Despite Tom’s assurances to the contrary, the water was extremely cold. As I went in, my whole body clenched and the breath was sucked out of me. The stones drove into my feet and the water chilled my blood immediately, leaving my skin pimpled, my teeth chattering. I tried to concentrate my energy on the point where Tom’s fingers met my elbow. I told myself that this contact was enough to make it all worth while.
Tom, of course, made no sign of noticing the iciness of the water or the sharpness of the stones. As he walked in, the sea rocking at his thighs, I thought how springy his body was. He was leading me and so was slightly ahead; this allowed me to look at him properly, and as I did so I managed to steady my juddering jaw and breathe through the cold that was smashing into my body with each step. So much Tom in the waves, springing through the water. So much flesh, Patrick, and all of it shining on that bright September morning. He let the water splash up his chest, still holding my elbow. Everything was moving, and Tom moved too: he moved with the sea or against it, as he wished, whereas I felt the movement too late and only just managed to retain my balance.
He looked back. ‘You all right?’
Because he smiled at me, I nodded.
‘How does that feel?’ he asked.
How, Patrick, could I begin to answer him?
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘A bit cold.’
‘Good. You’re doing well. Now we’re going to do the tiniest bit of swimming. All I want you to do is follow me, and when we’re deep enough, let your feet lift off the bottom and I’ll hold you up, just so you can feel what it’s like. Is that all right?’
Was that all right? His face was so serious when he asked me this that it was hard to keep from laughing. How could I object to the prospect of Tom holding me?
We waded further out, and the water took my thighs and waist, touching every part of me with its freezing tongue. Then, when the sea was up to my armpits and beginning to splash at my mouth, leaving a salty trail on my lips, Tom put a hand flat on my stomach and pressed. ‘Feet off the bottom,’ he commanded.
I needn’t tell you, Patrick, that I obeyed, utterly mesmerised by the huge strength of that hand on my stomach, and by Tom’s eyes, blue and changing like the sea, on mine. I let my feet lift and I was borne upward by the salt and the rocking motion of the water. Tom’s hand was there, a steady platform. I tried to keep my head above the waves, and for a second everything balanced perfectly on Tom’s flat hand and I heard him say, ‘Good. You’re almost swimming.’
I turned to nod at him – I wanted to see his face, to smile at him and have him smile back (proud teacher! best pupil!) – and then the sea came up over my face and I couldn’t see. In my panic I lost his hand; water rushed backwards through my nose, my arms and legs whipped about wildly, trying to find something to grip, some solid substance to anchor me, and I felt something soft and giving beneath my foot – Tom’s groin, I knew it even then – and I pushed off from that and managed to come up for a breath of air, heard Tom shouting something, then, as I went under again, his arms were around me, gripping my waist and pulling me free of the water so my breasts were nigh on in his face, and I was still struggling, gasping the air, and it wasn’t until I heard him say, ‘You’re all right, I’ve got you,’ in a slightly annoyed tone, that I stopped fighting and clung to his shoulders, my flowered bathing cap flapping loose at the side of my head like a piece of skin.
He carried me back to shore in silence, and when he deposited me on the beach I couldn’t look at him. ‘Take a moment,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ I gasped.
‘Get your breath back, then we’ll try again.’
‘Again?’ I looked up at him. ‘You are joking?’
He ran a finger along the length of his nose. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not joking. You have to get back in.’
I gazed down the beach; the clouds were gathering now and the day hadn’t warmed up at all.
He held out a hand to me. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Just once.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll even forgive you for kicking me where you did.’
How could I refuse?
Every Saturday after that, we met in the same place and Tom tried to teach me to swim. I’d wait all week for that hour with Tom in the sea, and even as it got much colder I felt this warmth in me, a heat in my chest that kept me moving in the water, kept me swimming those few strokes towards his waiting arms. You won’t be surprised to hear that I was a deliberately slow learner, and as the weather worsened we were forced to continue our lessons in the pool, even though Tom still swam in the sea every day. And, gradually, we started talking. He told me that he’d joined the police force because it wasn’t the army, and everyone said he should, what with his height and his fitness, and it was better than working at Allan West’s factory. But I could feel that he was proud of his job, and that he enjoyed the responsibility and even the danger of it. He seemed interested in my job, too; he asked a lot about how I taught the children and I tried to give him answers that would sound intelligent without being off-putting. We talked about Laika, the dog the Russians had just sent into space, and how we both felt sorry for her. Tom said he’d like to go into space, I remember that, and I remember saying, ‘Perhaps you will, one day,’ and him laughing hysterically at my optimism. Occasionally we talked about books, but on this subject I was always more enthusiastic than Tom, so I was careful not to say too much. But you’ve no idea, Patrick, how liberating – how daring, even – it felt to talk about these things with Tom. I’d always thought, up to then, that I should keep quiet about what I would now call my cultural interests. Too much talk about such things was tantamount to showing off, to getting ideas above your station. With Tom it was different. He wanted to hear about these things, because he wanted a part of them too. We were both hungry for this other world, and back then it seemed as though Tom could be my partner in some new, as yet undefined, adventure.
Once, as we were walking along the poolside back to the changing rooms, both wrapped in our towels, Tom suddenly asked, ‘What about art?’
I knew a little about art; I’d taken art A level at school, liked the Impressionists, of course, particularly Degas, and some of the Italian painters, and so I said: ‘I like it.’
‘I’ve been going to the art gallery.’
This was the first time that Tom had told me about anything he did – apart from swimming – in his spare time.
‘I could get really interested in it,’ he said. ‘I’ve never looked at it before, you know? I mean, why would I?’
I smiled.
‘But now I am, and I think I’m seeing something there, something special.’
We reached the door of the changing rooms. Cold water was dripping down my back, and I began to shiver.
‘Does that sound stupid?’ he asked.
‘No. It sounds good.’
He grinned. ‘I knew you’d think so. It’s a great place. All sorts of paintings in there. I think you’d like it.’
Was our first date going to be at the art gallery? It wasn’t a perfect location, but it was a start, I thought. So, smiling brilliantly, I took off my swimming cap and shook my hair in what I hoped was a seductive way. ‘I’d love to go.’
‘Last week I saw this picture, massive it was, just of the sea. It looked like I could jump into it. Really just jump into it and swim in the waves.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘And there’s sculpture, too, and watercolours, although I didn’t like those as much, and drawings that look unfinished but I think they’re supposed to be like that … there’s all sorts.’
Now my teeth were chattering but I kept smiling, sure an invitation would follow.
Tom gave a laugh and slapped my shoulder. ‘Sorry, Marion. You’re cold. I should let you get dressed.’ He rubbed his fingers through his wet hair. ‘Same time next Saturday?’
It was like that every week, Patrick. We’d talk – we were good at talking, back then – and then he’d disappear into town, leaving me damp and
cold, with only the trudge up Albion Hill and the weekend with my family to look forward to. Some Saturday nights or Sunday afternoons I met Sylvie at the pictures, but her time was mostly taken up by Roy, and so most of my weekends were spent sitting on my eiderdown, reading, or preparing next week’s lessons. I also spent a lot of time at the windowsill, looking out at our tiny yard, remembering how it felt to be held by Tom in the water, occasionally spying a shiver in one of the neighbours’ curtains, and wondering when it would all begin.
A couple of months later, Sylvie and Roy announced their wedding date. Sylvie asked me to be bridesmaid, and, despite Fred teasing me about how I should really be maid-of-honour, I looked forward to the event. It would mean a whole afternoon with Tom.
No one used the phrase shotgun wedding, and Sylvie hadn’t confided in me, but there was a general feeling that the speed of the preparations meant that Sylvie must be expecting, and I presumed this was why Roy had been coaxed up the aisle of All Saints’. Certainly Mr Burgess’s face, rust-red and clenched in a grin, suggested as much. And instead of the fancy three-tier cake and Pomagne affair that Sylvie and I had often discussed, the reception was held at the Burgess’s house, with sausage rolls and mild ale for all.
You would have laughed, Patrick, at the sight of me in my bridesmaid’s dress. Sylvie had borrowed it from a cousin who was smaller than me and the thing barely skimmed my knees; it was so tight around the middle that I had to wear a Playtex girdle before I could get the zip done up at the back. It was pale green, the colour you see on sugared almonds, and I don’t know what it was made of, but it gave a soft crunching noise as I followed Sylvie into the church. Sylvie looked fragile in her brocade frock and cropped veil; her hair was white-blonde and despite the rumours there was no sign of any thickening about the waist. She must have been freezing: it was early November and the cold had bitten down hard. We both carried small posies of brownish chrysanthemums.
As I walked up the aisle I saw Tom, who was sitting in the front pew, holding himself very straight, staring at the ceiling. Seeing him in his grey flannel suit, rather than his swimming trunks, made him look unfamiliar, and I smiled, knowing I had seen the flesh beneath that stiff collar and tie. I stared at him, telling myself: It will be us. Next time, it will be us. And I could suddenly see it all: Tom waiting for me at the altar, looking back over his shoulder with a little smile as I entered the church, my red hair blazing in the light from the doorway. What took you so long? he’d tease, and I’d reply, The best things are worth the wait.
Tom looked at me. I snapped my gaze away and tried to concentrate instead on the back of Mr Burgess’s sweating neck.
At that wedding, everyone was drunk, but Roy was more drunk than most. Roy was not a subtle drunk. He leant on the sideboard in Sylvie’s living room, eating great chunks of wedding cake, staring at his new father-in-law. A few moments earlier, he’d shouted, ‘Lay off me, old man!’ at Mr Burgess’s unmoving back, and then he’d retired to the sideboard to stuff his face. Now the room was quiet, and no one moved as Mr Burgess collected his hat and coat, stood at the door and stated in a steady voice, ‘I’m not coming back in this house until you’ve hopped it and taken my trollop of a daughter with you.’
Sylvie fled upstairs, and all eyes turned to Roy, who was by now crushing cake crumbs in his little fists. Tom put on a Tommy Steele record and shouted, ‘Who’s for another?’ while I made my way to Sylvie’s room.
Sylvie’s sobs were loud and breathy, but when I pushed the door open I was surprised to find she was not sprawled on the bed, beating the mattress with her fists, but standing before her mirror, naked except for her underwear, with both hands curled around her stomach. Her pink knickers were slightly slack at the back but her bra stood up impressively. Sylvie had inherited her mother’s expressive bosom.
Catching my eye in the glass, she gave a loud sniff.
‘Are you all right?’ I began, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She looked away, her chin quivering with the effort of suppressing another sob.
‘Don’t take any notice of your dad. He’s overemotional. He’s losing a daughter today.’
Sylvie gave another sniff and her shoulders drooped. I stroked her arm while she cried. After a while she said, ‘It must be nice for you.’
‘What must be?’
‘Being a teacher. Knowing what to say.’
This surprised me. Sylvie and I had never really discussed my job; most of our conversations had been about Roy, or about films we’d seen, or records she’d bought. We’d been seeing less of each other since I’d started at the school, and perhaps this wasn’t just because I had less time and she was busy with Roy. It was like at home; I never felt quite comfortable talking about the school, about my career, as I was afraid to call it, because no one else knew the first thing about teaching. To my parents and brothers, teachers were the enemy. None of them had enjoyed school, and although they were quietly pleased, if a little puzzled, by my success at the grammar, my decision to become a teacher had been met with stunned silence. The last thing I wanted was to be what my parents despised: a toffee-nosed show-off. And so, as often as not, I said nothing about how I spent my days.
‘I don’t know what to say all the time, Sylvie.’
Sylvie shrugged. ‘It won’t be long before you can get a place of your own now, though, will it? You’re earning proper money.’
It was true; I’d started saving money and it had crossed my mind that I could rent a room somewhere, perhaps on one of the wide streets in the north of Brighton, nearer the downs, or even on the seafront at Hove, but I didn’t relish the thought of living alone. Women didn’t live alone then. Not if they could help it.
‘You and Roy will have a place of your own, too.’
‘I’d like to be on my own,’ sniffed Sylvie, ‘so I could do what I bloody well like.’
I doubted this, and said in a soft voice, ‘But you’re with Roy now. You’ll be a family. That’s much better than being alone.’
Sylvie turned away from me and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Got a hanky?’ she asked, and I passed her mine. She blew her nose loudly. Sitting next to her, I watched as she took off her wedding ring, then slid it back on again. It was a thick dark-gold band, and Roy had one to match, which surprised me. I hadn’t thought he was a man who would wear jewellery.
‘Marion,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to tell you something.’ Leaning close to me, she whispered, ‘I lied.’
‘Lied?’
‘I’m not expecting a baby. I lied to him. To everyone.’
I stared at her, uncomprehending.
‘We have done it and everything. But I’m not pregnant.’ She put a hand over her mouth and let out a sudden shrill laugh. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’
I thought of Roy’s open mouth, full of cake, of his eagerness to push Sylvie along at the roller rink, of the way he couldn’t tell what was interesting to talk about and what was not. What an absolute fool he was.
I looked at Sylvie’s stomach. ‘You mean – there’s nothing …?’
‘Nothing in there. Well, just my insides.’
Then I too began to giggle. Sylvie bit down on her hand to stop herself from laughing too loudly, but soon we were both rolling on the bed, clutching one another, shuddering with barely suppressed mirth.
Sylvie wiped her face with my hanky and took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t mean to lie, but I couldn’t think of any other way,’ she said. ‘It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it?’
‘Not so terrible.’
She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and giggled again, rather listlessly this time. Then she fixed me with her eyes. ‘Marion. How am I going to explain it to him?’
The intensity of Sylvie’s stare, the hysteria of our laughter just moments before and the stout I’d drunk must have made me reckless, Patrick, for I replied: ‘Say you lost it. He’s not to know, is he? Wait a bit, and then say it’s gone. That happens, all the time.’
Sylv
ie nodded. ‘Maybe. It’s an idea.’
‘He’ll never know,’ I said, clasping her hands in mine. ‘No one will know.’
‘Just us,’ she said.
Tom offered me a cigarette. ‘Is Sylvie all right?’ he asked.
It was late afternoon now, and getting dark. In the gloom at the back of the Burgesses’ garden, beneath a wedge of ivy, I leant on the coal bunker, and Tom sat on an upturned bucket.
‘She’s fine.’ I inhaled and waited for the dizzy feeling to knock me slightly out of time. I’d started smoking only recently. To enter the staff room you had to push your way through a curtain of smoke anyway, and I’d always liked the smell of my father’s Senior Service. Tom smoked Player’s Weights, which weren’t as strong, but when the first hit came my mind sharpened and I focused on his eyes. He smiled at me. ‘You’re a good friend to her.’
‘I haven’t seen her much lately. Not since the engagement.’ I blushed as I said the word, and was glad of the darkening sky, of the shade from the ivy. When Tom didn’t respond, I galloped on: ‘Not since we’ve been seeing one another.’
Seeing one another was not what we were doing. Not at all. But Tom didn’t contradict me. Instead, he nodded and exhaled.
There was a noise of slamming doors from the house, and someone stuck their head out the back and shouted, ‘Bride and groom are leaving!’
‘We’d better see them off,’ I said.
As I straightened up, Tom put a hand on my hip.
He’d touched me before, of course, but this time there was no solid reason for him to do so. This wasn’t a swimming lesson. He didn’t need to touch me, so he must have wanted to, I reasoned. It was this touch, more than anything, that convinced me to act as I did over the following few months, Patrick. It went right through the sugared-almond green of my frock and into my hip. People say that love is like a lightning bolt, but this wasn’t like that; this was like warm water, spreading through me.
‘I’d like you to meet someone,’ he said. ‘I’d be interested to know what you think.’
This was not the utterance for which I’d hoped. I’d hoped for no utterance at all. I’d hoped, in fact, for a kiss.
My Policeman Page 5