The girl in the booth – black pigtails and pale pink lipstick – took our money and handed us a couple of mats. ‘One at a time,’ she ordered. ‘No sharing mats.’
It was a relief to get inside the wooden tower, out of the wind. Tom followed me up the stairs. Every ten or so steps, we caught a glimpse of the grey sky outside. The further we ascended, the louder the wind howled. Halfway to the top, something made me stop and say, ‘Hang her. We can share a mat. We’re newly-weds.’ And I threw mine down the stairs. It landed with a whump, having narrowly missed Tom’s startled face. He laughed nervously. ‘Will there be room?’ he asked, but I ignored him and ran the rest of the way to the top without stopping. The floorboards of the narrow platform thrummed in the wind. I took in great gulps of salty air. From there, I could see the lights coming on in all the rooms of the Ship Hotel, and I thought again of our bed with its thick cover and its sheets ironed to perfect slipperiness.
‘Hurry up,’ I called. ‘I can’t get down without you.’
When he emerged, he looked very pale, and before I could think about it, I stepped forward, grasped his face between my hands and kissed his cold mouth. It was a brief kiss, but his lips didn’t stiffen, and afterwards, as if catching his breath, he leant his head on my shoulder. He was shaking a little, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At last. He had responded to me.
Then he said, ‘Marion. You’ll think I’m a coward, but I don’t like heights very much.’
I looked out over the churning sea and tried to take in this information. Tom Burgess, sea-swimmer and policeman, was afraid because he was standing at the top of a helter-skelter. Up until that moment, he’d seemed wholly capable, unflappable, even. And now here was this weakness. And here was my chance to tend to him. I held him close, smelling the newness of his suit, and was surprised by the warmth of him, even in this cold, exposed spot. I could have suggested we walk back down the steps, but I knew his pride would be wounded, and I also did not want to forfeit my chance of sharing a mat with my new husband, the two of us clinging to each other as we rushed down the slide. ‘We’d better go down, then, hadn’t we?’ I said. ‘I’ll get on first, and you sit behind.’
He was holding on to the rail, his eyes fixed on my face, and I knew I had only to suggest an action for him to perform it; if I just kept talking in my best soothing-but-firm schoolteacher’s voice, he would do anything I asked. Nodding dumbly, he watched as I sat on the prickly mat. ‘Come on,’ I instructed. ‘We’ll be down in no time.’
He sat behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I leant into him, feeling his belt buckle against the small of my back. The wind blew about us, and at least a hundred feet below, the sea foamed.
‘Ready?’
His thighs were squeezing the breath out of me. I heard a grunt, took it for a ‘yes’, and pushed us off as strongly as I could. As soon as we moved, Tom gripped me tighter. We gathered speed around the first bend, and on the next we were going so fast that even I thought we might crash through the side and sail out over the water. Blaring music, coming from the pier’s tannoy, warped and waved as we went, and the greyness of the day became a sudden blast of refreshing air, a thrilling glimpse of the waves below. For a moment, it seemed as if there were nothing between us and the deep, save for a square of raffia mat. I screamed in delight, Tom’s clinging thighs forcing my squeals to a higher pitch, and it wasn’t until we were nearly at the bottom that I realised it wasn’t just me making a noise; Tom was wailing, too.
We overshot the end of the slide by quite some distance and crashed into the fence surrounding the mats. Our limbs were tangled in all sorts of impossible ways, but Tom was still gripping me around the waist. I began to laugh wildly, my wet cheek touching his, his breath heavy on my neck. At that moment, everything in me relaxed, and I thought – it’s going to be all right. Tom needs me. We are married and it’s going to be just fine.
Tom disentangled his body from mine and brushed his suit down.
‘Shall we do it again?’ I asked, jumping up.
He rubbed at his face. ‘God, no …’ he groaned. ‘Please don’t make me.’
‘I’m your wife. It’s our honeymoon. And I want to go again,’ I said, laughing and tugging at his hand. His fingers, I noticed, were slippery with sweat.
‘Can’t we just go for a cup of tea?’
‘Certainly not.’
Tom eyed me uncertainly, not sure if I was joking. ‘Why don’t you go again, and I’ll watch,’ he suggested, fetching the umbrella from the stand at the side of the booth.
‘But it’s no fun without you,’ I pouted.
I was enjoying this new feeling of careless flirtation, but again Tom seemed unsure how to react.
After a pause, he said, ‘As your husband, I am commanding you to come back to the hotel with me.’ And he slipped an arm around my waist.
We kissed once, very softly, and without a word I let him lead me back to the Ship.
All through dinner I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing at the slightest thing. Perhaps it was the relief of the wedding being over, perhaps it was the excitement of the helter-skelter, perhaps it was the anticipation of what was to come. Whatever it was, I had a breathless feeling of rushing towards something, headlong, unheeding.
Tom grinned, nodded, responded with a chuckle when I completed a long monologue about why the hotel was very like an old ship (the creaking floors, the flapping doors, the wind battering the windows, the staff looking a little seasick), but I got the impression he was simply waiting for this slightly hysterical mood to pass. I rushed on regardless, eating hardly a thing, drinking too much Burgundy, and laughing openly at the waiter’s waddling gait.
In our room, Tom switched on the bedside lamps and hung up his jacket whilst I collapsed on the bed, giggling. He’d ordered two glasses of Scotch to be brought up to us; when the boy appeared at the door with a small tray, Tom thanked him in the poshest voice I’d ever heard him use (he must have learned it from you), and I giggled all the more.
He sat on the edge of the bed, drank back his whisky, and said, ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘I suppose I must be happy,’ I replied, gulping down a burning swig of Scotch.
‘That’s good,’ he said. And then: ‘Shall we get ready for bed? It’s late.’ I liked the first half of that sentence: he’d used the word bed; but I didn’t much care for the second, with its tone of practicality, its suggestion of sleep. ‘Do you want to use the bathroom?’ he continued.
He was still using the quiet, drawn-out, slightly upper-class tone he’d tried out on the boy at the door. I sat fully upright, my head swimming a little. No, I wanted to say. No, I don’t want to use the bathroom. I want you to undress me, here on the bed. I want you to unzip my skirt, unhook my new lacy bra, and gasp at the beauty of my naked breasts.
Of course I said nothing of the kind. Instead, I went into the bathroom, slammed the door, sat on the edge of the tub and suppressed the urge to giggle. I took several deep breaths. Was Tom undressing on the other side of the door? Should I surprise him by bursting into the room wearing only my slip? I looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were blotchy and the wine had stained my lips brown. Did I look different now I was married? Would I look different in the morning?
When we’d first arrived at the hotel I’d unpacked my new apricot rayon nightdress and hung it on the back of the bathroom door, hoping Tom would spot it and be tantalised by the sight of its plunging neckline, the long split up one side. Leaving my skirt and twinset in a heap on the floor, I now pulled the nightdress over my head and combed my hair until it crackled. Then I brushed my teeth and opened the door.
The bedroom was dim. Tom had turned off all the lights, apart from the lamp on his side of the bed. Between the sheets and the pillow, his pyjama-jacketed shoulders lay straight and still. His eyes followed me as I approached the bed, pulled back the sheet and climbed in beside him. By this point, my heart was clattering about in my chest, and the urge to laugh
had left me completely. What would I do if he merely switched off the light, said good night and turned his back to me? What, Patrick, could I possibly have done about that? As we lay there, not moving, my teeth began to chatter. I could not be the one to touch him first. We were finally married, but I had no right, I felt, to make any demands. As far as I knew, physical demands could not be made by wives. Women who pleaded for sexual contact were abhorrent, unnatural.
‘You look nice,’ said Tom, and I turned to smile at him, but he’d already turned off the light. My body stiffened. So that was it, then. Sleep was all that lay ahead. There was the longest silence. Then his hand brushed my cheek. ‘All right?’ he asked, softly, and I had no answer.
‘Marion? Are you all right?’ I nodded, and he must have felt the movement, because his big body shifted towards mine, and then his lips were on my mouth. Such warm lips. I wanted to lose myself then. I wanted that kiss to transport me, as the novels I’d read suggested it would. And it did, a little; I opened my mouth to let more of Tom in. Then he began to tug at my nightdress, pulling great handfuls of it up around my waist. I tried to move to make it easier for him, but it was difficult to do so when his other hand was on my hip, pinning me to the bed. My breath quickened; I stroked his face. ‘Oh Tom,’ I whispered, and saying it made me feel as though this was actually happening to me, here and now, in this pristine bed in the Old Ship Hotel. My new husband was making love to me. Tom planted his elbows on either side of my shoulders and heaved his whole body on to mine. I placed my hands on the small of his back and realised he’d taken off his pyjama bottoms. I let my hands stray to his buttocks, which were smoother than I could ever have imagined. He took a few lunges towards me. I knew he was nowhere near the target, but could say nothing. For one thing, I was holding my breath. For another, I didn’t want to spoil things by uttering something inappropriate.
After a while, he paused, panting slightly, and said, ‘Do you think you could – open your legs a bit more?’
I did as I was asked, thankful to shift down beneath him and wrap my thighs about his hips. He made no sound as he managed to enter me. What I felt was a sharp pain, but I told myself this would pass. We were there now. Ecstasy couldn’t be far away.
And it was wonderful, holding on to Tom as he moved in me, feeling his sweat on my fingers, his breath hot at my neck. Just the unbelievable closeness of him had a wonder about it.
But Patrick, I knew even then – although I doubt I admitted this to myself at the time – that the delicacy with which he’d held me during our swimming lessons was absent. As he made his thrusts, I found myself picturing that scene once again, imagining how I’d gone under and Tom had found me, how he’d held me at the waist as I’d floated in the salty water, how he’d carried me back to shore.
Suddenly Tom held his breath, made one last thrust that caused me almost to moan in pain, then collapsed by my side.
I stroked his hair. When he’d got his breath back he said, very quietly, ‘Was that all right?’ but I couldn’t reply because by then I was weeping, using my every muscle to do it silently and without moving. It was the relief of it all, and the wonder of it, and the disappointment. So I pretended not to have heard his question, and he kissed my hand, turned over and went to sleep.
I tell you all this, Patrick, so you’ll know how it was between me and Tom. So you’ll know there was tenderness, as well as pain. So you’ll know how we failed, both of us, but also how we both tried.
WE’RE TIRED TODAY. I was up most of the night writing, and now, at eleven thirty in the morning, I’ve only just sat down with a coffee after bathing and dressing you, giving you breakfast and moving your body so you can look out of the window, although I know you’ll be asleep again within the hour. It’s stopped raining but the wind is up and I’ve turned the heating on, giving the house a dry, dusty smell that I find quite comforting.
I wonder how much longer we have, if I’m honest, to get through this story. And I wonder how much time I have to persuade Tom to talk to you. Last night he didn’t sleep well either – I heard him get up at least three times. It won’t surprise you to know we’ve had separate rooms for many years now. During the day he goes out, and I don’t ask him where he spends his hours any more. I stopped asking at least twenty years ago, after I received the answer I’d known was coming. Tom was on his way to work, I remember, and was wearing his security guard’s uniform. It was very shiny, that uniform – all silver buttons and epaulettes and a big belt buckle at the waist. A poor imitation of a policeman’s uniform, but Tom looked striking in it, nevertheless. He was on night shifts at the time. On my enquiry about how he spent the day whilst I was at work, he looked me in the face and said, ‘I meet strangers. Sometimes we have a drink. Sometimes we have sex. That’s what I do, Marion. Please don’t ask me about it again.’
On hearing that, there was a part of me that was relieved, because I knew I hadn’t totally destroyed my husband.
Perhaps he still meets strangers. I don’t know. I know that on most days he takes Walter for lengthy walks across the downs. I used to volunteer at the local primary on Tuesdays, helping the little ones with their reading, and Tom would stay indoors on that day. But since you came, I’ve told the school I’m no longer available, and so Tom goes wandering every day of the week. He is a busy man. He has always been good at being busy. He swims every morning, even now. No more than fifteen minutes, but still he drives down to Telscombe Cliffs and enters the icy water. I don’t need to tell you, Patrick, that for a man of sixty-three, he is remarkably fit. He never let himself go. He keeps a close eye on his weight, hardly ever takes a drink, swims, walks the dog, and watches documentaries in the evening. Anything involving real-life crime interests him, which always surprises me, considering what happened. And he talks to no one. Least of all to me.
You see, the truth is he didn’t want you to come here. It was my idea. In fact, I insisted. You’ll find it hard to believe, but in over forty years of marriage, I’ve never insisted on anything like I insisted on this.
Every morning I hope my husband won’t leave the house. But since the morning when I tried to have you sit at what Nurse Pamela calls the ‘family table’, Tom doesn’t even breakfast with us. I used to find his absence something of a relief, after everything we’d been through, but now I want him here by my side. And I want him by your side, too. I hope that he will join us in your room, if only for a little while. I hope that he will come and at least look at you – really look at you – and see what I can see: that despite everything, you still love him. I hope this will break his silence.
Instead of four days in Weymouth, you offered us the use of your cottage on the Isle of Wight over half-term.
Although I had my misgivings, I was so desperate to escape from the separate-beds arrangement at Tom’s parents’ house, into which we’d moved while we were waiting for a police house, that I agreed. (There wasn’t the space, Tom said, for a double bed in his room, so I’d ended up in Sylvie’s old room.) Tom and I would have four nights to ourselves, and you’d join us for the final three, in order to ‘show us around the place’. It would mean a whole week away, and for most of that time I’d be alone with Tom. So I agreed.
The cottage was not at all what I’d imagined. When you’d said cottage, I’d presumed you were being modest, and that what you really meant was ‘small mansion’, or, at the very least, ‘well-appointed seaside villa’.
But no. Cottage was a more than accurate description. It was situated down a gloomy narrow lane in Bonchurch, not far from the sea, but not near enough to afford a view of the coast. The whole place was dank and close-feeling. There were two bedrooms, the double with a sloping ceiling and a sagging bed. At the front was an overgrown garden, and out the back, a privy. There was a tiny kitchen with no electricity, but the cottage did stretch to gas. Every window was small and rather grubby.
As we walked down that lane, the fruity stink of wild garlic was overwhelming. Even inside the cottage,
with its mingled odours of damp rugs and gas, I could smell the stuff. I wondered how anyone could bring themselves to eat such a foul-smelling substance. To me it smacked of nothing so much as overripe sweat. I’m quite fond of garlic now, but back then, just walking along that lane with its banks of green tongues and white flowers, the heat and the smell rising, almost made me gag.
Still, it was a sunny week, and during our days alone, Tom and I indulged in all the usual holidaymaker activities. We walked along Blackgang Chine, saw a Punch and Judy show at Ventnor (Tom laughed very hard when the policeman appeared), visited the model village at Godshill. Tom bought me a coral necklace, the colour of peaches and cream. Each morning he cooked us bacon and eggs, and whilst I ate he would suggest a plan for the day, to which I always agreed. At night I was glad of the sagging bed – it rolled the two of us together, so we had to sleep very close. I spent many hours awake, enjoying the way my body would lock helplessly against his, my stomach filling the hollow of his back, my breasts squashed against his shoulders. Sometimes I blew softly on the back of his neck to wake him. We managed a repeat performance of our wedding night on the evening we arrived, and I remember there was less pain, but it was over very quickly. Still, I felt we could improve. I thought that if I could find a way to encourage Tom, to guide him without instructing him, then perhaps our bedroom activities would become more agreeable. It was early on in our marriage, after all, and hadn’t Tom told me, that night at your flat, that he’d had very little experience?
And then you arrived. I almost laughed when I saw you drive up in your green Fiat sports car, from which you jumped and collected your matching luggage. You wore a light brown suit with a red cravat tied loosely about your neck, and you looked like the perfect English gent on his spring break. As I watched from the bedroom window, I noticed your slight frown dissolve into a smile when Tom came down the path to meet you.
My Policeman Page 18