My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  Tom let his hand fall from my hip and he stood up.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked.

  ‘A friend,’ he said. ‘I thought you might have things in common.’

  My stomach turned to cold lead. Another girl.

  ‘We should see them off …’

  ‘He works at the art gallery.’

  To cover the relief I felt on hearing that masculine pronoun, I took a long drag on my cigarette.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Tom. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said, exhaling a plume of smoke, my eyes watering.

  We looked each other in the face. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Let’s go in.’

  As I turned to walk back to the house, he put his hand on my hip again, bent towards me and let his lips brush my cheek. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Sweet Marion.’ And he strode indoors, leaving me standing in the gloom, my fingers touching the dampness he’d left on my skin.

  THERE WAS PROGRESS this morning, I’m sure of that. For the first time in weeks, you spoke a word I could understand.

  I was washing your body, which I do every Saturday and Sunday morning, when Pamela doesn’t make her visit. She offered to send someone else at weekends, but I refused, telling her I’d cope. As always, I was using my softest flannel and my best soap, not the cheap white stuff from the Co-op but a clear, amber-coloured bar that smells of vanilla and leaves a creamy scum around the old washing-up bowl that I use for your bed bath. Wearing the scratched plastic apron I used to don for painting sessions at St Luke’s, I pulled back the sheets to your waist, removed your pyjama jacket (you must be one of the few men left in the world to wear a blue striped pyjama jacket, complete with collar, breast pocket and swirling piping on the cuffs) and apologised for what was coming next.

  I will not avert my eyes at the necessary moment, or at any moment. I will not look away. Not any more. But you never look at me as I tug down your pyjama bottoms. Leaving you the modesty of the sheet over your lower half, once I’ve whipped the things from your feet (it’s a bit like a conjuring trick, this: I rummage beneath the sheet and – hey presto! – produce a pair of pyjama bottoms, fully intact), my hand, clutching the flannel, searches out your unclean places.

  I talk all the while – this morning I remarked on the constant greyness of the sea, the untidiness of the garden, on what Tom and I watched on television the night before – and the sheet becomes damp, your eyes squeeze shut, and your drooping face droops even more. But I am not distressed. I am not distressed by the sight of this, nor by the feel of your warm, sagging scrotum, nor by the salty smell coming from the crinkled flesh of your armpits. I am comforted by all this, Patrick. I am comforted by the fact that I am tending you, cheerfully, by the fact that you let me do this with the minimum of fuss, by the fact that I can wash every part of you, rub it all clean with my Marks and Spencer’s Pure Indulgence range flannel, and then throw the cloudy water down the drain. I can do all this without my hands shaking, without my heart-rate increasing, without my jaw slamming shut with such fierceness that I fear it may never open again.

  That, too, is progress.

  And this morning I was rewarded. As I was squeezing out the flannel for the last time, I heard you utter something that sounded like ‘Eh um,’ but – forgive me, Patrick – at first I dismissed it as your usual inarticulacy. Since the stroke, your speech has been strangled. You can do little more than grunt, and I’d sensed that, rather than face the indignity of being misunderstood, you had chosen silence. As you are a man whose speech was once impressively articulate – charming, warm and yet erudite – I had rather admired your sacrifice.

  But I was wrong. The right side of your face still droops badly, giving you a slightly canine appearance, but this morning you summoned up all your energy, and your mouth and voice worked together.

  Still I ignored it, the sound you made, which now had changed to ‘Whu om’; I lifted the window slightly to let the stale night smell out, and when I finally turned to you, you were staring up at me from your pillows, your sunken chest still naked and damp, your face screwed into a ball of agony, and you made the sounds again. But this time I almost understood what you said.

  I sat on the bed and pulled you forward by the shoulders, and with your limp torso resting on mine, I felt behind you for the pillows, dragged them upright and rested you back on your nest.

  ‘I’ll get you a new jacket.’

  But you could not wait. You blurted again, even clearer this time, with all the urgency you could muster, and I heard what you said: ‘Where’s Tom?’

  I went to the chest of drawers so you wouldn’t see my expression, and found you a clean pyjama jacket. Then I helped you push your arms into the sleeves, and I fastened your buttons. I performed all this without looking you in the face, Patrick. I had to look away, because you kept saying it: ‘Where’s Tom where’s Tom where’s Tom where’s Tom where’s Tom’, each time a little quieter and a little slower, and I had no answer for you.

  Eventually I said, ‘It’s wonderful that you’re talking again, Patrick. Tom will be very proud,’ and I made us both some tea, which we drank together in silence, you exhausted and drooping over your straw, with your bottom half still naked under the sheets, and me blinking at the grey square of the window.

  I’m sure you knew it was my first time in the place. I’d never found cause to step into Brighton Art Gallery and Museum before. Looking back, I’m astonished at myself. I’d just become a teacher at St Luke’s Infants’ School, and I’d never been to an art gallery.

  When Tom and I pushed through the heavy glass-panelled doors, I thought how the place looked like nothing so much as a butcher’s shop. It was all the green tiles, not that Brighton swimming-pool green that’s almost turquoise and makes you feel sunny and light just looking at it, but a mossy, dense green. And the fancy mosaic floor, too, and the polished mahogany staircase, and the glinting cabinets of stuffed things. It was a secret world, all right. A man’s world, I thought, just like butchers’ shops. Women can visit, but behind the curtain, in the back where they do the chopping and sorting, it’s all men. Not that I minded that, at the time. But I wished I hadn’t worn that new lilac dress with the full skirt and kitten-heeled shoes – it was mid-December and the pavements were frosty, for one thing, and for another, I noticed that people didn’t dress for a museum. Most of the others were in brown serge or navy-blue wool, and the whole place was dark and serious and quiet. And there were my kitten heels, tapping inappropriately on the mosaic, echoing around the walls like scattered coins.

  Those shoes made me almost level with Tom, too, which can’t have pleased him. We walked up the stairs, Tom slightly ahead, his wide shoulders pushing at the seams of his sports jacket. For a big man, Tom walks lightly. At the top of the stairs an enormous guard was nodding off. His jacket had fallen open to reveal a pair of yellow polka-dot braces. As we passed, his head flicked up and he barked, ‘Good afternoon!’, swallowing hard and blinking. Tom must have said hello, he always answered people, but I doubt I managed anything but a smirk.

  Tom had told me all about you. On our way to the museum I’d had to listen again to his descriptions of Patrick Hazlewood, Keeper of Western Art at Brighton Museum and Art Gallery, who was down to earth, just like us, friendly, normal, no airs and graces, yet educated, knowledgeable and cultured. I’d heard it so many times that I’d convinced myself you would be just the opposite. Trying to picture you, I saw the face of the music teacher at St Luke’s – a small, pointed face flanked by meaty ear lobes. I was always amazed that that teacher, Mr Reed, looked so much like a musician. He wore a three-piece suit and a fob watch, and his thin hands were often pointing at something, as if he were about to start conducting an orchestra at any moment.

  We leant on the banister at the top of the stairs and took a look round. Tom had been there many times before, and was eager to name things for me. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘That’s
a famous one.’ I squinted at it. ‘Well, it’s by a famous artist,’ he added, not telling me the name. I didn’t press him for it. I didn’t press him for anything, back then. It was a dark picture – everything almost black, the paint dusty-looking – but after a few seconds I saw the white hand stretching up in the corner. ‘The Raising of Lazarus,’ said Tom, and I nodded and smiled at him, proud that he knew this information, wanting him to know I was impressed. But when I looked at his usually solid face – that broad nose, those steady eyes – it seemed to have gone a little soft. His neck was pink, and his lips hung drily open.

  ‘We’re early,’ he stated, looking at his fat wristwatch, a present from his father when he joined the force.

  ‘Will he mind?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Tom. ‘He won’t mind a bit.’

  It was then I realised that Tom was the one who would mind. Whenever we met, he was always exactly on time.

  I looked down into the foyer and noticed, tucked by the side of the stairs, a huge multicoloured cat that seemed to be made of papier mâché. I don’t know how I’d missed it when I’d first come through the door, but, needless to say, it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d expected to see in a place like this. It would look more at home on the Palace Pier, that cat. I still hate its Cheshire grin and drugged-looking eyes. A small girl put a ha’penny into the slot on its belly and spread her hands wide, waiting for something to happen. I nudged Tom, pointing downwards. ‘What’s that thing?’

  Tom gave a laugh. ‘Pretty, isn’t it? Its stomach lights up and it purrs when you feed it money.’

  The girl was still waiting, and so was I.

  ‘Nothing’s happening now,’ I pointed out. ‘What’s it doing in a museum? Shouldn’t it be in a fairground?’

  Tom gave me a slightly puzzled look before breaking into a big Tom-laugh: three short trumpets, eyes squeezed shut. ‘Patience, sweet Marion,’ he said. I felt the blood in my chest warm.

  ‘He is expecting us?’ I asked, ready to become annoyed if he wasn’t. It was early on in the school’s Christmas holidays, and Tom had taken a day’s leave, too. There were plenty of other things we could be doing with our time off.

  ‘’Course. He’s invited us. I told you.’

  ‘I never thought I’d get to meet him.’

  ‘Why not?’ Tom was frowning, looking at his watch again.

  ‘You’ve said so much about him … I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s time now,’ said Tom. ‘He’s late.’

  But I was determined to finish. ‘I thought he might not really exist.’ I laughed. ‘You know. That he was too good to be true. Like the Wizard of Oz.’

  Tom looked again at his watch.

  ‘What time did he say?’ I asked.

  ‘Twelve.’

  My own watch said two minutes to midday. I tried to catch Tom’s gaze, give him a reassuring smile, but his eyes kept darting about the place. Everyone else was focused on a particular exhibit, head on one side or chin in hand. Only we were just standing there, staring at nothing.

  ‘It’s not twelve yet,’ I ventured.

  Tom made a strange noise in his throat, something that sounded like it was meant to be a carefree ‘huh’ but which came out more like a whimper.

  Then, stepping from my side, he raised his hand.

  I looked up, and there you were. Average height. Mid thirties. White shirt, crisply ironed. Navy-blue waistcoat, a good fit. Dark curls worn slightly too long but well under control. A neat face: thick moustache, pinkish cheeks, wide forehead. You were looking at Tom without smiling, with an expression of deep absorption. You considered him, in the same way that others in the room were considering the displays.

  You walked briskly forward, and only when you’d reached your goal and clasped Tom’s hand did your mouth jump into a smile. For someone with a well-cut waistcoat and thick moustache, someone in charge of Western Art 1500–1900, you had a surprisingly boyish grin. It was small, and went up at the side, as if you’d been studying how Elvis Presley performed the same movement. I remember thinking that at the time, and almost giggling at the preposterousness of it.

  ‘Tom. You came.’

  The two of you shook hands vigorously, and Tom ducked his head. I’d never seen him do that before; he always caught my own gaze squarely, kept his face steady.

  ‘We’re early,’ said Tom.

  ‘Not at all.’

  Your shake had gone on a little too long, and Tom withdrew his hand and you both looked away. But you recovered first. Facing me for the first time, your boyish grin flattened out to a wider, more professional, smile and you said, ‘You’ve brought your friend.’

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘Patrick, this is Marion Taylor. Marion’s a teacher. St Luke’s Primary. Marion, Patrick Hazlewood.’

  I held your cool, soft fingers for a moment and you held my gaze.

  ‘Delighted, my dear. Shall we lunch?’

  ‘Our usual place,’ announced Tom, holding open the door to the Clock Tower Café.

  I was astonished on two counts. Firstly, that you and Tom had a ‘usual’ place, and secondly, that the Clock Tower Café was it. I knew it as somewhere my brother Harry occasionally went for mugs of tea before work; he said it was snug, and the tea was so strong it’d take not only the enamel off your teeth but the skin off your gullet, too. But I’d never been in there myself. As we’d walked up North Street, I’d imagined you would take us to some place with white tablecloths and thick napkins for a mixed grill and a bottle of claret. Maybe the restaurant in the Old Ship Hotel.

  But here we were in the greasy fug of the Clock Tower Café, your smart suit an awful beacon amongst the ex-army trench coats and grey macs, my kitten heels almost as outlandish here as they’d been at the museum. Apart from the young girl in a pink apron behind the counter, and an old woman hunched over a mug of something in the corner, curlers and hairnet still in place, there were no other women in the café. At the counter, men queued and smoked, their faces shiny with steam from the tea urn. At the tables, few people talked. Most ate or read a newspaper. This wasn’t the kind of place for conversation; at least, not the kind of conversation I imagined you would have.

  We gazed up at the plastic letters attached to the menu board:

  PIE MASH GRAVY

  PIE CHIPS BEAN’S

  SAUSAGE BEANS EGG’S

  SAUSAGE BEANS CHIPS

  SPAM FRITTER BEANS

  SPOTTED DICK CUSTARD

  APPLE SURPRISE

  TEA COFFEE BOVRIL SQUASH

  Beneath was a handwritten sign: ONLY THE BEST MARGARINE SERVED IN THIS EST’BLMENT.

  ‘You two sit, I’ll order,’ said Tom, pointing at a free table by the window, which was still covered in dirty plates and pools of spilled tea.

  But you wouldn’t hear of it, and so Tom and I sat and watched as you shifted about in the queue, keeping your flattened smile bright throughout, and said, ‘Thank you so much, my dear,’ to the girl behind the counter, who giggled in reply.

  Tom’s knee was bouncing up and down beneath the table, making the bench on which we sat vibrate. You took a chair opposite and arranged a shiny paper serviette on your lap.

  We each had a steaming plate of pie and mash, and although it looked terrible – sunk in gravy, spilling over the sides of the plate – it smelled delicious.

  ‘Just like school dinners,’ you said. ‘Except I hated them.’

  Tom gave a big laugh.

  ‘Tell me, Marion, how do you and Tom know each other?’

  ‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ I stated.

  You glanced at Tom as he attacked his pie with enthusiasm.

  ‘Tom’s been teaching you to swim, I hear.’

  I brightened at this. He’d been talking about me, then. ‘I’m not a very good student.’

  You smiled and said nothing; wiped your mouth.

  ‘Marion’s very interested in art, too,’ said Tom. ‘Aren’t you, Marion?’

  ‘Do you teach art to your class?�
�� you asked.

  ‘Oh no. The oldest is only seven.’

  ‘It’s never too young to start,’ you said softly, smiling. ‘I’m trying to persuade the powers-that-be at the museum to hold special art appreciation afternoons for children of all ages. They’re hesitant – a lot of old-fashioned types, as you can imagine – but I think it would go down well, don’t you? Get them young and you’ve got them for life and all that.’

  You smelled of something very expensive. It came towards me as you rested your elbows on the table: a beautiful scent, like freshly carved wood. ‘Forgive me,’ you said. ‘I shouldn’t talk shop at lunch. Tell me about the children, Marion. Who’s your favourite?’

  I thought immediately of Caroline Mears, gazing up at me during story time, and I said: ‘There is one girl who might benefit from an art class …’

  ‘I’m sure they all adore you. It must be splendid to have a beautiful young teacher. Don’t you think so, Tom?’

  Tom was watching the condensation crawl down the window. ‘Splendid,’ he echoed.

  ‘And won’t he make a wonderful policeman?’ you said. ‘I must say I have my reservations about our boys in blue, but with Tom on the force, I think I’ll sleep more easily in my bed at night. What was the book you were studying again, Tom? It had a marvellous title. Something like Vagrants and Burglars …’

  ‘Suspects and Loiterers,’ said Tom. ‘And you shouldn’t make light of it. It’s serious stuff.’ He was smiling; his cheeks glowed. ‘The really good one, though, is A Guide to Facial Identification. Fascinating, that is.’

  ‘What would you remember of Marion’s face, Tom? If you had to identify her?’

  Tom looked at me for a moment. ‘It’s difficult with people you know …’

  ‘What would it be, Tom?’ I asked, knowing I shouldn’t be so eager to find out. I couldn’t help myself, Patrick, and I think you probably knew that.

  Tom looked at me with mock scrutiny. ‘I suppose it would be … her freckles.’

  My hand went up to my nose.