My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  ‘Tell me, Marion. What does it mean?’

  The coldness in Tom’s voice made my hands shake, my jaw clench. I saw it all slipping away, everything I had: my husband, my home, my chance of a family. I knew he could take it all away from me in an instant.

  ‘What does it mean, Marion?’

  Fixing my eyes on the hateful mustard tablecloth, I managed to say, ‘That he’s a – a sexual invert.’

  I braced myself for an explosion, for Tom to throw his cup against the wall, or upturn the table. Instead, he laughed. Not one of his big Tom-laughs. This was more a tired sound, like someone letting out long-pent-up bitterness. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Completely ridiculous.’

  I didn’t look up.

  ‘She doesn’t even know him. How could she say something like that?’

  I had no answer.

  ‘If you want sexual inverts, as you call them, I’ll show you some, Marion. They’re brought into the station every week. They wear stuff – rouge and that – on their faces. And jewellery. It’s pathetic. And they have this walk. You can tell one a mile off. Vice squad haul the same ones in over and over. The new chief wants us to clean the streets of their type. He’s always on about it. Vice catch them in the gents at Plummer Rodis, did you know that?’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I get the picture …’

  But Tom was in full flow now, and he warmed to his subject. ‘Patrick isn’t one of them, is he? A mincer with a limp wrist. That’s not him, is it?’ He laughed again, softer this time. ‘He’s got a respectable job. Do you think he’d be where he is now if he was – what you said? And he’s been bloody good to us. Look how he helped with the wedding.’

  It was true that you’d paid for Tom’s suit.

  ‘I think you need to put this friend of yours straight. She could cause a lot of trouble, saying things like that.’

  Not wanting to hear another word of his smooth policeman’s voice, I stood to clear away the crockery. But when I carried the tray into the kitchen, Tom was right behind me.

  ‘Marion,’ he insisted, ‘you do know how ridiculous what she said is, don’t you?’

  I ignored him, putting the cups in the sink, reaching for the bacon from the fridge.

  ‘Marion? I want you to promise me you’ll put her straight.’

  At that moment I was very close to throwing something. To slamming the fridge door and yelling at him to stop. To informing him that I could turn a blind eye, but I would not, under any circumstances, be patronised.

  Then Tom put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. At his touch, I let out a breath. He kissed the back of my head.

  ‘Do you promise?’ His voice was gentle, and he turned me towards him and touched my cheek. All the fight left me, and I felt only exhaustion. I could see it in his face, too: a weariness around the eyes.

  I nodded my agreement. And although he smiled and said, ‘Are we having chips? Chips are my favourite. Especially yours,’ I knew we’d say nothing more to each other all evening. I did not anticipate, however, the fierceness with which Tom would make love to me that night. I still remember it. It was the only time he undressed me. He pulled my skirt to the floor with one hand and pushed me on to the bed. There was some new intent in his body. It felt, Patrick, as though he meant it. It made me forget Julia’s words, if only for that night, and afterwards I slept deeply on Tom’s chest, dreaming of nothing.

  Weeks went by. In July, Tom announced that he’d arranged to spend every other Saturday afternoon as well as every Tuesday evening with you, as you were still finishing his portrait. I didn’t protest. Some Thursdays you came to our house, always bringing wine and talking jovially about the latest plays and films. One evening, over my rather tough steak pie, you said you’d finally persuaded your boss to agree to a series of art-appreciation afternoons for children at the museum, and would my class like to be the first to benefit? I said yes. Mostly it was to please Tom, to convince him that I’d forgotten Julia’s utterance, but it was also, I think, to give myself the opportunity to see you alone. I knew I couldn’t possibly discuss matters with you, but, without Tom there, I could perhaps weigh you up for myself.

  The afternoon of the visit was sunny, and on the bus into town I regretted agreeing to your plan. It was nearing the end of term; the children were tired and fractious in the heat, and I was nervous about displaying my teaching skills in front of you, worrying that Bobby Blakemore or Alice Rumbold would defy me in your presence, or Milly Oliver would take it upon herself to disappear, prompting a search of the entire museum.

  But once I stepped inside, out of the glare of the street, it was something of a relief to be in that dim, cool place, the hush of it quietening the children’s row. It felt very different this time: not as forbidding or hidden as it had once been, perhaps because I was now determined to assert my right to be there. The beautiful mosaic floor swirled before me, and everywhere I looked there were scalloped edges and wooden embellishments – around the windows, framing the doors – in the shape of little turrets, echoing the pavilion outside.

  The children also stopped and stared, but we didn’t have long to take it all in, because, to my surprise, you appeared almost immediately to greet us. It was as if you’d been watching from an upstairs window, waiting for our arrival. You came towards me, smiling, holding out both hands, saying how pleased and honoured you were to have us. You were wearing a light suit and you smelled, as always, expensive; when your hands clasped mine, your fingers were cool and dry. You appeared absolutely at home here, completely in control of your environment. Your footsteps, I noted, were even louder than mine on the tiles, and you didn’t hesitate to raise your voice and clap your hands loudly as you guided the children along the hallway, saying you had something magical to show them. It was, of course, the money cat, which you demonstrated using a shiny penny. The children pushed and shoved to get to the front, to see for themselves the cat’s belly lighting up, and you used several of your coins, making sure each child had witnessed the marvel. Milly Oliver, however, backed away from its devilish-looking eyes, and I thought her the most sensible girl of all.

  As the afternoon went on, I saw that you were genuinely excited about having the children here, and they warmed to you in response. You glowed, in fact, as you led them around your selected exhibits, which included a wooden mask from the Ivory Coast, decorated with bird bones and animal teeth, and a black velvet Victorian bustled dress – which caused all the girls to press their noses to the glass for a closer look.

  After the tour, you took us to a small room with large arched windows where tables and chairs, along with aprons, pots of paint, jars of glue and boxes full of treasure – drinking straws, feathers, shells, paper stars coloured gold – had been laid out. You asked the children to make their own masks, using the cardboard templates provided, and together we supervised them as they stuck and painted all sorts of things both on their masks and all over themselves. Occasionally I heard you laughing loudly, and would look up to see you trying a mask on yourself, or giving instructions as to how to make one more frightening, or, as I heard you say, ‘a touch more showbiz’. I had to hide a smile as Alice Rumbold stared at you in disbelief when you told her that her creation was ‘truly exquisite’. She’d probably never heard the word before, and if she had, I’m certain it wouldn’t have been applied to anything she’d made. You patted her on the head, stroked your moustache and beamed, and she looked over at me, still uncertain as to how to interpret your reaction. Alice went on to display quite a talent for art. It was something I’d completely failed to pick up on, but you saw it clearly. I remembered what Tom had told me about you, early on: He doesn’t make assumptions just because of how you look. At that moment I knew it to be true, and felt a little ashamed of myself.

  As I was about to leave, you touched my elbow and said, ‘Thank you, Marion, for a lovely afternoon.’

  We were standing in the shady hallway, the children all gathered around me, each one grippi
ng their mask and looking towards the glass doors, eager to go home. It was already late; I’d been having such a good time that I’d forgotten to keep an eye on my watch.

  It had been a lovely afternoon. I couldn’t deny that.

  And then you said, ‘It’s terribly good of you to let Tom come to Venice. I know he appreciates it.’

  As you uttered these words, you did not look away from me. There was no hint of shame, or of malice, in your tone. You were just plainly stating the facts. Your eyes were serious, but your smile broadened. ‘He has mentioned it?’

  ‘Miss. Milly’s crying.’

  I heard Caroline Mears’s voice, but could not quite understand what she was saying. I was still trying to comprehend your words. Good of you. Tom. Venice.

  ‘I think she’s wet herself, miss.’

  I looked over at Milly, who, ringed by about five others, was sitting on the mosaic floor, sobbing. Her black curls hung in untidy strings about her face, there was a tiny white feather stuck to her cheek, and she’d thrown her mask to the side. I was used to the vinegary odour of children’s urine. At school, the problem was easily dealt with – if the child was too ashamed to draw attention to their own wetness, and they hadn’t badly soaked the floor or the seat, I would generally turn a blind eye. If they complained, or if the stench was unbearable, I’d send them off to Matron, who had an efficient but kindly line in warnings about the dangers of not using the lavatory during break times, together with a huge pile of clean, if old, underpants.

  But there was no Matron here, and the reek now was unmistakable, as was the yellowish puddle surrounding Milly.

  ‘Oh dear,’ you said. ‘Can I assist in any way?’

  I looked at you. ‘Yes,’ I responded, loudly enough for all the children to hear. ‘You could take this girl down to the toilets, wipe her sodden behind and conjure a clean pair of underpants out of thin air. That would be a good start.’

  Your moustache twitched. ‘I’m not sure I’m quite up to that …’

  ‘No? In that case, we’ll be off.’ I pulled Milly up by the arm. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, stepping over the slippery mosaic. ‘Mr Hazlewood will see to the mess. You can stop crying now. Children, say thank you to Mr Hazlewood.’

  There was a weak chorus of thank-yous, at which you beamed. ‘And thank you, children—’

  I cut you off. ‘Lead the way, Caroline. It’s past home time.’

  As I guided the children through the doors, I didn’t look back, even though I knew you were still standing to one side of Milly’s slick of urine, one immaculate hand held out, ready to meet mine.

  Arriving home and finding Tom not there, I threw a tea plate across the kitchen. I took particular delight in selecting one that his mother had given us on our wedding day, thin china decorated with blood-red dots. The ecstatic sound of it smashing and the force with which I found I could hurl it against the back door were so pleasurable that I immediately threw another, and then another, watching the last plate narrowly miss the window, causing not two explosions, as I’d hoped, but just one. The disappointment of this calmed me a little, and my breathing steadied. I was, I realised, sweating heavily, the back of my blouse damp and the waistband of my skirt rubbing against my skin. I kicked my shoes off, unbuttoned my blouse and marched about the house, throwing open every window, welcoming the early-evening breeze on my skin, as if I could let my rage out this way. In the bedroom, I rooted around in Tom’s half of the wardrobe, ripping his shirts, trousers and jackets from their hangers, searching for something that could make me even angrier than I already was. I even shook his shoes out and unfurled the balls of his socks. But there was nothing there, save for a few old receipts and cinema tickets, only one of which was for a film we hadn’t seen together. I slipped this into my pocket in case I should need it later, in case I didn’t manage to find any better evidence, and moved on to Tom’s bedside cabinet, where I found a John Galsworthy novel, half read, an old watch strap, a pair of sunglasses, a clipping from the Argus about the sea-swimming club, and a photograph of Tom outside the Town Hall after he’d been sworn in to the force, flanked by his mother in a floral frock and his father who, for once, was not scowling.

  I don’t know what I was hoping to find. Or praying I would not find. A copy of Physique Pictorial? A love letter from you? Both ideas were ludicrous; Tom would never have taken such risks. But out it all came, and looking at Tom’s things around me on the rug, I saw that they didn’t amount to very much. Nevertheless, I carried on, digging about in the debris under the bed, sweeping aside odd socks and an unopened box of handkerchiefs, my blouse sticking to me, my hands grey with dust, finding nothing that could further fuel my rage.

  Then there was the sound of Tom’s key in the front door. I stopped searching but continued to kneel by the bed, unable to move, as I listened to him calling my name. I heard his footsteps pause by the kitchen doorway, pictured his astonishment at seeing the tea plates in bits on the floor. His voice became urgent: ‘Marion? Marion?’

  I looked around at the destruction I’d caused. Shirts, trousers, socks, books, photographs, all thrown about the room. Windows flung wide open. Our wardrobe emptied. The contents of Tom’s bedside cabinet scattered across the floor.

  He was still calling for me, but he was taking the stairs slowly now, as if a little afraid of what he might find.

  ‘Marion?’ he called. ‘What’s going on?’

  I didn’t answer him. I waited, my mind utterly blank. I couldn’t think of any excuse for what I’d done, and at the sound of Tom’s uncertain voice all my anger seemed to shrivel into a tight ball.

  When he came into the room, I heard his gasp. I remained on the floor, staring at the rug, holding my unbuttoned blouse tightly closed. I must have looked a sorry sight, because his voice softened and he said, ‘Bloody hell. Are you all right?’

  It crossed my mind to lie. I could say we’d been broken into. That I’d been threatened by some hooligan who went about the place smashing up our plates and throwing Tom’s things around the bedroom.

  ‘Marion? What’s happened?’

  He knelt beside me, and his eyes were so gentle that I could not formulate any words at all. Instead I began to cry. It was such a relief, Patrick, to take this woman’s way out. Tom helped me up on to the bed and I sat, sputtering out loud sobs, opening my mouth wide, not bothering to cover my face. Tom put his arm around me and I allowed myself the luxury of resting my wet cheek on his chest. That was all I wanted at that moment. The oblivion of tears cried into my husband’s shirt. He said nothing; just rested his chin on the top of my head and slowly rubbed my shoulder.

  After I’d calmed myself a little, he tried again. ‘What’s going on, then?’ he said, his voice kindly but rather stern.

  ‘You’re going to Venice with Patrick.’ I spoke into his chest, keeping my head down, aware that I sounded like a petulant child. Like Milly Oliver, sitting in a puddle of her own urine. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  His hand stilled on my shoulder and there was a long pause. I swallowed, waiting – half hoping – for his anger to hit me like a blast of heat.

  ‘Is that what all this is about?’ He was using his policeman’s voice again. I recognised it from our last discussion about you. He’d repressed the lilt, the hint of a laugh that was usually behind all his utterances. He has this talent, doesn’t he, Patrick? The gift of being able to remove oneself utterly from one’s words. The gift of being physically in a place, talking, responding, whilst not actually – not emotionally – being there at all. At the time I thought it was part of a policeman’s training, and for a while I told myself that Tom needed to do this, that he couldn’t help it. Removing himself was his way of coping with his work, and it had leaked into his life. But now I wonder whether it wasn’t always a part of him.

  I straightened up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Marion. You have to stop this.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It�
��s destructive. Very destructive.’ He was staring ahead now, speaking in a calm monotone. ‘Do I have to tell you everything immediately? Is that what you expect?’

  ‘No, but – we’re married …’ I mumbled.

  ‘What about freedom, Marion? What about that? I thought we had, you know, an understanding. I thought we had a – well, a modern marriage. You’ve got the freedom to work, haven’t you? I should have the freedom to see whoever I like. I thought we were different from our parents.’ He stood up. ‘I was going to tell you tonight. Patrick only asked me yesterday. He has to go to Venice for his work. Some conference or other. Just a few days. And he’d like some company.’ As he spoke, he began picking his clothes up from the floor and folding them into piles on the bed. ‘I can’t see the problem. A few days away with a friend, that’s all it is. I didn’t think you’d deny me the chance to see a bit of the world. I really didn’t.’ He scooped the contents of his bedside drawer from the rug and put them back in their proper place. ‘There’s no need for all this – I don’t know what to call it. Hysterical behaviour. Jealousy. Is that what it is? Is that what you’d call it?’

  Whilst he waited for my answer, he continued to tidy the room, shutting the windows, hanging his jackets and trousers in the wardrobe, avoiding my gaze.

  Listening to his perfectly even tone, watching him neatly tidy away the evidence of my anger, I’d started to shake. His coolness terrified me, and with every item he lifted from the floor, my own sense of shame at having torn through the house like a woman demented increased. A woman demented was not what I was. I was a schoolteacher, married to a policeman. I was not an hysteric.

  I managed to say, ‘You know what it is, Tom – it’s what Julia said …’

  Tom brushed down the arms of his best jacket, the one you bought him to wear on our wedding day. Gripping the cuff, he said, ‘I thought we’d settled that.’

  ‘We have – we did—’