My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of those modern artists?’

  I almost laughed. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean …’

  ‘Well, like I said, I don’t know about art, but what I mean is, when you draw me, it will look like me, won’t it? Not like – one of those new tower blocks or something.’

  I did laugh then. I couldn’t help myself. ‘I can assure you,’ I said, ‘I could never make you look like a tower block.’

  He seemed a bit put out. ‘All right. Just had to check. You never know.’

  ‘You’re right. Quite right.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘Same time next week?’ I asked.

  He nodded. At the door, he turned to me and said, ‘Thank you, Patrick.’

  I can still hear him saying my name. It was like hearing it uttered for the first time.

  Same time next week.

  An age until then.

  3rd October 1957

  TWO DAYS SINCE he came, and already I am losing my mind with impatience. Today, Jackie suddenly asked, ‘Who was that young man?’

  It was early afternoon and she was handing me the minutes from my latest meeting with Houghton. She let the question drop without so much as a flicker. But she was wearing a look I hadn’t seen on her before – one of genuine curiosity. Even with those diamanté frames obscuring her eyes, I saw it.

  Avoiding the issue fuels the fire. So I replied: ‘He was a subject.’

  She had a hand on her hip as she waited for more.

  ‘We’re planning a portrait. A new project. Ordinary people of the town.’

  She nodded. Then, after letting a moment pass: ‘Is he ordinary, then?’

  I knew she was prying. The other girls have been talking about him. About me. Of course they have. Throw her a titbit, I thought. Get rid of her.

  ‘He’s a policeman,’ I said.

  There was a pause as she digested this information. I half turned from her and picked up the telephone receiver in order to encourage her to leave. But she did not take the hint.

  ‘He doesn’t look like a policeman,’ she said.

  Pretending not to have heard this, I started dialling a number.

  When she’d finally gone, I replaced the receiver and sat very still, letting my rushing heart calm. Nothing to worry about, I told myself. Just natural curiosity. Of course the girls want to know who he is. A handsome young stranger. We don’t get many of those in the museum. And anyway. Everything is above board. Professional. And Jackie is loyal. Jackie is discreet. Mysterious, but trustworthy.

  But. Rush, thump went the blood in my chest. It does this often. I’ve been to the doctor’s. Langland. He’s known as being sympathetic. Sympathetic up to a point, that is. Very keen on psychoanalysis, I believe. I explained to him: it most often comes in the night, when I’m trying to sleep. Lying still in my bed, I swear I can see it, this lump of muscle jumping in my chest. Langland says it’s perfectly normal. Or, if not normal, then usual. An ectopic heartbeat, he calls it. Surprisingly common, he says. Sometimes the beat is the wrong way round, and that makes you aware of your heart thumping. He demonstrated: ‘Instead of going de-DUM,’ (he slapped his hand on the desk) ‘it goes DUM-de. Nothing to worry about.’ ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘You mean it’s trochaic, rather than iambic.’ He seemed to appreciate this. ‘Exactly,’ he beamed.

  Now I have a name for it, it’s a little easier to dismiss, but no less difficult to ignore. My trochaic heart.

  I sat at my desk until it calmed. Then I walked out of the place. Out of my office, through the long gallery, down the stairs, past the money cat and on to the street.

  Amazed that no one stopped me. Not one single person looked my way as I marched by. Outside, it was raining lightly, and the wind was up. Gusts of damp salty air came at me across the Steine. Clanging notes from the pier blew this way and that. Crossed into St James’s Street. Although the sky held a brownish tinge, the air was fresh after the museum. Quickened my pace. I knew where I was going, but I did not know what I was going to do once there. No matter. I pressed onward, elated at having escaped my office with so little fuss. Relieved at the regular beating of my heart. De-dum. De-dum. De-dum. Nothing outlandish or hurried. No rush of movement from chest to head, no thump of blood in the ears. Just that steady beat, and my steady walk towards the police box.

  The rain became heavier. I’d come out without coat or umbrella, and my knees were wet. My collar, too, was damp. But I welcomed the feel of the rain on my skin. With every step I was closer to him. I didn’t have to explain myself or provide excuses. I just had to see him.

  The last time I was like this was with Michael. So anxious to see him that anything seemed possible. Conventions, other people’s opinions, the law, all appear laughable in the face of your desire, your drive to reach your love. It’s a blissful state. It’s fleeting, though, this feeling. Soon you realise that you’re walking in the rain, getting soaked, when you should be at your desk. Women with children jostle you, casting their eyes suspiciously over a single man without coat or hat in a shopping street during the middle of the afternoon. Old couples scurrying to bus stops charge at you with umbrellas. And you think, even if he is there, what can I possibly say to him? Of course, in the moment itself, in the blissful moment when anything’s possible, there’s no need for words. You’ll simply fall into one another’s arms, him understanding everything – everything – at last. But when the feeling starts to wane, when another woman has just said excuse me but stepped on your foot anyway, when you’ve glimpsed your reflection in Sainsbury’s shop window and seen a wild-eyed, rain-scattering man past his first flush of youth gaping back at you, then you realise there will have to be words.

  And what would I have said to him? What possible excuse could I give for arriving at his police box at this hour, soaked to the skin? I just couldn’t wait to see you? Or, I needed to make some urgent preliminary sketches? I suppose I could have played the temperamental artist card. But it’s probably just as well to keep that one in reserve for more testing times.

  So I turned back. Then changed direction again, and headed for home. Once there, I telephoned Jackie and told her I was unwell. Said I’d popped out for a newspaper (this is not unheard of during the museum’s afternoon lull) and had been overcome by nausea. I’d spend the rest of the day in bed and would be back in the morning. Tell all callers I’d deal with them tomorrow. She didn’t sound surprised. She asked no questions. Good, loyal Jackie, I thought. What was I worrying about before?

  I drew the curtains. Put the heating on. It wasn’t cold in the flat, but I felt in need of any warmth I could get. Stripped out of my wet clothes. Got into bed wearing the pyjamas I hate. Flannel, blue stripes. I put them on because it’s better than being naked in bed. Being naked just reminds you you’re alone. If you’re naked, there’s nothing to rub against but the sheets. At least flannel on your skin is a layer of protection.

  Thought I might weep, but did not. Lay there with heavy limbs and a foggy brain. I didn’t think of Michael. I didn’t think of myself, scurrying along the street after nothing like a fool. I just shook until the shaking stopped, and then I slept. I slept through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Then I woke and wrote this.

  Now I will sleep again.

  4th October 1957

  WRITING THIS FRIDAY evening. A most satisfying day.

  After my little weakness, I resigned myself to the long wait for Tuesday. But then this. Half past four. Monstrously dull meeting with Houghton over, I walked through the main gallery, thinking vaguely about my tea and custard cream biscuit, more specifically about the fact that there were only three days until Tuesday.

  And then: the unmistakable line of his shoulders. My policeman was standing, head on one side, looking at a rather mediocre Sisley we’ve currently got on temporary loan. No uniform (the same jacket as before). Magnificently alive, breathing, and actually here, in the museum. I’d pictured him so many times over the p
ast days that I rubbed my eyes, as disbelieving girls do in films.

  I approached. He turned and looked straight at me, then at the floor. A little coy. As if he’d been caught out. DUM-de, went my trochaic heart.

  ‘Beat finished for the day?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Thought I’d have another look. See what my mug’ll have to compete with.’

  ‘Do you want to come up? I was just about to have tea.’

  Again he looked at the floor. ‘I don’t want to put you to no trouble.’

  ‘No trouble,’ I said, already leading the way to my office.

  I showed him in, nodding at Jackie’s offer of tea as I did so, ignoring her look of interest. He sat in the armchair. I perched on the edge of the desk. ‘So. See anything interesting?’

  He didn’t hesitate in his response. ‘Yeah. There’s one of a woman, no clothes, sitting on a rock, her legs like a goat’s …’

  ‘Satyrs. French School.’

  ‘That was pretty interesting.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  He looked at the floor again. ‘Well. Women don’t have goat’s legs, do they?’

  I smiled. ‘It’s a mythological thing … from the ancient Greeks. She’s a creature called a satyr, only half human …’

  ‘Yeah. But isn’t all that just an excuse?’

  ‘An excuse?’

  ‘Art. Is it just an excuse to look at – well, naked people? Naked women.’

  He didn’t look down this time. He was staring at me so intently, his small eyes so clearly blue, that I was the one who had to look away.

  ‘Well.’ I straightened my cuffs. ‘Well, there’s certainly an obsession with the human form – with bodies – and yes, sometimes a celebration of the beauties of the flesh, I suppose you could say – male and female …’

  I flicked a look at him, but Jackie chose this moment to come in with the tea trolley. She was wearing a daffodil-yellow frock, very tight about the waist. Matching yellow shoes. A string of yellow beads. The effect was almost blinding. I saw my policeman take in this golden vision with what I thought was some interest. But then he looked back at me and there was that small, rather secret grin.

  Jackie, not seeing our exchange of glances, said, ‘Good to see you back again, Mr …’

  He told her his name. She passed him his tea. ‘Having your portrait done?’

  His cheeks flushed pink. ‘Yeah.’

  A little pause as she kept hold of his saucer, looking as though she were preparing herself to fish further.

  I stood and held the door open. ‘Thank you, Jackie.’

  She pushed out her trolley with a tight smile.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  He nodded, sipped his tea. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘About naked bodies?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I settled on the corner of the desk again. ‘Yes. Look, if you’re really interested, I’ll show you some fascinating examples.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If you have time.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, helping himself to a second biscuit. He eats rapidly, even noisily. His mouth slightly open. Enjoying himself. I offered him the plate. ‘Take as many as you like,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll show you something.’

  We had half an hour before closing time. I decided to cut to the chase: the bronze Icarus. We walked side by side in silence until I said, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s unusual, isn’t it, for a policeman to be interested in art? Do any of your colleagues feel the same way, do you think?’

  He gave a sudden laugh. It was loud and uninhibited, and it echoed around the gallery. ‘God, no,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  He shrugged. ‘Down the station, if you like art, you’re wet. Or worse.’

  A look at each other. His eyes were smiling, I swear it.

  ‘Well – that’s the general perception, I suppose …’

  ‘I only know one other person who likes it.’

  ‘And who’s that?’

  ‘Girl I know. A friend. She’s a teacher, actually. Books are more her line, though. But we do have, you know, discussions …’

  ‘About art?’

  ‘About all sorts. I’m teaching her to swim.’ He gave another laugh, softer this time. ‘She’s no good, though. Never gets any better.’

  I’ll bet she doesn’t, I thought.

  I pressed on, guiding him into the sculpture gallery. Friend, he’d said. A small revelation. Nothing to get panicked by. As he’d talked about her, the colour in his face had remained constant. He hadn’t once avoided my gaze. Friend I can deal with. Friend. Girlfriend. Sweetheart. Fiancée. I can deal with all of those. I’ve had some experience. Michael had a girlfriend, after all. Dim little thing she was. Always feeding him sandwiches. Rather sweet, in her way.

  Wife, even. I think I can deal with wife. Wives are at home, that’s the good thing about them. They’re at home, they’re silent, and they’re glad to see the back of him. Usually.

  Lover, I cannot deal with. Lover is different.

  ‘This,’ I said, ‘is Icarus, by Alfred Gilbert. It’s a cast. On loan to us at the moment.’

  There he was, his wings about him like a bullfighter’s cape, and no fig leaf. The most impressive thing about him, to me, is his belief in those wings. Useless, fragile, attached to his arms by a couple of cuffs, and yet he believes in them as a child might believe a cloak will make him invisible. He is youthfully muscular, standing with his hip to the side, his leg bent, his gleaming chest catching the spotlight above. The line from his throat to his groin delicately curved. He stands alone on his rock, looking coyly down. He is both serious and absurd, and he is beautiful.

  My policeman and I stood before him, and I said, ‘You know the story?’

  He gave me a sideways glance.

  ‘Greek mythology again, I’m afraid. Icarus and his father, Daedalus, escaped from prison using wings they’d made from feathers and wax. But despite his father’s advice, Icarus flew too close to the sun, his wings melted, and – well, you can guess the rest. It’s a story often told to schoolchildren to warn them against being overambitious. And to impress upon them the importance of listening to their fathers.’

  He was bending over, breathing on the glass case. He moved around, taking in the boy from all angles, whilst I stood back and watched. We caught each other’s reflection in the glass, our faces merging and warping with Gilbert’s golden Icarus.

  I wanted to say to him: I can’t swim. Teach me. Teach me to cut through the waves with you.

  But I did not. Instead, as brightly as I could, I told him: ‘You should bring her here.’

  ‘Who?’

  Exactly the response for which I’d hoped.

  ‘Your friend. The schoolteacher.’

  ‘Oh. Marion.’

  ‘Marion.’ Even the name’s schoolteacherly. It brings to mind thick stockings, even thicker spectacles. ‘Bring her.’

  ‘To see the museum?’

  ‘And to meet me.’

  He straightened up. Put a hand to his neck, frowned. ‘Do you want her to be part of the project?’

  I smiled. Already he was worried about being usurped. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But you’re our first subject. We’ll see how that goes, shall we? You are still coming?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘Tuesday.’ On impulse, I added: ‘Would you mind changing the venue? There’s not really space in my office. Or the necessary equipment.’ I pulled my card from my pocket and handed it to him. ‘We could meet here instead. It would have to be a bit later. Say seven thirty?’

  He looked at the card. ‘Is this your studio?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s where I live.’

  He turned the card over before tucking it into his jacket. He was smiling as he said, ‘All right,’ but I couldn’t tell if his smile was one of happiness at the thought of coming to my flat, amusement at my wiles to get him there, or mere embarrassment.

 
But. He has the card in his pocket. And Tuesday it is.

  5th October 1957

  TERRIBLE HANGOVER THIS morning. I rose very late and have been sitting about drinking coffee, eating toast and rereading Agatha Christie in the hope that it will lift. It hasn’t yet.

  Last night, after writing, decided to go to the Argyle. I didn’t relish the idea of another long evening, waiting for Tuesday, that was part of it. But in truth I was feeling puffed up at my success. The boy is to come here, to my flat. He has agreed. He is coming alone, Tuesday evening. We have looked at Icarus together and he has given me his secret smile and he is coming.

  So I felt the Argyle might be fun. It is no good going to these places when one feels depressed and lonely. They just compound the misery, especially when one ends up leaving alone. But when one is feeling optimistic … well, then the Argyle is the place to be. It’s a place of possibilities.

  I hadn’t been there for a very long time; since landing the curator’s job a few years ago, I’ve needed to be very discreet. Not that I’ve ever been anything else, really. Certainly Michael and I went out very rarely. Wednesday night was our one whole night together, and I wasn’t going to waste it by taking him out and sharing him with anyone else. I often visited him in the daytime but he always wanted me out of his room by eight o’clock, in case the landlady grew suspicious.

  But even walking past the Argyle is risky. What if Jackie were to see me looking at that door? Or Houghton? Or any of the girls from the museum? Of course, if one does go to bars, one learns to take precautions – go after dark, go alone, don’t catch anyone’s eye whilst walking down the street, don’t go into any establishment too near your own house. Which is why I enjoy my nights in London with Charlie. Much easier to be anonymous on those streets. Brighton, for all its cosmopolitan airs, is a small town.

  It was a dreary night, wet and mild, very few stars. I was glad of the rain – it gave me an excuse to shelter beneath my largest umbrella. Walked right along the seafront, past the Palace Pier, and crossed King’s Road to avoid the town centre. My steps rapid, but not hurried. Turned into Middle Street, keeping my head down. Thankfully, it was almost half past nine and the streets were fairly calm. Everyone was busy drinking up.