My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  I slipped through the black door (graced only by the small gold plaque: ARGYLE HOTEL), signed in under the name I always use for places like this, removed my coat, slotted my soaking umbrella into the stand and went into the bar.

  Candlelight. Log fire punching out too much heat. Leather armchairs. ‘Stormy Weather’ coming from the Oriental boy on the piano. They say he played at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. The smell of gin, Givenchy cologne, dust and roses. There are always fresh roses on the bar. Last night’s were pale yellow, very delicate.

  Immediately I recognised the old familiar feeling of being appraised by more than a dozen pairs of male eyes. A feeling exquisitely balanced between pleasure and pain. It’s not that they all turned and stared – the Argyle would never be that blatant – but my presence was noted. I’d taken care over my appearance, shaping my moustache, running some oil through my hair and selecting my most well-cut jacket (the grey marl from Jermyn Street) before I ventured out, so I was prepared. I keep myself fit – callisthenics every morning. The army did that for me, at least. And I don’t yet have a grey hair on my head. I’ve never been obsessed with these matters but I do keep them in check. I was ready. I was, I thought, looking quite elegant. I was – in my head this is already taking on a strange reality – an artist about to embark on a daring new portraiture project.

  Approached the bar, deliberately not looking anyone in the eye. I must have a drink in my hand before I can do that. The Miss Browns were, as usual, on their high stools behind the bar. The younger one – who must be approaching sixty by now – counts the takings. The older one greets the gentlemen and pours the drinks. Wearing a high lace collar and smoking a long cigarillo, she said hello, remembering my name.

  ‘And how are we?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, tolerable.’

  ‘Like myself, like myself.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Wonderful to see you here again. One of the boys will take your order.’

  Older Miss Brown is famous for relaying messages between her clients. You slip her your note over the bar and she will pass it on to the addressed gentleman. If he does not come in that night, she will store the note behind a bottle of crème de cacao on the bottom shelf. There are always a few new slips of paper behind that bottle. Nothing is ever said; the note is merely handed over with your change.

  The Duchess of Argyle, as he’s known, took my order for a dry martini and showed me to a table by the heavily draped bay window. His face was powdered and his red jacket was, as always, tightly fitting and just the right side of military. After a few sips I began to relax and take a look around the place. A couple of faces I recognised. Bunny Waters, as dapper as ever, sitting at the bar, wearing bright white shirt sleeves, several gold bracelets and a maroon waistcoat. He made a slight nod of recognition in my direction, lifted his glass, and I returned the gesture. One New Year I watched him foxtrotting round the floor with the most handsome boy. No one else was dancing. I wonder, now, if it really happened, this vision of two neat, dark-haired men gliding around the room, everyone aware of them, everyone admiring them, but no one feeling it necessary to make the slightest acknowledgement of what was happening. It was a gracious moment. We all silently agreed that it was beautiful, and rare, and not to be spoken of. We acted as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world. I heard, later, that Bunny was at the Queen of Clubs the night it was raided for, apparently, not having a supper licence. He avoided, somehow, the whole hullabaloo with the press, his employers and so on, and didn’t face any charges. Others were not so lucky.

  At a table not far from mine was Anthony B. I’m sure Charlie had a brief affaire with him, the year before he moved to London. Anton, he used to call him. He’s looking just as respectable as ever – was reading the Times, a little more grey in his hair, and kept glancing towards the door, but he’d be at home in any gentleman’s club. Still has the same red cheeks. There’s something rather attractive about red cheeks on a very respectable man. A suggestion, perhaps, that his cup spilleth over. That he cannot always contain his emotions. That underneath the controlled exterior there lies much blood; blood that will eventually out.

  I don’t think I’ve blushed since school. It was my affliction, back then. Cool, wet grass, Charlie used to say to me. Think of it. Allow yourself to lie in it. It never worked. One of the sports masters called me the Pink Sap. Come along, Hazlewood. Give it some welly, why don’t you. Can’t be a pink sap all your life, eh? God, I hated him. I used to have dreams of throwing acid in his huge, sweating face.

  I ordered another dry martini.

  At about ten, a young man entered. Brown hair so short and coarse it looked like a pelt. A thin face and a compact, neat little body. Everyone stirred as he paused at the doorway, lit a cigarette and strode to the bar. He kept his eyes down as he walked, just as I had done. Let them get a look at you before you look back.

  He took his time, this young man. Stood very square at the bar, refusing Older Miss Brown’s offer of a seat. Ordered a baby tolly, which I thought very sweet. Then he continued to smoke, watching his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  My policeman wouldn’t act like that. He would smile and nod, greet strangers warmly, show an interest in his surroundings. I allowed myself to picture the scene: the two of us making our entrance, shaking our coats free of rain. Older Miss Brown would ask if we were both tolerably well, and we would tell her that we were more than that, thank you, and would exchange a knowing smile before retiring to our usual table. All eyes would be on us, the gorgeous young man and his handsome gentleman. We’d discuss the film or show we’d been to see. There would be, as we stood to leave, a touch on the shoulder – I would touch my policeman’s shoulder in a slight but unmistakable gesture, a gesture that said, Come along, darling, it’s getting late, let’s go home to bed.

  But he would never step into a place like this. If he’s come across the snatchers in vice squad by now, he’s sure to know about it. The signs suggest that he’s a sensible young man, though. Capable of being different. Capable of resistance. (I am so buoyant at the moment that I am incredibly, naively optimistic, despite my hangover.)

  I ordered another dry martini.

  And then I thought: why not? The young man at the bar hadn’t yet been bought a drink, and was looking into his empty glass. So I positioned myself next to him. Not too close. Body facing away from his, into the room.

  ‘What are you having?’ I asked. Well, you have to start somewhere.

  Without hesitation, he replied, ‘Scotch.’ I ordered him a double from the Duchess and we both watched Older Miss Brown pour his drink.

  He thanked me as he took the whisky, drank half of it back in one gulp, did not look in my direction.

  ‘Still wet out there?’ I tried.

  He drained his glass. ‘Bucketing. Shoes are bloody soaked.’

  I ordered him another drink. ‘Why don’t you join me by the fire? Soon have you dried out.’

  Then he looked at me. Eyes large. Something drawn and hungry in his pale face. Something young but brittle. Without another word, I walked back to my table and sat down, certain he would follow.

  Whatever happens, I thought, my policeman is still coming on Tuesday. He is coming to my flat. In the meantime, I can enjoy this, whatever it may turn out to be.

  It took only a few moments for him to join me. I insisted he move his chair closer to the fire – closer to me. When he’d done so, there was a long silence. I offered him a cigarette. As soon as he took it, the Duchess moved in with a light. I watched the young man smoking. He lifted the cigarette slowly to his mouth, as if learning how to do it from a film, copying an actor’s every move. Narrowing his eyes. Sucking in his cheeks. Holding his breath for a few seconds and then blowing out. As he brought his hand up to his mouth again, I noticed a bruise about his wrist.

  I wondered how he’d ended up here, who had told him this was the right place to come. His jacket was slightly worn-looking, but his boots were brand new and pointed
at the toes. He should have been in the Greyhound, really. Someone had advised him badly. Or perhaps – like I once did, years ago – he’d simply screwed up all his courage and gone into the first place about which he’d heard a scurrilous rumour.

  ‘So, what brings you to this old dump?’ I asked. (I was a bit squiffy by now.)

  He shrugged.

  ‘Let me get you another.’ I nodded to the Duchess, who was leaning on the bar, closely observing the two of us.

  Once the new drinks came, together with a clean ashtray, all provided with a lingering look from the Duchess, I moved a little closer to the boy. ‘I haven’t seen you in here before,’ I said.

  ‘Ain’t seen you, neither.’

  Touché.

  ‘Not that I’ve been in much,’ he added.

  ‘It’s a good place to come. Better than most.’

  ‘I know.’

  Probably due to the amount of dry martini I’d consumed, I suddenly lost patience. The boy was obviously bored; he’d just wanted a drink he couldn’t afford to buy himself; he was not in the least interested in me.

  I stood up and felt myself sway a little.

  ‘You off?’

  ‘It’s getting rather late …’

  He looked up at me. ‘P’raps we could talk … somewhere else?’

  Utterly brazen, really.

  ‘Black Lion,’ I said, grinding out my cigarette. ‘Ten minutes.’

  I paid the bill, leaving a large tip for the gaping Duchess, and left the place. I was completely calm as I crossed the road and entered the narrow alleyway that leads to Black Lion Street. It had stopped raining. I swung my umbrella and had that lightness in my feet you get after alcohol. I walked fast but felt no sense of exertion, and may even have whistled ‘Stormy Weather’.

  I did not hesitate to take the first steps down to the cottage. I didn’t even look about me to check if I were being watched. I’ve never been much of a one for this sort of encounter. I’ve had my moments, of course, especially before Michael and I became a regular thing. But since then I’ve made very little contact with any man’s flesh. Last night I suddenly realised how much I needed it. How much I’d missed it.

  Then a tall man in a smart tweed overcoat, collar turned up, started up the steps. As he pushed past me, he muttered, ‘Fucking queer.’

  Not, God knows, the first time. Certainly not the last. But it shocked me. Shocked me and turned my yearning flesh utterly cold. Because I’d had too many martinis. Because the rain had stopped. Because my policeman was coming on Tuesday. Because I’d been foolish enough to imagine I could enjoy this boy and just, for once, bloody well get on with it.

  I stopped halfway down and leant against the cold tiled wall. The stench of urine, disinfectant and semen rose from the cottage below. I could still go down there. I could still hold this boy, and imagine he was my policeman. I could touch his coarse brown hair and imagine soft blond curls.

  But my trochaic heart protested. So I hauled myself out of there and took a taxi home.

  Strange. What remains with me now is the satisfaction of knowing that I actually went there. I took fright, but at least I got first to the Argyle, and then to the Black Lion. Two things I’ve very rarely achieved since Michael. And, despite this wretched hangover, my mood is surprisingly light.

  Only two days, and then …

  8th October 1957

  THE DAY: TUESDAY. The time: seven-thirty in the evening.

  I am standing at my window, waiting for him. Inside, the flat is tidied to within an inch of its life. Outside, the dark sea lies still.

  DUM-de, goes my heart.

  I have opened the drinks cabinet, displayed the latest copy of Art and Artists on the coffee table, made sure the bathroom is spotless. The daily, Mrs Gunn, is actually a weekly in my case, and I’m not sure she can see as well as she once did. I’ve dusted off my old easel and arranged it in the spare room, together with a palette, a few tubes of paint, some knives and brushes stuffed in a jam jar. The room still looks far too neat to be a studio – the vacuumed carpet, the crisply made bed – but I’m presuming this will be the first artist’s space he’s seen, and he won’t have many expectations.

  Haven’t put my photographs of Michael away, despite considering doing so. Thought about playing some music, but decided that would be too much.

  It’s just this evening turned quite chilly, so the heating’s on and I’m in my shirt sleeves. Keep touching my own neck, as if in preparation for where my policeman’s hand might go. Or his lips.

  But I mustn’t think of that.

  I go to the drinks cabinet and pour myself a large gin, then stand again at the window, listening to the ice release itself into the alcohol. Next door’s cat slinks along my sill and stares hopefully at me. But I won’t let her in. Not tonight.

  As I wait, I’m reminded of Wednesdays. Of how my preparations for Michael’s arrival – the cooking, the arranging of the flat, of myself – were, for a while at least, almost more magical than the meetings themselves. It was the promise of what was to come, I know that. Sometimes, after we’d gone to bed and he was sleeping, I’d get up in the night and look at the mess we’d made. The dirty plates. Empty wine glasses. Our clothes strewn on the floor. Cigarette ends in the ashtray. Records lying on the sideboard without their sleeves. And I’d itch to put it all back into place, ready for the evening to begin all over again. If I could put everything back, I reasoned, when Michael rose before dawn he would see that I was ready for him. Waiting for him. Expecting him. And he might choose to stay the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next.

  The buzzer goes. I put my drink down, run a hand through my hair. Take a breath. Go downstairs to the front door.

  He’s not wearing his uniform, for which I’m grateful. It’s risky enough, having a lone male call at my door after six o’clock in the evening. He’s carrying a bag, though, which he waves at me. ‘Uniform. Thought you’d want me to wear it. For the portrait.’

  He colours a little and glances down at the footplate. I wave him in. He follows me up the stairs (thankfully empty) and into the flat, his boots creaking.

  ‘Join me?’ When I hold up my glass, my hand shakes.

  He says he’ll have a beer if there is one; he’s off duty now until six tomorrow morning. As I’m opening the only bottle of pale ale in the cabinet, I steal a glance at him. My policeman is standing on my rug, gloriously upright, the light from the chandelier catching his blond curls, and he’s looking around with his mouth slightly agape. His gaze pauses at the newly acquired oil I’ve proudly hung over the fireplace – a Philpot portrait of a boy with sturdily naked torso – before he walks to the window.

  I hand him his glass. ‘Splendid view, isn’t it?’ I say, idiotically. There’s not much to see apart from our own reflections. But he agrees and we both squint out at the black sky in silence. I can smell him now: something faintly carbolic that reminds me of school – undoubtedly the smell of the station – but also a hint of pine talc.

  I know I should keep talking so he won’t get too nervous, but I can’t think of a thing to say. He’s finally here, standing at my side. I can hear his breathing. He’s so close that my head feels dizzy with it, with his scent and his breath and the way he’s swallowing his drink in great gulps.

  ‘Mr Hazlewood—’

  ‘Patrick, please.’

  ‘Shall I change? Shouldn’t we get on with it?’

  When he comes into the spare room he’s carrying his helmet, but everything else is in place. The black wool jacket. The tightly knotted tie. The belt with silver buckle. The whistle chain, slung between his breast pocket and his top button. The polished number on his shoulder. The shiny boots. It’s an odd thrill to have a policeman in my flat. Dangerous, despite his shy look. But also faintly ridiculous.

  I tell him he looks splendid, and have him sit on the chair I’ve placed by the window. I’ve put a strong light beside it, and draped an old green tablecloth from the curtain rail as
a backdrop. I’ve instructed him to place his hat on his knees and look into the corner of the room, over my right shoulder.

  I settle myself on a stool, sketchpad on my lap, pencils to hand. The room is very quiet and I busy myself for a moment, getting to a clean page in the pad (which in truth hasn’t been used in years), selecting the correct pencil. Then, realising I am now free to look at him as blatantly as I like, for hours if I want to, I freeze.

  I can’t do it. I cannot raise my eyes to him. My heart becomes frantic with the weight of it, this unfettered pleasure that lies ahead. I drop my pencil and paper and end up crouching on the floor before him, desperately trying to gather my things together.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asks. His voice is light and yet grave, and I take a breath. Sit on the stool once more. Settle myself.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ I say.

  The work begins.

  It’s strange. At first I can only take quick peeks at him. I’m worried I might start laughing with joy. I might start laughing at his youth, at the way he shines, at the way his cheeks are flushed, at the way his eyes are bright with interest. The way his thighs rest together as he sits. The way he holds his exquisite shoulders so square. Or, in this state, I might even start to weep.

  I try to pull myself together. I realise I will have to convince myself I’m very serious about the drawing. It’s the only way I can allow myself to study him. I must try to see him from the inside, as my art teacher used to say. See the apple from the inside. Only then can you draw it.

  Holding my pencil before my face, squinting, I examine his proportions: eyes to nose to mouth. Chin to shoulder to waist. Mark the points on the page. Note the lightness of his eyebrows. There’s a slight knobble on the bridge of his nose. His nostrils are elegantly angled. His mouth has a firm line. The upper lip is slightly fleshier than the lower (I almost lose concentration at this point). His chin has a subtle cleft.