‘Don’t sound like any copper I know.’
‘That’s because he wasn’t like any other copper. He was interested in the arts, in books and music. He wasn’t an intellectual – his education meant he couldn’t be that – but he was intelligent.’
‘Like me.’
I ignore this. ‘And he was very handsome. He looked like one of the Greek statues in the British Museum. He loved to swim in the sea. His body was strong and lithe. His hair was golden and curled.’
‘Sounds like a bloody queer.’
A few other men have gathered around to listen. ‘That’s what he was,’ I say, keeping my voice even. ‘That was Tom’s problem.’
Bert shakes his head. ‘Fucking filth. I don’t think I want to hear no more, Hazlewood.’
‘It was his problem, but it was also his joy,’ I continue. ‘Because he met a man, an older man, whom he liked very much. This older man took Tom to the theatre, to art galleries and the opera, and opened up an entirely new world to him.’
The muscles in Bert’s face have stopped moving. His eyes flicker.
‘Tom liked to listen to this man talk, just as you like to listen to me. He took a wife, but that meant nothing. He continued to see the older man as much as he could. Because Tom and the older man loved each other very much.’
Bert comes up close to me. ‘Why don’t we change the fucking subject, mate.’
But I don’t stop talking. I can’t stop. ‘They loved each other. But the man was sent to prison on a trumped-up charge because he’d been careless. Tom’s pride and his fear stopped him from ever seeing the man again. Despite this, the man went on loving him. He will always love him.’
All the time I talk, more men gather round, summoned by Bert’s silent rage. And I know they’ll have made sure the screw is looking the other way whilst Bert punches me quietly in the stomach until I fall to the floor. I’m talking all the time, even as the punches take the air from my body. He’ll always love him, I say. Over and over. Then Bert’s kicking me in the chest and someone else is kicking me in the back and I cover my face with my fists but it does no good because the blows keep coming. And still I’m getting the words out. He’ll always love him. And I remember the time Tom came to the flat and was so angry with me for lying to him about the portrait and I imagine it’s him kicking me again and again and again and I keep whispering his name until I no longer feel anything at all.
V
Peacehaven, December 1999
DR WELLS, OUR GP, came today. He’s a youngish man – not past forty – with one of those funny little beards that cover only the chin. He has a swift but careful manner, moving about the room almost silently, which I find slightly unnerving. I’m sure his quietness upsets you, too. When he’s examining you he doesn’t do any of the hearty yelling that most of them go in for (‘AND HOW ARE WE TODAY?’ – as if being ill immediately renders you stone deaf), which is something of a relief, but this creeping about is almost worse.
‘We need to have a quick discussion, Marion,’ he said, after we’d left you to sleep. I have never suggested he use my first name, but I let it pass. We sat at opposite ends of the sofa and he refused my offer of tea, obviously wanting to get on with it.
He launched straight into his speech. ‘I’m afraid Patrick’s health is deteriorating. There’s been no real improvement in muscle coordination, speech or appetite for the past few weeks, as far as I can see. And he seems considerably worse today. I think he may have suffered a third stroke, in fact.’
Knowing exactly where this ‘quick discussion’ was heading, I leapt to your defence. ‘He did speak. He said my husband’s name. Quite clearly.’
‘You said. That was some time ago, wasn’t it?’
‘A few weeks …’
‘Has this happened again?’
I couldn’t lie, Patrick, although I wanted to. ‘No.’
‘I see. Anything else?’
I really tried to think of some other evidence of the improvement I’m sure you’re going to make. But we both know that, up to this point, you’ve shown very little sign of getting better. And so silence was my only answer.
Dr Wells touched his beard. ‘How are you and your husband coping? The carer’s role is a challenging one.’
Have you noticed how everything these days is challenging? What happened to difficult and downright bloody awful? ‘We’re coping fine,’ I said, before he could start talking about social workers and support networks. ‘Very well, in fact.’
‘Tom’s not here at the moment?’
‘I’ve sent him to the shops.’ The truth was he’d left early with the dog and I had absolutely no idea where he might be. ‘For some milk.’
‘I’d like to talk to him next time.’
‘Of course, Doctor.’
‘Good.’ He paused. ‘If there’s no improvement in the next few days, I really think we should consider a nursing home.’
I’d known this was coming, and I had my response ready. Nodding gravely, I stated, in a firm but friendly voice, ‘Dr Wells. Tom and I want to look after him here. Patrick’s very comfortable, even if he isn’t making the progress you’d – we’d all – like. And you said yourself that he stands a much better chance of recovery amongst friends.’
The doctor drummed his fingers on his corduroyed knee. ‘Yes. That is true. But I don’t know how much longer we can talk about recovery in any meaningful way.’
‘Are you saying he definitely won’t recover?’ I knew he wouldn’t give a straight answer to that one.
‘No one can say that. But if he doesn’t, things may become – unmanageable fairly soon.’ He started to speak rapidly. ‘For example, what if Patrick can no longer tolerate liquidised foods? He may need nose-feeding. That’s not something I recommend carers do at home. It’s tricky and can be distressing.’
‘Every day is tricky and distressing, Doctor.’
He gave a quick smile. ‘The deterioration in stroke patients can be quite sudden, and we want to be prepared. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘We’ll manage. I don’t want him amongst strangers.’
‘You could spend every day at the home, if you like. It would be much easier on you. And on your husband.’
Ah, I thought. So that’s it. He feels sorry for the displaced husband. He thinks my looking after you is at Tom’s expense. He’s concerned that I’m risking the stability of my marriage over an infatuation with you. I almost burst out laughing.
‘Talk about it with Tom,’ he said, rising from the sofa and reaching for his briefcase. ‘I’ll be back next week.’
We finished Anna Karenina last night. I’ve been staying up late to complete it, even though you’re often asleep before I stop reading. I’m sure you slept during the final chapters, and to be honest, I rather gabbled my way through them. Once she’s thrown herself under the train, I lose interest. And my mind was fixed on what I would read next. Because what Dr Wells said has made me sure that it’s time you heard what I’ve written. Just in case they take you away from me. And a thought has just struck me: perhaps my story will prompt some response from you. Perhaps it will trigger the movement or gesture Dr Wells is so keen to see.
After sending my letter to Mr Houghton, I slept very deeply for many hours. And when I woke, there Tom stood, his nose a little sunburned, a puzzled look on his face as he scrutinised me.
‘Nice welcoming party,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
I blinked, unsure if I was quite awake.
‘Doesn’t a man even get a cup of tea when he comes back from his travels?’
No, I wasn’t dreaming: that was definitely my husband, in the flesh. It took me a moment to dredge up the energy to speak. ‘How – how long have I been asleep?’
‘I don’t know. Ever since I left, by the look of it.’
‘What time is it?’
‘About two. Why are you in bed?’
I sat up quickly, my mind rushing over the past few days’ events. I glanced d
own at myself and saw I was fully clothed, right down to my shoes, which were still dusty from the park. I covered my mouth, feeling suddenly queasy.
Tom sat on the edge of the mattress. ‘You all right?’
He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck. The collar was very stiff and bright, and the sleeves had sharp creases running down their length. He saw me looking and smirked. ‘Hotel laundry service. Fantastic.’
I nodded and said nothing. But I knew that shirt was brand new, and a gift from you.
‘So. What’s going on here?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘Nothing. I can’t believe I’ve slept this long. I had a drink with Sylvie and we got home late, so I just collapsed on the bed …’
But he’d already lost interest. Patting my hand, he said, ‘I’ll make us some tea, eh?’
I’ve never asked him anything about his time in Venice with you. And he’s never volunteered any information about it. I’ve imagined it many times, of course. But all I really know of that weekend is that Tom experienced the luxury of a hand-made Italian shirt.
A few days later, I took a great deal of pleasure in washing and ironing that shirt in my usual haphazard way, neglecting to starch the collar and deliberately pressing the sleeves so the creases fell in broken lines.
At first, I waited for the storm to break over my head. Every day I imagined Tom coming home and telling me you’d lost your job. I imagined myself giving a shocked response, asking why and receiving no valid explanation. I then imagined myself becoming angry with Tom for this lack of explanation, and pictured him finally breaking down and apologising to me, maybe even confessing a little of his weaknesses whilst I remained the strong, forgiving wife. We’ll get through this together, darling, I would say, cradling him in my arms. I’ll help you to overcome these unnatural longings. I enjoyed that little fantasy.
But nothing happened for weeks, and I began to relax, thinking that Mr Houghton had chosen to ignore my message, or perhaps had never even received it due to some postal error. You continued to visit us every Thursday and remained your usual ebullient, entertaining, infuriating self. Tom continued to hang on your every breath. And I continued to watch the two of you, sometimes wondering when on earth my letter would take its desired effect, sometimes regretting ever having set pen to paper.
With Tom working all hours, Julia and I avoiding each other, and Sylvie busy with the baby, the rest of August was, I remember, long and rather tedious. I looked forward to getting back to my desk and to seeing the children again, now that I knew my way around a classroom. But most of all I looked forward to seeing Julia. Although I dreaded breaking the ice, I missed our conversations and I missed her. I told myself that we could pick up our friendship again. She’d been angry and I’d been upset, but we’d get over it. As for what she’d implied about her personal affairs – well, I suppose I hoped she’d just drop the subject and we could carry on as before.
I know, Patrick. I know how stupid I was.
It rained heavily on the first day of term. The usual accompanying Brighton wind was absent, but my umbrella still did little to protect me: by the time I’d reached the school gates, my shoes were sodden and a dark patch of wetness had spread across the front of my skirt.
I squelched along the corridor and opened the door to my classroom. Julia was sitting on my desk, her legs crossed. I wasn’t surprised; it was just like her to plunge straight in, and I’d been half expecting to have to face her in this way. I stopped in the doorway, water dripping from the tip of my umbrella.
‘Shut the door,’ she said, jumping to her feet.
I did as commanded, taking my time so as to get my breath back. Still facing the door, I removed my jacket and propped my umbrella against the wall.
‘Marion.’ She was standing very close behind me. I swallowed and turned to face her.
‘Julia.’
She smiled. ‘The very same.’ Unlike me, Julia was completely dry. Her voice was grave but her face was composed in a friendly grin.
‘It’s good to see you …’ I began.
‘I’ve got a new job,’ she said, quickly. ‘At a school in Norwood. I want to be closer to London. I’ll be moving up there, in fact.’ She took a breath. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know. I’ve been planning it for a while.’
I looked down at my waterlogged shoes. My toes were starting to go numb.
‘I should apologise,’ I began, ‘for what I said …’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She nodded. ‘Let’s not say any more about it.’
There was a long pause during which we stared at one another. Julia’s face was pale, and her mouth was set in a determined line. I was the first to drop my eyes. For a terrible moment I thought I might cry.
Julia sighed. ‘Look at you. You’re soaked. Have you got anything to put on?’
I said I hadn’t. She clicked her tongue and caught my arm. ‘Come with me.’
In the corner cupboard of Julia’s classroom, two tweed skirts and a couple of cardigans hung on the back of the door. ‘I keep them,’ she said, ‘for emergencies. Here.’ She unhooked the larger skirt and pushed it into my chest. ‘This one should fit. It’s a bit monstrous, but beggars can’t be choosers. Take it.’
It was not monstrous at all. The fabric was finely woven, the colour a rich purple. It looked a little strange with my flowered blouse, but it fitted perfectly, skimming my thighs and kicking out just on the knee. I kept it on all day, even after my own skirt had dried out. I wore it home and hung it in the wardrobe next to Tom’s wedding suit. Julia never asked me to return it, and I still have it, folded carefully in my bottom drawer.
The next night I was late home, having spent a few extra hours preparing for the following day’s class. I slung my basket into the corner of the kitchen, tied on an apron and rushed about peeling potatoes and flouring pieces of cod for Tom’s dinner. When I had the chips cut and resting in water, I looked at my watch. Half past seven. He’d be home by eight, so I had half an hour to tidy myself up, straighten my hair and sit down with a book.
Soon, however, I found myself pretending to read, because my eyes kept straying towards the clock on the mantelpiece. Quarter past eight. Half past. Twenty to nine. I put the book down and went to the window, opening it and leaning out to look up and down the street. When I couldn’t see any sign of Tom, I instructed myself not to be silly. Being a copper wasn’t a job with regular hours. He’d told me that often enough. Once he’d been over six hours late. He’d come in with a bruise on his cheek and a cut above his eye. ‘Fight at the Bucket of Blood,’ he’d announced rather proudly. ‘We had to raid the place and things got nasty.’ I have to admit I enjoyed bathing his wounds, fetching a bowl of warm water, adding a drop of Dettol, soaking a ball of cotton wool in the liquid and gently applying it to his skin like a good nursemaid. Tom had sat quite happily and let me fuss over him, and when I’d kissed the bruise on his cheek and told him not to get himself into such situations again, he’d laughed and said this was the least of it.
Tonight would be something similar, I told myself. Nothing he couldn’t cope with, nothing to worry about. I might even be able to nurse him again when he did come home. And so I put the fish back in the fridge, fried myself a few chips, ate alone and went up to bed.
I must have been very tired because, when I woke, it was getting light and Tom was not in our bed. I jumped up and hurried downstairs, calling his name. He’d have come in late and fallen asleep in the armchair. That had happened before, I reminded myself. But not only was there no Tom in the living room, there were no shoes by the door, and no jacket on the peg. I rushed back upstairs and pulled on the dress I’d flung to the floor the night before. As I left the house, my plan was to go to the police station. But as I hurried down Southover Street, realising I should have worn a jacket – it wasn’t past six and was still chilly – I changed my mind. I could hear Tom’s voice – What did you do that for? Do you want them to
call me henpecked? – and decided to try his mother. I’d come out, though, with just my keys in my hand and no money for the bus. It would be at least a half-hour walk from here. I began to run and, as I reached the bottom of the street, I found myself turning instead towards the seafront. Although my mind was slow, my body seemed to know what to do. You see, I knew where he was. I’d known all along. He’d stayed the night – all night – with you. He hadn’t even bothered to think up some excuse. Tom was at your flat.
I rushed along Marine Parade, sometimes running, sometimes slowing down to a jog as a stitch grew in my side. My rage was thrillingly complete. If Tom had been before me at that moment, I have no doubt I would have struck him repeatedly and called him every name I knew. As I ran, I imagined myself doing just this. I was almost excited by it. I couldn’t wait to get to the two of you and unleash my wrath. It wasn’t just anger at you and Tom. I’d lost Julia, too. She’d told me her secret and now she couldn’t trust me, and she was right not to. I’d failed as a friend, I could see that even then. And I’d failed as a wife. I couldn’t make my husband desire me in the right way.
About halfway there, it struck me that I could say I was leaving Tom. I had a job, after all. I could afford a little flat of my own. There were no children to think of, and the way things were going, there never would be. I would refuse to live a life of misery. I would simply walk out. That would teach him. No one to cook and clean. No one to iron his blasted shirts. The thought of the shirt you’d bought for him made me break into a sprint. In my haste, I almost knocked down an old man, I slapped into his arm so hard. He shouted out in pain, but I didn’t stop or even look back. I had to reach your flat, find the two of you together and make my announcement. Enough was enough.
I rang your buzzer, leaning my forehead against the door and trying to catch my breath. No reply. I pressed again, letting it ring longer this time. Still nothing. Of course. The two of you would be in bed. You might well know it was me. You would be hiding. Hiding and laughing. Keeping a finger on the bell for at least a minute, I thumped at the big brass doorknocker with the other hand. Nothing. I began to press the bell and then let go, ringing out an impatient tune. BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. BU-BU-BUZZ. BU-BU-BUZZZZZ.
My Policeman Page 27