My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  Something – perhaps my policeman’s presence at the flat the other night, perhaps pique with Houghton’s attempts to put me in my place, perhaps bravado brought on by the Duchess’s fine example – compelled me to reply: ‘I try not to let it bother me, sir. Not all women are lovely, after all. Some look very like men and no one bats an eyelid at them, do they?’

  For the rest of the way back I could feel Houghton searching for a reply. He found none, and we walked into the museum in silence.

  Outside my office, Jackie looked up expectantly. I requested a word, almost addressing her as Miss Butters in my annoyance.

  She sat in the armchair opposite my desk. I paced about a bit, hating myself for being in this situation. A dressing-down was necessary, I knew. Houghton had done it to me, and now I had to do it to Jackie. Who would Jackie do it to, though? Her dog, perhaps. I once saw her in Queen’s Park, throwing a stick for a cocker spaniel. There was an enormous smile on her face and something unfettered in the way she knelt down to congratulate the creature for bringing the stick to her feet, letting it put its paws on her shoulders and cover every inch of her face with its reaching tongue. She looked almost beautiful in that moment. Free.

  I was just clearing my throat when she said, ‘Mr Hazlewood, I’m ever so sorry if I’ve caused any trouble.’

  She clutched at the hem of her skirt – she was wearing the lemon ensemble again – pulling it down over her knees and shifting her feet about. ‘It was such a long lunch with Mr Houghton, and I said to myself, that usually means trouble.’ Her eyes were wide. ‘And then I remembered that I’d mentioned your portrait project to Mr Houghton the other day and he looked so strange when I said it … and I wondered if perhaps I’d spoken out of turn?’

  I asked her what, exactly, she had told him.

  ‘Nothing really.’

  I sat on the edge of my desk, meaning to smile benevolently down at her and thus appear powerful but essentially unthreatening. But God knows what expression was on my face – utter terror, probably, as I said, ‘You must have said something.’

  ‘He asked me if you were up to anything new. I think that’s how he put it. But it was just … talking. Sometimes he does ask me things.’

  ‘He asks you things?’

  ‘After you’ve gone home. He comes in here and he asks me things.’

  ‘What kinds of things?’

  ‘Silly things. You know.’ She batted her eyelids coyly and looked to the floor, but still I failed to grasp her meaning.

  ‘You know,’ she said again, ‘chit-chat.’

  Chit-chat? I wanted to hoot. Houghton does chit-chat? Then it dawned on me. ‘Do you mean to tell me that old Houghton comes in here and flirts with you?’

  She gave what can only be described as a giggle. ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  I could see it, all too clearly. Him leaning over her shoulder, fingering her still-damp sheaf of carbon copy. Her taking off those winged specs and breathing all over his hot hands. And it completely wrong-footed me. So much so that I could think of nothing else to say.

  There followed a long silence. Then Jackie piped up: ‘It’s nothing serious, Mr Hazlewood. He’s a married man. It’s just a bit of fun.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like much fun to me.’

  ‘Please don’t be cross, Mr Hazlewood. I’m ever so sorry if I’ve caused any trouble.’

  ‘You haven’t,’ I stated. ‘But I’d rather you didn’t mention the portrait project during your little … chats with Houghton again. It’s at an embryonic stage and there’s no need for anyone else to hear about it yet.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him much.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Only that that nice-looking copper dropped by. Nothing else.’

  I certainly tried not to flinch. Jackie smoothed down her skirt again. Despite her careful grooming, her nails are bitten to the quick. I stared at these ragged stumps and managed to say, ‘That’s fine. It’s simply best for me to present the project to Mr Houghton when I’m ready.’

  ‘I understand.’

  I told her she could go. At the door she repeated, ‘I understand, Mr Hazlewood. I won’t say anything.’ And she took her leave.

  Now, at home, I’m thinking of Michael’s landlady. Mrs Esme Owens, widow. She lived downstairs, asked no questions, knitted endless socks for the poor and, on Fridays, made Michael fish pie, which he swore was delicious. He always said she was the soul of discretion. She’d seen a thing or two in the war, old Esme, and nothing shocked her. In return for his company, she offered her silence. For she must have noticed the frequency of my visits, and speculated on what it was that kept Michael out of the house every Wednesday night.

  But I’ve often wondered who wrote those letters to Michael. He said it was no one we’d know, a professional outfit that probably made a good living from blackmailing homosexuals. The first letter was nothing if not to the point: SEEN YOU IN P RODIS WITH RENT. FOR SILENCE SEND FIVE POUNDS BY FRI. The address was a house in West Hove. Our righteous indignation caused us to blunder over there together that Sunday afternoon with no plan, no clue of what we were doing. Once we’d walked past the door a few times we realised the place was utterly empty. It was this emptiness that made me suddenly aware of the seriousness of the situation. This threat was faceless. It was something we couldn’t see, let alone fight. We came home in silence. Although I tried to tell him not to, Michael sent the money. I knew he’d no choice, but felt I should be the voice of dissent. He refused to discuss it any further.

  Some weeks later I found another note in his flat, and this time the price of silence had doubled. Within two months of that first letter, Michael had killed himself.

  So I do wonder, sometimes, about Mrs Esme Owens and her discretion. At Michael’s funeral she was wearing a very expensive-looking fur stole. And acting rather more distraught than was necessary for a landlady.

  15th October 1957

  THIS BUSINESS WITH Mother has been most distracting. On Sunday night, lying in bed wide awake, I was convinced she had only a few days left and I should prepare myself for her death. But on Monday I thought perhaps, at the very worst, she was in for a long illness and I should bring her to Brighton so I could nurse her. I even had a look in Cubitt and West’s window on the way home from the museum, to see if any flats were available near mine. By this morning, though, I reckoned Mother to be the surviving type who’d probably see a good few years before my intervention was required. Nevertheless, I’d decided I should at least ask her to come here, if only to show willing. And I was sitting down this evening, gin and tonic to hand, to write a letter to that effect when the buzzer went.

  Same time next week. I smiled. Despite the distraction of Mother’s illness, I’d been waiting for him, of course, and had prepared the spare room. But only at the sound of the buzzer did I admit to myself that, despite sending him away last time, I had been expecting my policeman to return.

  I sat for a few moments and relished the anticipation of his appearance. I took my time, and even read through what I’d written. Dear Mother, I’d begun, I hope you won’t think I’m interfering, or that I’m panicking about your condition. I was, of course, doing both.

  Then it went again. A long, impatient trill this time. He’d come back. I’d sent him away, but he’d come back. And this meant everything was different. It was his decision. He was the insistent one, not me. There he was, outside, pushing my buzzer again. I gulped back the rest of my gin and went downstairs to let him in.

  On seeing me, his first words were, ‘Am I early?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, without consulting my watch. ‘You’re right on time.’ I showed him up the stairs and into the flat, walking behind him so he wouldn’t see the irrepressible spring in my step.

  He was carrying his uniform again, and wearing a black sweater and jeans. We reached the sitting room and stood together on the rug. To my surprise, he gave me a small smile. He didn’t seem as nervous as I’d first thought
. For a second, everything seemed so simple: here he was, back at the flat. What else could matter? My policeman was here, and he was smiling.

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Shall we get going?’ There was a new confidence, a new determination in his voice.

  ‘I think we should.’

  And he turned, walked into the spare bedroom and closed the door behind him. Trying not to dwell too much on the fact that he was undressing behind that door, I went into the kitchen to fetch him a beer. Passing the hallway mirror, I checked my appearance and couldn’t stop myself giving my reflection a sly grin.

  ‘Ready,’ he called, opening the door to the ‘studio’. And there he was, all dressed for me, waiting to begin.

  After I’d finished drawing him, we came through to the sitting room and I gave him another drink.

  The beer must have relaxed him. He unbuckled his belt, took off his jacket, slung it across my armchair, and sat himself on the chesterfield without being invited. I looked at the shape his jacket made on the back of the chair. Thought how limp it looked without his body to fill it.

  ‘Do you like the uniform?’ I asked.

  ‘You should’ve seen me when I first got it. Kept pacing up and down the front room, looking at myself in the mirror.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t realise, then, how heavy it would be.’

  ‘Heavy?’

  ‘Weighs a bloody ton. Try it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t fit me …’

  ‘Go on. Give it a go.’

  I picked it up. He was right: the thing was weighty. I rubbed the wool between my finger and thumb. ‘It is a little coarse …’

  His eyes glittered as they met mine. ‘Like me.’

  ‘Not at all like you.’

  There was a pause. Neither one of us looked away.

  I hauled the jacket on to my back, my arms floundering to find the sleeves. It was too big – the waist too low, the shoulders too wide – but still warm from his body. The smell of carbolic and pine talc was strong. The roughness of the collar prickled my neck and I shivered. I wanted to bury my nose in the sleeve, pull the fabric tightly around me and breathe in his smell. His warmth. But instead I bobbed at the knee and said, rather feebly, ‘Evenin’, all.’

  He laughed. ‘Never heard anyone say that. Not in real life.’

  I took off the jacket and poured myself another gin. Then I sat next to him on the sofa, as close as I dared.

  ‘Do I make a good subject, then?’ he asked. ‘Will I be a good portrait?’

  I sipped my drink. Made him wait for the answer. My trochaic heart flapped in my chest.

  I didn’t look at him, but I felt him shift. He gave a little sigh and stretched out an arm. It went along the back of the chesterfield. Towards me.

  Outside the window, the sky was black. All I could see was the glow of a few street lamps, and the watery beginnings of the room’s reflection in the glass. I tried to reason with myself. Here I am, I thought, with a policeman in my flat, and I’m really going to have to touch him soon if he keeps behaving in this way, but he’s a policeman, for Christ’s sake, and you can’t get much more risky than that, and I should remember Jackie’s knowing comment, and Mrs Esme Owens, and what happened to that boy at the Napoleon …

  I thought this. But all I felt was the warmth of his arm on the back of the chesterfield, very close now to my shoulder. The smell of ale on him, a bread-like smell. The creak of his belt as he moved his hand a little closer.

  ‘You’re going to make a wonderful portrait,’ I said. ‘Quite wonderful.’

  And then his fingertips grazed my neck. Still I did not look at him. I let my eyes glaze over, and the reflection of the room in the window warped into a soft mass of light and dark. It all warped, the whole room, into the feeling of my policeman’s fingers in my hair. He was holding the back of my neck now, cradling it, and I wanted to let my head rest there, in his large, capable hand. His touch was firm, surprisingly sure, but when I finally turned to look at him, his face was pale, his breathing quick.

  ‘Patrick …’ he began, his voice barely a whisper.

  I flicked off the table lamp and placed a hand over his beautiful mouth. Felt the fleshiness of his upper lip as he drew breath. ‘Don’t say anything,’ I told him.

  Keeping one hand on his mouth, I pressed the other down on the top of his thigh. He closed his eyes, let out a breath. I rubbed him through the rough wool of his police trousers until he was swallowing hard and my fingers were wet with his breath. When I felt his cock kick up towards me, I took my hand away and loosened his tie. He said nothing, kept gasping. I unbuttoned his shirt, working quickly, my heart banging out its upside-down rhythm, and he began to lick one of my fingers, lightly at first, but as I brought my mouth to his exposed neck, then to his chest, he sucked greedily at my flesh. And when I kissed the tiny hairs that crawl up to his belly button, he bit down, hard. I kept kissing. He kept biting. Then I pulled my hand from his mouth, cupped his face and kissed him, very gently, pulling back from his straining tongue. He made a little noise, a soft groan, and I reached down and took his cock in my hand, and I whispered in his ear, ‘You’re going to be wonderful.’

  Afterwards, I lay with my head in his lap, and we were silent together. The curtains were still open and the room was dimly lit by the street lamps outside. A few cars droned past. The last of the seagulls wailed into the evening. My policeman rested his head on the back of the chesterfield, his hand in my hair. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like hours.

  Eventually I lifted my head, determined to say something to him. But before I could speak, he’d stood up, buttoned his fly, reached for his coat and said, ‘I’d better not come again, had I?’

  It was a question. A question, not a statement.

  ‘Of course you should.’

  He said nothing. Buckled his belt, pulled on his jacket and began to walk away from me. I added, ‘If you want to.’

  He stopped in the doorway. ‘Not that simple, is it?’

  Just like Michael, every Wednesday night. Leaving. The door slams and that’s it. Let’s not have this conversation now, I thought. Just stay a little longer.

  I couldn’t move. I sat and listened to his footsteps, and the only thing I managed to say was, ‘Same time next week?’

  But he’d already slammed the front door.

  19th October 1957

  ALL WEEK, MY dreams full of his groan as I kissed him. The kick of his cock beneath my flattened hand. And the sound of the front door slamming.

  He’s bound to be scared. He’s young. Inexperienced. Although I’m aware many boys of his class are far more experienced than I was. A lad I once met at the Greyhound swore blind a friend of his father’s had had him on his allotment when he was barely fifteen. And that he’d loved it. But I don’t think anything like that has happened to my policeman. I think, perhaps rather romantically, that he’s like I was: he’s spent many years, ever since he was a very young boy, looking at men and wanting to be touched by them. He may already have begun to tell himself that he’s a minority. He may even know that no woman will offer a ‘cure’. I hope he knows that, although it wasn’t at all obvious to me until I was almost thirty. Even when I was with Michael there was a small part of me that wondered if some female couldn’t snap me out of it. But when he died I knew this to be utter folly, because there was no word for what I’d lost other than love. There. I’ve written it.

  But I doubt another man touched my policeman before I did. I doubt he’s cradled another man’s head in his hand. His actions have been bold – he’s surprised and delighted me in this. But does he feel as confident as he acts? How scared he really is I have no way of knowing. That laugh, those glittering eyes, are good protection, from the world and from himself.

  25th October 1957

  A HUGE SCANDAL has just broken in the papers about Brighton CID. I believe it was even in The Times. The Chief Constable and a detective inspector are in the dock, charged with conspiracy. The details are shady at the
moment, but no doubt they involve these men making mutually agreeable deals with various lowlifes of the type found in the Bucket of Blood. I have to say, my heart lifted when I saw the headline in the Argus: CHIEF CONSTABLE AND 2 OTHERS ACCUSED – at last, our boys in blue are the ones facing social disgrace and possibly imprisonment – but it sank when I realised what this might mean for my policeman. Ordinary, honest members of the force will, I’m sure, have to pay for their bosses’ misdemeanours. Lord knows what pressures they’ll be under now.

  But there’s nothing I can do about all this. I just have to wait for him to come back. That’s all I have to do.

  4th November 1957

  A GLITTER OF frost on the pavement this morning. We’re in for a cold winter.

  He has stayed away for almost three weeks. And each day, a little of the memory of our evening together hardens into something lost. I can still feel his lips, but I can’t quite remember the exact shape of that knobble on the bridge of his nose.

  At the museum, Jackie’s been eyeing me from behind her glasses, and Houghton’s been droning on about the need to keep the director, the trustees and the council happy by not doing anything too outlandish. Nothing more has been said about the portrait project. But, perhaps inspired by the feeling of being able to seduce a boy in his early twenties, I’ve been pressing on with my reforms. All I have to do now is find a school that’s willing to send its young charges through our doors and leave them under my dubious influence.

  Felt I must get up to London to see Charlie this evening. It was already quite late, but I’d have a couple of hours with him before the last train back. Wanted, very badly, to tell him about my policeman. To talk. To shout his name out. In his absence, the next best thing would be to bring him to life by describing him for Charlie. Also wanted, I must admit, to boast a bit. Ever since school, it’s always been Charlie telling me about the thrilling line of some boy’s shoulders, the sweet way in which Bob or George or Harry looks up to him and is fascinated by his conversation, as well as providing absolute satisfaction in bed. Now I had my own tale to tell.