My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  Tom finally came to a halt, having made a full circuit of the room, and stood in front of the blind with his arms crossed.

  ‘It’s about Patrick,’ I said.

  He let out a little groan. ‘Marion,’ he said. ‘It’s very late …’

  ‘He asked for you. The other day. He said your name.’

  Tom looked at the beige carpet. ‘No. He didn’t.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘He did not say my name.’

  ‘I heard him, Tom. He called for you.’

  Tom let out a breath, shook his head. ‘He’s had two major strokes, Marion. The doctor told us it’s only a matter of time before there’ll be another one. The man can’t talk. He’ll never talk again. You’re imagining things.’

  ‘There’s been a real improvement,’ I said, aware that I was exaggerating. After all, there’s been no word from you since the day you uttered Tom’s name. ‘He just needs encouragement. He needs encouragement from you.’

  ‘He’s nearly eighty years old.’

  ‘He’s seventy-six.’

  Tom looked me in the face then. ‘We’ve been through all this. I don’t know why you brought him here in the first place. I don’t know what weird scheme you have in mind.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘If you want to play nursemaid, fine. But don’t expect me to be part of it.’

  ‘He has no one,’ I said.

  There was a long silence. Tom uncrossed his arms and drew a hand across his tired face. ‘I’m going to bed now,’ he said, quietly.

  But I blundered on. ‘He’s in pain,’ I said, my voice wheedling now. ‘He needs you.’

  Tom stopped at the door and looked back at me, his eyes glowing with anger. ‘He needed me years ago, Marion,’ he said. And he let himself out of the room.

  Early summer 1958. It was already hot; at school, the smell of warm milk became overpowering, and the children’s nap time was a lovely, drowsy affair, even for me. So when Julia proposed we take both our classes on a nature trip to Woodingdean, I jumped at the chance. The head agreed to a Friday afternoon. We were to take the bus and then walk to Castle Hill. Like most of the children, I’d never been there, and the thought of a break from the usual school routine was just as exciting to me as it was to them. We spent the whole week drawing pictures of the plants and wildlife we expected to see – hares, larks, gorse – and I got all the children to learn how to spell the words bugle, orchid and primrose. I have to admit, Patrick, that this was largely inspired by the things you’d pointed out to Tom and me, on our Isle of Wight walks.

  We left school at about eleven thirty, the children clutching their packets of sandwiches, walking in a crocodile with Julia at the front and me at the back. It was a glorious day, windy but warm, and all the blowsy horse chestnuts held their candles out to us as the bus made its way over the racecourse towards Woodingdean. Milly Oliver, the quiet, rather scrawny girl with the masses of black curls from whom I’d found it hard to look away on my first day, was sick before we’d even reached the downs. Bobby Blakemore, the boy with the boot-mark hair, sat at the back of the bus and stuck out his tongue at passing cars. Alice Rumbold talked loudly all the way of the new motorbike her brother had bought, despite Julia shushing her several times. But most of the children were quiet with anticipation, looking out of the windows as we left the town behind and the hills and sea came into view.

  We all got off at a stop on the outskirts of the village and Julia led the way over the downs. She was so energetic, always. At the time I found her boundless energy a little intimidating, but these days I rather long for it. She’d have you bathed in a jiffy, Patrick. On that day she wore twill trousers, a light pullover and sturdy shoes, but a string of bright orange beads swung from her neck and a large pair of tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses were balanced on her nose. A gaggle of children followed her, and she took every opportunity she could to touch them, I noticed. She’d pat them on the shoulder, steer them in the direction she wanted by placing a hand flat on their back, or kneel down so she was level with them, holding their elbows as she spoke. I vowed to be more like her in my approach. I rarely allowed myself to touch a child, but unlike some of the other teachers, I did not hit the children as a matter of course, and as my career progressed I felt little need of such punishments. I do remember having to give Alice Rumbold the ruler early on. She stared me in the face as I brought the wood down on her palm, her eyes steady and black; I nearly dropped my weapon, my hand was shaking so much. My own timidity, the sweatiness of my fumbling fingers and the intensity of Alice’s stare actually made me hit her open hand harder than I ought, and for many weeks afterwards I regretted having done it at all.

  It was a relief to drop down out of the wind and look over the deep valley. Although I’d lived in Brighton all my life, I’d never fully realised such a landscape surrounded my home town. The hills were bald of trees, but this seemed only to enhance the beauty of their curves, and their colours – everything from purplish brown to grasshopper green – sang out in the clear air. The larks were calling insistently above, just as they’d done on the Isle of Wight, and buttercups dotted the grass. We could see right down to the sea, which sent out white sparks. I stopped and stared, letting the sun warm my bare arms. I hadn’t anticipated the strength of the wind up here, and had hung my cardigan on the back of my chair in the classroom, leaving only my pink blouse to protect me now.

  Julia told the children they could start their lunch, and the two of us sat at the back of the group, a little apart, watching over them. Clumps of gorse, thick and prickled, surrounded us, giving off a coconutty scent that lent the whole scene something of a holiday feel.

  When I’d finished my own egg and cress sandwiches, Julia offered me one of hers. ‘Go on,’ she said, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. ‘They’re smoked salmon. A friend gets it for me on the cheap.’

  I wasn’t sure if I liked smoked salmon, never having tried it before, but I took a sandwich and bit into it. The flavour was intense: salty, like the sea, but with an oily mellowness. I loved it immediately.

  Bobby Blakemore stood up and I commanded him to sit back down until everyone had finished their lunch. To my surprise, he obeyed instantly.

  ‘You’re getting good at this,’ murmured Julia with a chuckle, and I felt myself blush with pleasure.

  ‘So. You haven’t told me about your honeymoon,’ she said. ‘Isle of Wight, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was – well …’ a nervous laugh escaped me. ‘It was lovely.’

  Julia raised her eyebrows and studied my face with such interest that I had no choice but to go on. ‘We stayed in a cottage that belongs to Tom’s friend Patrick. He was best man at the wedding.’

  ‘I remember.’ Julia paused to bite and chew her apple. ‘That was generous of him, wasn’t it?’

  I looked at my nails. I hadn’t told anyone that you’d joined us, not even my parents, and certainly not Sylvie.

  ‘So you had a good time?’

  There was something about the day, the warm clarity of it, that made confession irresistible. And so I said, ‘Well, yes, Tom and I had a lovely time. He came too, though.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tom’s friend. Patrick. Just for the last few days.’ I took another bite of the sandwich and looked away from Julia. As soon as the words were out, I realised how dreadful they sounded. Who would endure any sort of threesome on their honeymoon? Only a damned fool.

  ‘I see.’ Julia finished her apple and threw the core into the gorse. ‘Did you mind?’

  I found myself unable to tell the truth. ‘Not really. He’s a good friend. To both of us.’

  Julia nodded.

  ‘He’s an interesting man, actually,’ I stumbled on. ‘He’s a curator at the museum. Always taking us to shows and concerts, paying for everything.’

  Julia smiled. ‘I liked him. He’s comme ça, isn’t he?’

  I had no idea what she meant. She was looking at me rather hopefull
y, a little glint in her eyes, and I wanted to understand her meaning, but I could not.

  Seeing my confusion, she leant towards me and said, in a voice I thought not nearly low enough, ‘He’s homosexual, isn’t he?’

  Smoked salmon turned to rancid oil in my mouth. I could hardly believe that she’d uttered the word with such carelessness, as if she were enquiring after your star sign, or shoe size.

  She must have sensed my panic, because she added, ‘I mean – I thought he might be. When I met him. But maybe I’m wrong?’

  I tried to swallow, but my stomach was protesting and my mouth had turned dry.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Julia, placing a hand on my arm, just as she did when she knelt beside a child. ‘I’ve shocked you.’

  I managed to laugh. ‘No, really …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Marion. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Bobby Blakemore stood up once again, and I barked at him to sit down. The boy looked at me, astounded, and sank to his knees.

  Julia still had a hand on my arm, and I heard her say, ‘I’m such a bloody idiot – always blundering in. It’s just I thought perhaps … well, I assumed …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, standing up. ‘We should get going, or the afternoon will be lost.’ I clapped my hands together and ordered the children to stand.

  Julia nodded, perhaps a little relieved, and took the lead, guiding the children down the hill, pointing out birds and plants as she went, naming them all. But I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at anything save my own feet, moving heavily through the grass.

  I can’t say, Patrick, that I hadn’t thought about it before. But up until that moment on Castle Hill, no one had spoken the word aloud to me, and I’d done my level best to press it right down in my brain and keep it in a place where it could never be fully examined. How could I begin to admit such a thing? At the time, such a thing was non-admissible. I hadn’t the first idea about gay life, as I would call it now. All I knew were the headlines in the papers – the Montagu case was the most famous, but there were often smaller stories in the Argus, usually on page ten, sandwiched between the divorces and the traffic-law violations. ‘Headmaster charged with gross indecency’, or ‘Businessman committed unnatural acts’. I barely looked at them. They were so regular that they seemed almost ordinary; they were something you expected to see in every newspaper, along with the weather report and the radio listings.

  Looking back now, and writing this, it’s obvious to me that I’d known, on some level, all along – perhaps from when Sylvie had told me that Tom wasn’t like that, and certainly from the moment I witnessed the two of you standing together outside Osborne House. But at the time it didn’t seem obvious – or, at least, admissible – at all, and I find it’s impossible, now, to pinpoint the exact moment when I allowed the full picture to dawn on me. But the incident on Castle Hill was certainly a turning point. From then on, I could no longer avoid thinking about you, and therefore thinking about Tom, in this new way. The word had been uttered, and there was no going back.

  By the time I returned home – we’d moved into a two-up, two-down terrace on Islingword Street, not a police house as we’d hoped, but one that had become available through the influence of one of Tom’s colleagues on the force – I was determined to say something to my husband. Consciously, I told myself that all I was doing was giving him the chance to deny it. The matter would be cleared up quickly, and we would carry on with our lives.

  I could only get as far as the words with which I’d begin: ‘Julia said something awful today about Patrick.’ Beyond that, I had no idea what I would say, or how far I could venture. I couldn’t see past that first phrase, and I kept silently repeating it as I walked home, trying to convince myself that these were words that would actually come out of my mouth, no matter where they led.

  Tom was on early shifts that week, and so was home before me. I had hoped that he wouldn’t be there, giving me time to get myself settled in the house and prepare in some way for the scene that was to come. But as soon as I stepped over the threshold, I smelled soap. The house did have a bathroom upstairs and a toilet at the end of the hall, but Tom liked to strip down and wash at the kitchen sink after work. He’d fill the sink, put the kettle on, and by the time he’d scrubbed his face and neck and soaped his armpits, the water had boiled and he was ready for his cup of tea. I’d never discouraged him in this habit; in fact, I’d always enjoyed watching him wash himself in this way.

  I came into the kitchen, put down my basket of books and saw his naked back. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I still hadn’t become used to the sight of my husband’s flesh, and instead of coming straight out with it, I stopped to admire him, taking in the movement of muscled shoulder as he rubbed at his neck with a towel. The kettle was whistling, filling the small room with steam, and I took it off the ring.

  Tom turned around. ‘You’re early today,’ he said, smiling. ‘How was the nature ramble?’

  Despite your enthusiasm for walking, Tom was always more at home in the water, and regarded rambling as a bit of a waste of time. To him, walking wasn’t quite proper exercise – not enough exertion, not enough risk. Now, of course, he spends many hours on the downs with Walter, but back then I never knew him to take a walk without having a definite destination in mind.

  ‘Fine,’ I answered, turning my back to him and busying myself with preparing the tea. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. The sight of him – glorious in the afternoon light coming through our small kitchen window – had scrambled my brain. It would be so much easier, I thought, to say nothing. I could just press down that word of Julia’s into the place in my mind where I stored Sylvie’s comments and the image of you and Tom outside Osborne House. Here was my husband, the man I’d wanted for so long, standing half-naked before me in our kitchen. I could not drag such words into our lives.

  Tom patted me on the arm. ‘I’ll put a clean shirt on, then we’ll have a cup.’

  I took the tea into our front room and placed it on the table before the window, where we sat to eat our meals. We’d inherited a cloth from Tom’s mother – it was mustard-coloured, made of thick velour, and I hated it. It made me think of old people’s homes and funeral parlours. It was the perfect tablecloth on which to place an ugly plant, such as an aspidistra. I put my teacup down heavily, willing it to spill and stain the fabric. Then I sat and waited for Tom, looking about the room, my mind skipping from one thought to another. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I had to say it. I stared at the lino, picturing the silverfish that I knew lurked beneath, metallic and wriggling. Our bedroom, which faced the street, was light and airy, with two large windows and paint instead of wallpaper, but this room was still gloomy and rather damp. I’d have to do something about it, I thought. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I could buy a new lamp from one of the junk shops on Tidy Street. I could risk getting rid of this bloody tablecloth. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I should have said it as soon I stepped through the door. I shouldn’t have given myself time to think. Julia said something awful today about Patrick.

  Tom came back and sat opposite me. He poured himself a cup of tea and took a long drink. Once finished, he poured another cup and drank greedily again. I watched his throat contract and his eyes close as he swallowed, and I was suddenly struck by the fact that I’d never seen Tom’s face when we made love. We’d fallen into a kind of pattern by this time, and every other Saturday night things were, I told myself, a little better. I’d even begun to look, every month, for signs of pregnancy, and if my period was even a day late, I felt light-headed with excitement. But Tom always turned the light off, and his head was usually buried in my shoulder anyway, making it impossible for me to see his expression at our most intimate moments.

  I held on to the anger that I felt rising in me at this injustice. Just as Tom was reaching for a biscuit, I let the words come out of my mouth.

/>   ‘Julia said something about Patrick today.’

  I hadn’t managed to say awful. It was very like my first day at St Luke’s, when my voice seemed completely detached from my body; there must have been a tremor in it, because Tom put down his biscuit and studied my face. I blinked back at him, trying to hold my nerve, and he asked, very evenly, ‘Does she know him, then?’

  He was so calm, Patrick. This wasn’t the response I’d anticipated, as far as I’d anticipated anything at all. I’d imagined, vaguely, immediate denials, or at least defensiveness, on Tom’s part. Instead he took up a spoon and began stirring his tea, waiting for my reply.

  ‘She met him. At our wedding.’

  Tom nodded. ‘So she doesn’t know him.’

  I couldn’t disagree with this statement. It was as if he’d batted me, gently but firmly, to the side. Not knowing how to proceed, I stared out of the window at the street. If I looked away from my husband I might be able to keep hold of my anger. I might even be able to unleash that redhead temper. The struggle I wanted might come my way.

  After a moment, Tom let his teaspoon clatter in his saucer and asked, ‘So what did she say?’

  Still looking out of the window, raising my voice a little, I said: ‘That he was – comme ça.’

  Tom let out a little snort of derision, a sound I’d never heard him make before. It was the sort of sound you might have made, Patrick, at some particularly imbecilic comment. But when I looked at my husband’s face, I saw again the expression he’d worn at the top of the helter-skelter: his cheeks had paled, his mouth was skewed, and his wide eyes were fixed on mine. For a second, he looked so weak that I wished I’d said nothing; I wanted to reach out and take his hand and tell him it was just a silly joke, or some kind of mistake. But then he swallowed and, all at once, seemed to pull his features back into line. Standing up, he demanded, in a loud and steady tone, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know,’ I said.

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  We held each other’s gaze. I felt as though I were a suspect facing a cross-examination. I knew that Tom had been present at a few of those lately.