My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  ‘Appearances,’ I said, ‘can be deceptive.’

  I asked him to tell me all about himself. ‘Start at the beginning,’ I said. ‘I want to know everything about you.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not much to tell.’

  ‘I know that’s not true,’ I implored, throwing an adoring look his way.

  He looked out of the window. Sighed. ‘You know most of it already. I told you. School. Rubbish. National Service. Boring. Police force. Not so bad. And swimming …’

  ‘What about your family? Your parents? Siblings?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘What are they like?’

  ‘They’re … you know. All right. Ordinary.’

  I tried a different tack. ‘What do you want out of life?’

  He said nothing for a bit, then this: ‘What I want, right now, is to know about you. That’s what I want.’

  So I did the talking. I could almost feel him listening, he was so eager to hear what I had to say. Of course, that’s the greatest flattery: a willing ear. So I went on, and on, about life at Oxford, the years I spent trying to make a living from painting, how I got the job at the museum, my beliefs about art. I promised to take him to the opera, to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall, and to all the major galleries in London. He’d already been, he said, to the National. On a school outing. I asked him what he remembered of the place, and he mentioned Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus: the clean-shaven Christ. ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off him,’ he said. ‘Jesus without a beard. It was really strange.’

  ‘Strange as in wonderful?’

  ‘Maybe. It didn’t seem right, but it was more real than anything else in the place.’

  I agreed. And we’ve made a plan to go together next weekend.

  The fog was worse around Seaford, and by the time we reached Cuckmere Haven the road in front seemed to have disappeared completely. The Fiat was the only vehicle in the car park. I said we didn’t have to walk – we could just talk. And eat. And whatever else took our fancy. But he was determined. ‘We’ve come all this way,’ he said, letting himself out of the car. It was quite a disappointment, to have him spring away from me like that, no longer held captive.

  The river, with its slow meander down to the sea, was lost to us in the fog. All we could see was the grey chalk of the path, and the foot – not the tops – of the hills along one side. Through the fog came the occasional glimpse of the dumb bulk of a sheep. Nothing more.

  My policeman strode slightly ahead, hands in pockets. As we walked, we fell to a comfortable silence. It was as though we were cushioned by the quiet, forgiving fog. We saw not another soul. Heard nothing apart from our own feet on the path. I said we should head back – this was useless: we could see nothing at all of river, downs or sky. And I was hungry; I’d packed a picnic and I wanted to eat. He turned to look at me. ‘We need to get a look at the sea first,’ he said.

  After a while I could hear the suck and rush of the Channel, even if I couldn’t see the beach. My policeman’s pace increased, and I followed. Once there, we stood side by side on the steep bank of pebbles, staring into the grey mist. He inhaled deeply. ‘It’d be good swimming here,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll come back. In the spring.’

  He looked at me. That smile playing on his lips. ‘Or sooner. We could come one night.’

  ‘It’d be cold,’ I said.

  ‘It’d be secret,’ he said.

  I touched his shoulder. ‘Let’s come back when the sun’s out. When it’s warm. Then we’ll swim together.’

  ‘But I like it like this. Just us and the fog.’

  I laughed. ‘For a policeman, you’re very romantic.’

  ‘For an artist, you’re very afraid,’ he said.

  My answer to that was to kiss him hard on the mouth.

  13th December 1957

  WE’VE BEEN MEETING some lunchtimes, when he can get a long break. But he has not forgotten the schoolteacher. And yesterday, for the first time, he brought her with him.

  What a great effort I made to be charming and welcoming. They are so obviously mismatched that I had to smile when I saw them together. She is almost as tall as he is, made no attempt to disguise it (wearing heels), and is not nearly as handsome as him. But I suppose I would think so.

  Having said that, there was something unusual about her. Perhaps it’s her red hair. So coppery that no one could fail to notice it. Or perhaps it’s the way that, unlike many young women, she does not look away when you meet her eye.

  Having met them at the museum, I led them both to the Clock Tower Café, which has become my policeman’s and my favourite haunt for the kind of hearty, no-nonsense meals that I sometimes crave. At any rate, it’s always wonderful to be in the greasy fug of the place after the dry silence of the museum, and I was determined to make no effort whatsoever to impress Miss Marion Taylor. I knew she would be expecting silver cutlery and a tablecloth, so I offered her the Clock Tower. Not the sort of place a schoolteacher likes to be seen. I can tell, just from those heels, that she’s the upwardly mobile type and she wants to drag my policeman up with her. She’ll have his future mapped out in kitchenettes, television sets and washing machines.

  But I am being unfair. I have to keep reminding myself that I should give her a chance. That my best tactic is to get her on side. If I can make her trust me, then it will be easier to keep seeing him. And why shouldn’t she trust me? After all, we both have my policeman’s best interests at heart. I’m sure she wants him to be happy. Just as I do.

  I don’t sound convincing, even to myself. The truth is, I’m a little afraid that her red hair and assured manner have turned his head. That she can offer him something I cannot. Security, for a start. Respectability (she has that in spades, although she may not be aware of it). And perhaps a promotion.

  She does look to be a worthy rival. I could see her steadfastness – or was it stubbornness? – in the way she waited for my policeman to hold the door of the café open for her, and the way she watched his face carefully whenever he spoke, as if trying to fathom his real meaning. Miss Taylor is a determined young woman, I’ve no doubt of that. And a very serious one.

  As we walked back to the museum, she held on to my policeman’s arm, steering him ahead.

  ‘Next Tuesday evening,’ I said to him, ‘as usual?’

  She gazed at him, her large mouth fixed in a straight line, as he said, ‘’Course.’

  I placed a hand on my policeman’s shoulder. ‘And I want you both to come to the opera with me in the new year. Carmen at Covent Garden. My treat.’

  He beamed. But Miss Taylor piped up: ‘We couldn’t possibly. It’s too much …’

  ‘Of course you can. Tell her she can.’

  With a nod in her direction, he said, ‘It’s all right, Marion. We can pay something towards it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ I turned my back on her and looked him in the face. ‘I’ll let you know the details Tuesday.’

  I said my farewells and headed down Bond Street, hoping she was noting the way I swung my arms.

  16th December 1957

  LAST NIGHT, VERY late, he came to the flat.

  ‘You did like her, didn’t you?’

  I was groggy from sleep and had stumbled from bed in just my pyjamas, still half dreaming of him, and there he was: tense-faced, damp-haired from the night. Standing on the doorstep. Asking for my opinion.

  ‘For God’s sake come in,’ I hissed. ‘You’ll wake the neighbours.’

  I led the way upstairs and into the sitting room. Switching on a table lamp I saw the time: a quarter to two in the morning.

  ‘Drink?’ I asked, gesturing towards the cabinet. ‘Or tea, perhaps?’

  He was standing on my rug just as he had when he first visited – upright, nervous – and he was staring directly at me with an intensity I hadn’t seen before.

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  Not this again,
I thought. The suspect-interrogator routine. ‘Rather late, isn’t it?’ I said, not caring if I sounded peevish.

  He said nothing. Waited.

  ‘Look. Why don’t we have a cup of tea? I’m not quite awake.’

  Without giving him time to argue, I fetched my dressing gown, then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  He followed me. ‘You didn’t like her.’

  ‘Go and sit down, won’t you? I need tea. Then we can talk.’

  ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘I will!’ I laughed and stepped towards him, but something in the way he was standing – so steady and straight, as if ready to spring – stopped me from touching him.

  ‘I just need a moment to gather my thoughts—’

  The kettle’s scream interrupted us and I busied myself with measuring, pouring and stirring, aware all the while of his refusal to move.

  ‘Let’s sit.’ I held out a cup.

  ‘I don’t want tea, Patrick …’

  ‘I was dreaming of you,’ I said. ‘If you want to know. And now here you are. It’s a little strange. And lovely. And it’s late. Please. Let’s just sit down.’

  He relented, and we sat at opposite ends of the chesterfield. Seeing him so twitchy and insistent, I knew what I had to do. And so I said: ‘She’s a super girl. And a lucky one.’

  Immediately his face brightened, his shoulders relaxed. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you didn’t, you know, take to her.’

  I sighed. ‘It’s not up to me, is it? It’s your decision …’

  ‘I’d hate to think the two of you couldn’t get along.’

  ‘We got along fine, didn’t we?’

  ‘She liked you. She told me. She thinks you’re a real gent.’

  ‘Does she.’

  ‘She meant it.’

  Perhaps due to the late hour, or perhaps in reaction to this declaration of Miss Taylor’s appreciation, I could hide my irritation no longer. ‘Look,’ I snapped, ‘I can’t stop you seeing her. I know that. But don’t expect it to change things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘The way things are with us.’

  We looked at each other for a long moment.

  Then he smiled. ‘Were you really dreaming of me?’

  After I gave my seal of approval, he rewarded me richly. For the first time, he came to my bed and he stayed the whole night.

  I’d almost forgotten the joy of waking up and, before you’ve even opened your eyes, knowing by the shape of the mattress beneath you, by the warmth of the sheets, that he’s still there.

  I awoke to the wonder of his shoulders. He has the most pleasing back. Strong from all that swimming, with a soft tuft of hair at the very bottom of his spine, like the beginnings of a tail. His chest and legs are covered in wiry blond fuzz. Last night I put my mouth to his stomach, took small bites at the hair there, was surprised by the toughness of it between my teeth.

  I watched the movement of his shoulders as he breathed, his skin lightening as the sun came through the curtains. When I touched his neck he awoke with a start, sat up and looked about the room.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said.

  ‘Christ,’ he replied.

  ‘Not quite,’ I smiled. ‘Just Patrick.’

  ‘Christ,’ he said again. ‘What time is it?’

  He swung his legs out of the bed, barely giving me time to appreciate the sculptural marvel that is the whole of him, naked, before stepping into his underpants and pulling on his trousers.

  ‘After eight, I should think.’

  ‘Christ!’ he said again, louder. ‘I’m supposed to start at six. Christ!’

  Whilst he hopped about, looking for various items of clothing that had been abandoned in the night, I pulled on a dressing gown. It was clear that all efforts at conversation, let alone a rekindling of intimacy, were useless.

  ‘Coffee?’ I offered, as he headed for the door.

  ‘I’ll get a bollocking for this.’

  I followed him into the sitting room, where he grabbed his overcoat.

  ‘Wait.’

  He stopped and looked at me, and I reached out and smoothed down a clump of his hair.

  ‘I’ve got to go—’

  I delayed him with a firm kiss on the mouth. Then I opened the door and checked no one was about. ‘Off you go, then,’ I whispered. ‘Be good. And don’t let anyone see you on the stairs.’

  Absolutely reckless, really, to let him leave at that hour. But I was in that state again. The state where anything seems possible. When he was gone, I put Quando me’n vo’ soletta per la via on the record-player. Turned the volume up to maximum. Waltzed around the flat, alone, until I was giddy. That’s what Mother says. I’ve gone all giddy. It’s a wonderful feeling.

  Luckily it was a quiet morning. I managed to spend most of it locked in my office, looking out of the window, remembering my policeman’s touches.

  That was quite enough to fill the hours until about two o’ clock, at which time I suddenly realised I had no idea when I would see him again. Perhaps, I thought, our one night together would be the last. Perhaps his rushing to work was just an excuse. A way to escape from my flat, from me, and from what had happened, as quickly as possible. I had to see him, if only for a minute. The whole thing, already dreamlike in its improbability, would crumble if I did not. I could not allow that to happen.

  So when Jackie came in to ask if I would like tea, I told her I was on my way to an urgent meeting and wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. ‘Shall I tell Mr Houghton?’ she asked, her mouth curling a little at one side.

  ‘No need,’ I said, pushing past her before she could ask anything else.

  Outside, the afternoon was crisp and cold. The intensity of the sun convinced me I had made the right decision. The pavilion glowed a rich cream. The fountains on the Steine glittered.

  Once in the fresh air, some of my urgency seemed to pass. I trotted along the seafront, welcoming the icy breeze on my face. Took in the glaring whiteness of the Regency terraces. Reflected for the umpteenth time how lucky I am to live in this town. Brighton is the very edge of England, and there’s a sense here that we’re almost somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far away from the hedged-in gloom of Surrey, the damp, sunken streets of Oxford. Things can happen here that would not elsewhere, even if they’re only fleeting. Here, not only can I touch my policeman, he can stay with me all night, his heavy thigh clamping mine to the mattress. The thought of it was so outrageous, so ludicrous and yet so real that I let out a laugh, right there on Marine Parade. A woman passing in the other direction smiled at me in the manner of someone humouring a maniac. Still chuckling, I turned up Burlington Street and headed to Bloomsbury Place.

  There was the police box, no bigger than a privy, the blue light weak in the sun. To my delight, there was no bicycle propped outside. A bicycle outside means a visit from the sergeant; he’s told me that. Still, I stopped and looked up and down the street. No one to be seen. In the distance, the soft crash of the sea. The frosted windows of the box gave nothing away. But I trusted he would be in there. Waiting for me.

  What an ideal location, I thought, for a tryst. Inside we’d be hidden, but we’d be in a public place. A police box offers both seclusion and excitement. Who could ask for more? Love in a police box. It could be one of those rather wonderful paperbacks that are available by mail order only.

  Giddy. And anything seemed possible.

  I knocked loudly at the door. DUM-de, went my heart. DUM-de. DUM-de. DUM-de.

  POLICE, said the sign. IN AN EMERGENCY, CALL FROM HERE.

  This did feel something like an emergency.

  As soon as the door opened, I said, ‘Forgive me,’ and had a fancy I was like a Catholic boy begging for a confession.

  There was a pause as he registered what was happening. Then, first checking the coast was clear, he grabbed my lapel and pulled me inside, slamming the door closed.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he hissed.

  I brushed myself down. ‘I know, I know …’

  ‘Isn’t it enough that I get a bollocking for being late? Do you have to make things worse?’ He puffed out his cheeks, held his forehead.

  I apologised, kept smiling. Giving him time to get over the shock of seeing me, I looked around the place. It was pretty gloomy in there, but there was an electric heater in the corner, and on the shelf was a sandwich box and a Thermos flask. I suddenly pictured his mother cutting him triangles of meat-paste-filled white bread and felt a new rush of love for him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m on duty.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘so am I. Well, I’m supposed to be. I crept out of the office.’

  ‘That’s completely different. You can break the rules. I can’t.’ As he said this, he hung his head a little, like a sulky boy.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I reached out to touch his arm, but he moved away.

  There was a pause. ‘I came to give you these.’ I held out a set of keys to my flat. I keep spares in the office. An impulse. An excuse. A way to win him over. ‘So you can come by whenever you like. Even if I’m not there.’

  He looked at the keys but made no move to take them. So I placed them on the shelf, next to his flask. ‘I’ll go then,’ I sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.’ But instead of turning for the door, I caught hold of the top button of his jacket. I kept a tight grip on it, feeling its coolness between my fingertips. I didn’t undo it. I just held on until it warmed in my hand.

  ‘It’s just,’ I said, moving down to the next button and holding it fast, ‘I can’t seem to …’

  He didn’t flinch, or make a sound, so I moved down to the next button: ‘… stop thinking …’

  Next button: ‘… about your beauty.’

  His breath quickened as I worked my way down, and as I reached the final button, his hand caught my own. Gently he guided two of my fingers into his open mouth. His lips so hot on that cold day. He sucked and sucked, making me gasp. He is greedy for me, I know it. Just as greedy as I am for him.