My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  Nothing.

  I would start shouting soon.

  Then the door opened. A middle-aged man in a yellow paisley-print dressing gown stood before me. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and looked very tired. ‘For pity’s sake,’ he said, ‘you’ll wake the whole building. He’s not in, my dear woman. Please stop ringing that infernal buzzer.’

  He made to close the door, but I held it open, trapping it with my foot. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  He looked me up and down. I must, I suddenly realised, look a fright: pale and sweaty, hair not brushed, wearing a creased dress.

  ‘Graham Vaughan. Top-floor flat. Very awake. And rather annoyed.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s not in?’

  He folded his arms and said, very calmly, ‘Of course I’m sure, my dear. The police took him away last night.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We all knew he was queer – so many of them are around here – but one can’t help but feel sorry. Sometimes this country is too brutal.’

  YOU AND I are really very alike, aren’t we? I knew it that time on the Isle of Wight, when you challenged Tom’s views on child-rearing. All these years I’ve known it, but I’ve never really felt it until now, until writing this and realising that neither of us got what we wanted. Such a small thing, really – who does? And yet our ridiculous, blind, naive, brave, romantic longing for it is perhaps what binds us together, for I don’t believe either of us has ever truly accepted our defeat. What is it they’re always saying now, on TV? You have to move on. Well. Neither one of us managed that.

  Each day I look for a sign and am disappointed. The doctor is right: you are worse. I suspected another stroke long before he said it. Your fingers, capable of holding a spoon a few weeks ago, now drop everything. I hold a cup of liquidised pasta to your lips and most comes dribbling out in a gloopy stream. I’ve bought some of those adult-sized bibs and we’re using those quite successfully, but I keep thinking about the nose-feeding Dr Wells mentioned. It sounds like some Victorian torture for wayward women. I can’t let that happen to you, Patrick.

  You sleep most of the afternoons, and in the mornings I arrange your body in an armchair, propped on both sides with pillows to stop you from sliding too far in one direction, and we watch television together. Most of the programmes are about buying and selling things: houses, antiques, food, clothing, holidays. I could play Radio 3, which you’d prefer, but I feel at least the TV brings some life into the room. And sometimes I hope your exasperation will spur you into speech and movement. Perhaps tomorrow you will hold up your hands and command me to TURN OFF THIS UTTER CLAPTRAP.

  If only you would.

  I know you can hear me, though. Because when I say the word Tom, your eyes brighten, even now.

  After finding no one at your flat, I went to see Sylvie.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ she asked, letting me in. I was still in my crumpled dress, my hair unbrushed. A hot smell of unwashed nappies came up to greet me.

  ‘Where’s the baby?’

  ‘She’s asleep. At last. Up at four, down by seven. What sort of madness is that, eh?’ Sylvie stretched her arms upwards and yawned. Then she looked me in the face and said, ‘Blimey. You need a cup of tea.’

  The offer of tea and Sylvie’s sympathetic face were so wonderful that I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself crying. Sylvie put an arm round me. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s have a sit-down, shall we? I don’t need any more wailing this morning.’

  She brought two cups through and we sat on her plastic sofa. ‘God, this thing’s terrible,’ she said. ‘Like sitting on a park bench.’ She took two noisy slurps of tea. ‘I drink tea all day now,’ she said. ‘Just like my bloody mother.’

  She seemed to be babbling in order to give me time to compose myself, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to unburden myself. ‘You remember Patrick, Tom’s—’

  ‘’Course I remember.’

  ‘He’s been arrested.’

  Sylvie’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s been arrested. For – indecency.’

  There was a small silence before Sylvie asked, in a hushed voice, ‘With men?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The dirty … When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Christ almighty.’ She put her cup down. ‘Poor bugger.’ She smiled, then put a hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The thing is,’ I said, ignoring her, ‘the thing is, I think it might be because of me. I think it’s all my fault.’ I was breathing very fast, and had trouble getting the words out evenly.

  Sylvie stared at me. ‘What are you talking about, Marion?’

  ‘I wrote an anonymous letter. To his boss. Telling him about Patrick being – you know.’

  There was a pause, before Sylvie said, ‘Oh.’

  I covered my face with my hands and gave a loud sob. Sylvie put an arm round me and kissed my hair. I could smell tea on her breath. ‘Calm down,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all right. It must have been something else, mustn’t it? They don’t arrest people just because of a letter, do they?’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘Silly,’ she said. ‘’Course not. They’d have to catch him doing something, wouldn’t they? In the act, you know.’ She patted me on the knee. ‘I’d have done the same, in your situation,’ she said.

  I looked at her. ‘What do you—’

  ‘Oh, Marion. Tom’s my brother. I’ve always known, haven’t I? Although I hoped he’d changed, of course. I don’t know why you … Well. Let’s not talk about that now. Drink your tea,’ she said. ‘Before it gets cold.’

  I did as she instructed. It tasted sour and heavy.

  ‘Does Tom know?’ she asked. ‘About the letter?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Sylvie nodded. ‘Don’t go telling him, neither. It won’t do any good.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Marion. It’s like I said. They don’t arrest people over a letter. I know you’re a schoolteacher and everything, but you don’t have that much power, do you?’ She nudged me and smiled. ‘It’s for the best, isn’t it? You and Tom can have a new start with him out of the picture.’

  Just then, Kathleen let out a sudden shout of displeasure that made us both jump. Sylvie pulled a face. ‘Little madam. Don’t know where she gets it from.’ She squeezed my shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she said. ‘You kept my little secret. Now I’ll keep yours.’

  I left Sylvie to see to her daughter and went to school. I didn’t care about my crumpled dress or messy hair. I would have to do. It was still early, so I sat at my desk, staring at the print of The Annunciation with its unsuspecting Mary that hung above the door. I have never been religious, but at that moment I wished I could pray, or even pretend to pray, for forgiveness. But I could not. I could only weep. And in the silence of the eight a.m. classroom, I laid my head on the desk, banged a fist on the register and let my tears flow.

  When I’d managed to stop crying, I went about readying myself for the day. I patted down my hair as best I could and put the cardigan I kept hanging on the back of my chair over my dress. The children would arrive soon, and I could be Mrs Burgess for them, at least. They would ask me questions to which I would mostly know the answers. They would be grateful when rewarded, fearful when scolded. They would – for the most part – react in ways I could predict, and I could help them with small things that would, perhaps, eventually make big differences in their lives. That was some comfort, and I was to hold on to it for many, many years.

  That evening, Tom was waiting for me at the table by our front window. I glimpsed his stricken face through the glass and almost carried on walking, right past our door and to the end of the street. But I knew he’d seen me, and so I had no choice but to enter our house and face him.

  When I came in the door, he stood up, nearly knocking over his chair. His shirt was creased and his hands shook as he attempted to smooth down his hair. ‘Patrick’s been arres
ted,’ he blurted, before I’d taken two steps into the room. I nodded briefly and went into the kitchen to wash my hands.

  Tom followed me. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Patrick’s been—’

  ‘I know,’ I said, shaking water from my fingers. ‘After you didn’t come home last night, I went to his flat to look for you. Patrick’s neighbour took some pleasure in informing me of the situation.’

  Tom blinked. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That the police arrived late last night and took him away.’ I reached past Tom for a tea towel on which to dry my hands. ‘And that everyone in the terrace knew he was – an invert.’ I didn’t look at Tom as I spoke. I concentrated on drying each finger very thoroughly. The tea towel I used was thin and frayed, with a faded picture of the Brighton Pavilion on it. I remember thinking that I should replace it soon; I even told myself that it was no wonder Tom was not the husband I expected if this was the sort of housewife I’d become. One with threadbare, stained tea towels.

  Whilst I was standing in the kitchen, thinking all this, Tom had gone into the living room and was smashing up the furniture. I went to the doorway and watched as he threw a wooden chair repeatedly to the floor until its back was broken and its legs shattered. Then he picked up another and gave it the same treatment. I hoped he’d start on the table, perhaps ripping up that terrible cloth of his mother’s. But once two chairs were destroyed, he sat heavily on a third and put his head in his hands. I stood in the doorway and watched my husband. His shoulders moved in great heaves, and he let out a series of strange, animal-like groans. When he eventually lifted his face, I saw the same expression I’d witnessed on the helter-skelter after we were married. He was chalk-pale and his mouth had a strange, undefined look about it. He was utterly terrified.

  ‘I was there when they brought him in,’ he said, staring at me, his eyes wide. ‘I saw him, Marion. Slater had him by the wrist. I saw him and I got out of there, quick as I could. I couldn’t let him see me.’

  And it suddenly hit me: in attempting to destroy you, Patrick, I’d risked destroying Tom. When I’d written my letter to Mr Houghton, I hadn’t given a single thought to what the consequences could be for my husband. But now I had no choice but to face them. I’d betrayed you, but I’d also betrayed Tom. I’d done this to him.

  Tom had his head in his hands again. ‘What am I going to do?’

  What answer could I give him, Patrick? What could I say? At that moment I made a decision. I would be the woman I’d thought I was on top of the helter-skelter. The one who knew Tom’s weakness and could save him.

  I knelt beside my husband. ‘Listen to me, Tom,’ I said. ‘It will be all right. We can put all this behind us. We can start our marriage again.’

  ‘Jesus!’ he shouted. ‘This isn’t about our marriage! Patrick will go to prison, and I’m bloody ruined! They’ll find out about – everything – and that will be it.’

  I took a breath. ‘No,’ I said, surprised by the evenness and authority of my own voice. ‘No one knows. You can resign. You can work somewhere else. I’ll support us for as long as you need …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Tom, looking at me, utterly bewildered.

  ‘We’ll be fine. It’ll be a new start.’ I placed my hands on either side of his face. ‘Patrick will never tell them about you. And I will never leave you.’

  He began to cry, his tears wetting my fingers.

  He wept a great deal over the following weeks. We would go to bed and I’d be woken in the night by the sound of his dry sobs. He would whimper, too, in his sleep, so that sometimes I wouldn’t know if he were awake or dreaming as he cried. I would draw him to me and he would come freely, resting his head on my chest as I held him until he was still and quiet. ‘Shush,’ I whispered. ‘Shush.’ And in the morning we would carry on as usual, neither of us mentioning the crying, what had been said that day when he smashed up the chairs, or your name.

  Before your case went to court, Tom did as I’d suggested. He resigned from the force. During your trial, to my absolute horror, passages from your journal, detailing your relationship with Tom, whom you referred to as ‘my policeman’, were read aloud. Those passages have been with me ever since, like a low but constant ringing in my ears. I have never been able to shake myself free of your words. They are so obviously mismatched that I had to smile when I saw them together. I’ve always remembered that particular sentence. Your casual tone is what hurts the most. That, and the fact that you were right.

  But by the time of the trial, Tom was close to the end of his notice and, despite your incriminating journal, somehow escaped any investigation. He told me very little about it, but I suspect the force was glad to let him go quietly. I’m sure the authorities wanted to avoid any further scandals, after all that fuss in the papers about corruption in the highest ranks. Another officer in the dock would have been a disaster.

  About a month later he got a new job, as a factory security guard. He worked night shifts, which suited us both. We could barely look at one another and I could think of nothing to say to him. I visited you in prison once, mostly out of remorse for what I’d done, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that wanted to witness just how much misery you were experiencing. I didn’t tell Tom about the visit and I never suggested he do the same. I knew the mention of your name would be enough to make him walk out the door and never return. It was as though everything could continue only in conditions of complete silence. If I were to touch this wound, to probe its boundaries, it would never heal. And so I carried on, going to work, preparing meals, sleeping on the edge of the bed, away from Tom’s body. In some ways it was just as it had been before I’d married Tom. My access to him was so restricted that I began to cling to clues of his presence. When I washed his shirts, I’d press them to my face just to smell his skin. I’d spend hours arranging his shoes neatly under the bed, ordering his ties in the wardrobe, pairing his socks in his drawer. He’d gone, you see, from the house, and all that was left were these traces of him.

  THIS EVENING I told a lie. It was late, and Tom was in the kitchen, making himself something to eat. He’d been out all day, as usual. I stood in the doorway, watching him slice cheese and tomatoes and arrange them on bread. Standing there, I remembered how, when we were first married, he would sometimes surprise me by making lunch at the weekend. I recalled a soft omelette with cheese melting inside, and, once, French toast with streaky bacon and maple syrup. I’d never tasted maple syrup before, and he’d told me, very proudly, that you had given him a bottle of the stuff, as a gift.

  He peered beneath the grill, watching his cheese bubble in the heat.

  ‘Dr Wells came today,’ I announced, sitting at the table. He gave no response, but I was determined to do this. So I waited for him. I did not want to lie to my husband’s back. I wanted to lie to his face.

  When he’d put his meal on a plate and collected a knife and fork, I asked him to sit with me. He’d got through most of his food before he wiped his mouth and looked up.

  ‘He said Patrick doesn’t have long to live,’ I said, keeping my voice steady.

  Tom continued to eat until he’d cleaned the plate. Then he leant back in his chair and replied, ‘Well. We’ve known that all along, haven’t we? It’s time for a nursing home, then.’

  ‘It’s too late for that. He’s got a week.’

  Tom’s eyes met mine.

  ‘At the most,’ I added.

  We held one another’s gaze.

  ‘A week?’

  ‘Maybe less.’ After giving this information a moment to sink in, I continued, ‘Dr Wells says it’s vital that we keep talking to him. It’s really all we can do now. But I can’t do it all by myself. So I was thinking maybe you could.’

  ‘Could what?’

  ‘Talk to him.’

  There was a silence. Tom pushed his plate away, crossed his arms and said, very quietly, ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  I had my answer
ready. ‘Read, then. You could read to him. He won’t respond, but he can hear you.’

  Tom was watching me carefully.

  ‘I’ve written something,’ I said, as casually as I could. ‘Something that you could read aloud to him.’

  He almost smiled in his surprise. ‘You’ve written something?’

  ‘Yes. Something I want you both to hear.’

  ‘What’s all this about, Marion?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘It’s about you. And me. And Patrick.’

  Tom groaned.

  ‘I’ve written about – what happened. And I want you both to hear it.’

  ‘Christ,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What for?’ He was staring at me as if I’d gone utterly mad. ‘What on earth for, Marion?’

  I couldn’t answer him.

  He stood up and turned to leave. ‘I’m going to bed. It’s late.’

  Springing from my chair, I grabbed his arm and made him face me. ‘I’ll tell you what for. Because I want something said. Because I can’t live with this silence any more.’

  There was a pause. Tom looked down at my hand on his arm. ‘Let go of me.’

  I did as he asked.

  Then he fixed me with a stare. ‘You can’t live with the silence. I see. You can’t live with the silence.’

  ‘No. I can’t, not any more.’

  ‘You can’t live with the silence, so you make me break it. You subject me and that sick old man in there to your rantings, is that it?’

  ‘Rantings?’

  ‘I see what this is all about. I see why you dragged the poor bastard here in the first place. So that you could give him a bloody telling-off, just like at school. You’ve written it all down, have you? A catalogue of wrongs. A bad school report. Is that it, Marion?’

  ‘It’s not like that …’

  ‘This is your revenge, isn’t it? That’s what this is.’ He took hold of my shoulders and shook me, hard. ‘Don’t you think he’s been punished enough? Don’t you think we’ve both been punished enough?’