one word ‘Michael’.

 

    Once I was showered and dressed I barely had time to get to my lecture and temporarily forgot all about the letter in my inside pocket. The subject of Cylinder Seals in Mesopotamien Archeology seemed a little dry at first, but I warmed to it as I talked.

      It wasn’t until I was at the hotel bar later that afternoon, nursing a brandy, that I finally opened the envelope. Inside was a note which said simply,  'To Michael,With Love Sheri.' along with two tickets to the Murrayfield Stadium and the concert that was being held there that evening by Sheri and her backing group the Honeytraps.  

 

    “How on earth did you get those?”

I hadn’t noticed the barman eyeing the tickets as he dried glasses. 

    “Well...  I considered the question. Actually, we’re sort of friends.” I said.

    “Course you are pal,” he said sardonically, looking me up and down, taking in the frayed tie and baggy jumper. “You just happen to be friends with the biggest pop star on the planet right now.”