All afternoon I pretended to be reading in my room. I’d hung my faux-silk pale blue dress on the back of the door, ready to step into, and it looked full of promise. I had a little blue cardigan, too, with angora in it; it was the softest thing I’d ever touched. I didn’t have much in the way of fancy underwear – no sateen bras or frilly knickers or lacy camisoles – so I couldn’t select anything particularly alluring, although I wished I could. I told myself that if Tom kissed me again I would get straight down to Peter Robinson’s and buy myself something in black, something that would speak for itself. Something that would allow me to become Tom’s lover.
Several times I was on the brink of going downstairs to announce the fact that Tom was coming over. But I couldn’t decide which would be most delightful: sharing the knowledge that he was picking me up, or keeping it a secret.
I managed to wait until five to seven before positioning myself at the window in Mum and Dad’s bedroom so I could watch for him. I didn’t have to wait long. He appeared at a few minutes to the hour, looking at his watch. Usually Tom took long springy strides, but today he almost dawdled, glancing into windows as he passed. Still, there was something liquid about him as he moved, and I clutched the curtain to my face and breathed in its mustiness to steady myself.
I peeked out of the window again, half hoping that Tom would look up and catch me spying on him, but instead he straightened his jacket and reached for our knocker. I had a sudden wish that he’d worn his uniform, so my parents could open the door to a policeman.
Looking at myself in my mother’s glass, I saw that my cheeks were flushed. The blue dress caught the light and flashed it back to me, and I smiled at myself. I was ready. He was here.
From the upstairs landing, I heard Dad answer the door and listened to the following conversation:
DAD (coughing): Hello. What can I do for you, then?
TOM (voice light, polite, every syllable carefully sounded): Is Marion in?
DAD (pause, a bit too loud): And who might you be?
TOM: Sorry. I should’ve said. I’m Tom Burgess. Marion’s friend. You must be Mr Taylor?
DAD (after a long pause, shouting): PHYLLIS! MARION! Tom’s here! It’s Tom! Come in then, boy, come in. (Shouting up the stairs again.) It’s Tom!
I took the stairs slowly, aware that both Tom and Dad were standing at the bottom, watching me descend.
We all looked at one another without speaking, then Dad showed us into the front room, where we sat only at Christmas and when Dad’s posh sister, Marjory, came down from Surrey. The place smelled of polish and coal, and it was very cold.
‘Phyllis!’ Dad shouted. Tom and I looked at one another for a moment, and I saw the anxiety in his eyes. Despite the coolness of the room, his forehead was gleaming with perspiration.
‘You’re Sylvie’s brother,’ Dad stated.
‘That’s right.’
‘Marion tells us you’ve joined the police.’
‘’Fraid so,’ said Tom.
‘Nothing to apologise for, not in this house,’ said Dad, turning on the standard lamp. He glanced at Tom. ‘Sit down then, boy. You’re making me nervous.’
Tom balanced himself on the edge of a sofa cushion.
‘We kept saying to Marion, bring Tom home for his tea, but she never did. Still. Here you are now.’
‘We should get going, Dad. We’ll be late for the pictures.’
‘PHYLLIS!’ Dad positioned himself by the door, blocking our exit. ‘Let your mother meet Tom first. We’ve been waiting for this, Tom. Marion’s kept us waiting ages.’
Tom nodded and smiled, and then Mum came in, wearing lipstick and smelling of hairspray.
Tom stood and held out a hand, which Mum took and held, gazing at his face. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Here you are.’
‘Here he is,’ echoed Dad, and we all looked at Tom, who suddenly let out a big laugh. There was a moment when no one responded, and I saw a frown begin to appear on Dad’s brow, but then my mother giggled. It was a high, tinkling sound, one we didn’t hear often.
‘Here I am,’ said Tom, and Mum giggled some more.
‘Isn’t he lovely and tall, Bill?’ she said. ‘You must be a good copper.’
‘I’ve hardly started yet, Mrs Taylor.’
‘They won’t get away from you, will they? And you’re a swimmer, too.’ She looked at me with wide eyes. ‘Marion’s kept you a secret for too long.’
I thought she might be about to bat him playfully on the chest, but instead she patted me on the arm and looked coyly at Tom, who laughed again.
‘We should go,’ I repeated.
As we walked down the street, I was aware of Mum and Dad looking after us as if they couldn’t believe such a man as Tom Burgess was by their daughter’s side.
Tom paused to light us both a cigarette. ‘They were impressed, weren’t they?’ he said, shaking out the match.
I took a jubilant drag and exhaled dramatically. ‘Do you think so?’ I asked, innocently.
We laughed. The Grand Parade was beginning to sing with people heading for town. I reached for Tom’s hand and held it all the way to the Astoria. I held it tight and I didn’t let go even as we approached the usual spot where we met you. But when we got there, you were nowhere to be seen, and Tom simply carried on walking.
‘Aren’t we meeting Patrick?’ I asked, hanging back.
‘No.’
‘Are we meeting him somewhere else?’
A man pushed past us, knocking Tom’s shoulder. ‘Watch it!’ he shouted, and the man – a boy really, younger than Tom, with a greased forelock – turned and scowled. Tom stood firm, glaring back, until the boy flicked his cigarette end into the road and walked on with a shrug.
‘Patrick’s in London this weekend,’ Tom said.
We’d almost reached the pavilion now. Its turrets glowed cream against the blue-black sky. I knew you had a place in town, Patrick, but I’d never known you to stay there on a weekend. You were always with us at the weekend.
I couldn’t help smiling as I realised what Tom was telling me. We were alone. Without you.
‘Let’s go for a drink!’ I said, steering Tom into the King and Queen. I was determined to do what normal young couples did on Saturday nights, and I pretended not to hear Tom say that he’d something else in mind. It was so loud in there anyway; the jukebox was cracking out a beat as we stood near the bar, looking into our drinks. The crowd crushed us up against one another, and I wanted to stay there all night, feeling Tom’s warmth as he stood next to me, watching the muscles in his arm move as he brought his pint of pale and mild to his mouth.
I’d hardly started my gin and tonic when Tom leant towards me and said, ‘Shall we go somewhere else? I thought perhaps—’
‘I haven’t finished my drink,’ I protested. ‘How’s Sylvie?’ I wanted to keep the conversation away from the topic of you, Patrick. I didn’t want to know why you were in London, or what you were doing there.
Tom finished his pint and put his glass down on the bar. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We can’t talk in here.’
I watched him walk out of the place. He didn’t look back for me, or call me from the doorway. He simply made his wishes clear, then left. I gulped back the rest of my gin and tonic. A cool rush of alcohol sped through my limbs.
Until I stepped outside and saw Tom, I didn’t know I was furious. But in a second everything tightened and my breath came fast. I felt my arm going rigid, my hand drawing back, and I knew that if I didn’t open my mouth and shout I would slap him, hard. So I stood with both feet planted firmly on the pavement, and I yelled: ‘What the bloody hell is wrong with you?’
Tom stared at me, eyes bright with surprise.
‘Can’t we have a drink, like a normal couple?’
He looked up and down the street. I knew passers-by were staring at me, thinking, Redheads. They’re all the same. But it was too late to care.
‘Marion—’
‘All I want is to be alo
ne with you! Is that so much to ask? Everyone else manages it!’
There was a long pause. My arms were still rigid, but my hand had relaxed. I knew I should apologise, but I was frightened that if I opened my mouth a sob would come out.
Then Tom took a step forward, grasped my head in his hands, and kissed me on the lips.
Now, looking back, I think: did he do it just to silence me? To prevent any further public humiliation? After all, he was a police constable, albeit one still on probation, and probably not taken at all seriously by the local criminal population. But at the time, this thought did not cross my mind. I was so surprised to feel Tom’s lips on mine – so sudden, so urgent – that I thought nothing. And it was such a relief, Patrick, to merely feel for a change. To allow myself to melt, as they say, into a kiss. And it was like melting. That letting go. That sliding into the sensations of another’s flesh.
We said little after that. Together we strolled along the seafront, arms about each other’s waists, facing the wind from the sea. In the darkness I could see the white tops of the waves, rising, rolling, dispersing. Boys on motorbikes raced up Marine Drive, giving me an excuse to hold Tom tighter every time one whipped by. I had no idea where we were going – I didn’t even consider our direction. It was enough to be walking in the evening with Tom, past the upturned fishermen’s boats on the shore, away from the bright blare of the pier and towards Kemp Town. Tom did not kiss me again, but I occasionally let my head rest on his shoulder as we walked. I felt very generous towards you then, Patrick. I even wondered if perhaps you’d gone away deliberately, to give us some time alone. Take Marion out somewhere nice, you’d have said. And for heaven’s sake give her a kiss, won’t you!
I’d hardly noticed where we were going until we reached Chichester Terrace. The wide pavements were quiet and empty. The place hasn’t changed since you left: it’s still a hushed, solid street where the glossy doors are set back from the pavement, each one announced by a sturdy set of Doric columns and a flight of black and white tiled steps. On that street, the brass knockers are shining and uniform. Each facade is flatly white, iced in brilliant plaster, and each railing is straight and unchipped. The long windows cleanly reflect the street lamps and the occasional flash of traffic. Chichester Terrace is grand yet understated, without the arrogance of Sussex Square or Lewes Crescent.
Tom stopped walking and felt in his pocket.
‘Isn’t this …’
He nodded. ‘Patrick’s place.’ He dangled a set of keys in front of my face, gave a quick laugh, and skipped up the steps to your front door.
I followed him, my shoes making a lovely light clipping sound on the tiles. The huge door dragged on the thick carpet as Tom opened it to reveal a hallway papered deep yellow, patterned with gold trefoils, and a red carpet running right up the stairs.
‘Tom, what’s going on?’
Tom put a finger to his lips and beckoned me upwards. On the landing of the second floor, he paused and fumbled with the keys. We were facing a white door, to the side of which was a small gold-framed name plate: P. F. Hazlewood. Your door. We were outside your door, and Tom had the keys.
By now my mouth was dry and my heart was kicking in my chest. ‘Tom,’ I began again, but he’d already opened the door and we were inside your flat.
He let the door close without putting on the light, and there was a moment when I believed you were in there after all, that Tom would yell out, ‘Surprise!’ and you’d come blinking into the hallway. You’d be shocked, of course, but you’d recover quickly and you’d soon be your usual gracious self, offering drinks, bidding us welcome, talking into the small hours of the morning whilst we sat in separate chairs and listened appreciatively. But the only sound was Tom’s breathing. I stood in the darkness, my skin prickling as I felt Tom move closer to me.
‘He’s not here, is he?’ I whispered.
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It’s just us.’
The first time Tom had kissed me, he’d pressed his mouth so hard upon mine that I’d felt his teeth; this time, his lips were softer. I was just reaching out to put my arms around his neck when he pulled away and switched on the light.
His eyes were very blue and serious. He looked at me for the longest time, there in your hallway, and I basked in the intensity of that gaze. I wanted to lie down and sleep in it, Patrick.
Then he grinned. ‘You have to take a look at this place,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you round.’
I followed him in a kind of daze. My whole body still felt doped from that look, those kisses. I remember, though, that it was very warm in your flat. You had central heating, even then, and I had to take off my coat and my angora cardigan. The radiators hummed and ticked, hot enough to burn.
First stop was the enormous living room, of course. That room was bigger than my classroom, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Tom scampered about, flicking on huge table lamps, and it all came into soft focus: the piano in the corner; the chesterfield, crammed with cushions; the cream walls covered in pictures, some of them with their own spotlight; the grey marble fireplace; the chandelier, which had glass flower petals rather than crystal drops and was all colours. And (Tom introduced this with a flourish) the television set.
‘Tom,’ I said, trying to make my voice stern. ‘You’re going to have to explain this to me.’
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ He peeled off his sports jacket and threw it on an armchair. ‘He’s got everything.’
He was childlike in his wonder and excitement. ‘Everything!’ he repeated, gesturing again towards the television set.
‘I’m surprised he has that,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought he’d be against that sort of thing.’
‘He thinks it’s important to keep up with new things.’
‘I bet he doesn’t watch ITV.’
It was a nice set: walnut veneer, carved into scrolls at the top and bottom of the screen.
‘How come you’ve got his keys?’ I asked.
‘Shall we have a drink?’ And Tom clicked open your cocktail cabinet to display deep rows of glasses and bottles. ‘Gin?’ he offered. ‘Whisky? Brandy? Cognac?’
‘Tom, what are we doing here?’
‘Or how about a martini?’
I frowned.
‘Come on, Marion. Stop acting like a schoolteacher and at least have a brandy.’ He held out a glass to me. ‘It’s great here, isn’t it? You can’t tell me you don’t like it.’
He smiled so widely that I had to join him. We sat together on the sofa, laughing as we lost ourselves in your cushions. Once I’d struggled to the edge of my seat, I fixed Tom with a look. ‘So?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
He sighed. ‘It’s all right. Really. Patrick’s in London, and he’s always said I could use the place whilst he’s away …’
‘Do you come here a lot?’
‘Of course,’ he said, taking a long drink from his glass. ‘Well. Sometimes.’
There was a pause. I put my brandy down on your coffee table, next to a pile of art magazines.
‘Those keys – are they yours?’
Tom nodded.
‘How often do you—’
‘Marion,’ he said, leaning across to kiss my hair. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. And it’s fine, believe me. Patrick would want us to come.’
There was something odd, something un-Tom-like in his voice, a theatricality which, at the time, I put down to nerves. I glimpsed our reflections in the long window, and we looked almost like a cultured young couple, surrounded by tasteful artefacts and quality furniture, enjoying a drink together on a Saturday night. Trying to ignore the feeling that this was all happening in the wrong place, to the wrong people, I finished my drink quickly and said to Tom, ‘Show me some more of the flat.’
He took me to the kitchen. You had a spice rack, I remember – it was the first time I’d seen one – and a double sink and drainer, and the walls were tiled light green. Tom couldn’t stop pointing things out for me. He op
ened the top door of the large fridge. ‘Freezer compartment,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you love one of these?’
I said that I would.
‘He’s a great cook, you know.’
I expressed surprise, and Tom opened all your cupboards, and showed me their contents, as evidence. There were copper pans, earthenware casseroles, a set of steel chopping knives, one with a curved blade that Tom announced was called a mezzaluna, bottles of olive oil and wine vinegar, a book by Elizabeth David on the shelf.
‘But you cook too,’ I said. ‘You were in the Catering Corps.’
‘Not like Patrick. Pie and mash is about all I do.’
‘I like pie and mash.’
‘Simple tastes,’ said Tom, grinning, ‘for a schoolteacher.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, opening the fridge. ‘A bag of fish and chips does me fine. What’s he got in here?’
‘He said he’d leave something. You hungry?’ Tom reached past me for a plate of cold breaded chicken. ‘Want some?’ He took a wing and sucked the meat from the bone. ‘It’s good,’ he said, holding the plate out to me, his lips glistening.
‘Should we?’ I asked. But my hand was already on a drumstick.
Tom was right: it was good; the crumbs were light and crisp, the meat fabulously rich and greasy.
‘That’s it!’ Tom’s eyes were still wild. He took piece after piece, exclaiming all the while over the elegance of your kitchen, the tastiness of your chicken, the delicacy of your brandy. ‘Let’s have the lot,’ he said. And we stood there in your kitchen, devouring your food, drinking your alcohol, licking our oily fingers, giggling.
Afterwards, Tom took my hand and led me to another room. I’d had a few drinks by then and, as I moved, I experienced the strange sensation of my surroundings not quite catching up with me. We didn’t go to your bedroom, Patrick (although I would love to tell you that we did). We went to the spare room. It was small and white, with a single bed, primroses on the coverlet, a plain mirror above the skinny fireplace, and a wardrobe whose hangers clanged together in the empty space as we walked across the floor. A plain, practical room.
My Policeman Page 8