‘It’s not—’
‘What about my silence, Marion? Did you ever think about that? You have no idea …’ His voice cracked. He loosened his grip on me and turned his face away. ‘For God’s sake. I lost him once already.’
We stood together, both breathing heavily. After a while, I managed to say, ‘It’s not revenge. It’s a confession.’
Tom held up a hand, as if to say, No more, please.
But I had to see this through. ‘It’s my confession. It’s not about anyone’s wrongs but my own.’
He looked at me.
‘You said he needed you years ago, and that’s true. But he needs you now, too. Please. Read it to him, Tom.’
He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
I let out a breath. ‘Thank you.’
AFTER HEAVY RAIN, this morning was coldly bright. I woke feeling oddly refreshed; I’d got to bed late but had slept deeply, exhausted by the day’s events. I had the usual lower backache, but I went about my morning duties with what you might call considerable brio, greeting you cheerfully, changing your bedclothes, bathing your body and feeding you liquidised Weetabix through a straw. I chatted all the while, telling you it wouldn’t be long now before Tom was coming to sit with you, and your eyes watched me with a hopeful light.
As I was leaving your room, I heard the kettle boiling. Funny, I thought. Tom had left the house at six for his regular swim, and I didn’t usually see him again until the evening. But when I went into the kitchen there he was, holding a cup of tea out for me. In silence, we sat down for breakfast with Walter at our feet. Tom looked over the Argus and I gazed out of the window, watching last night’s rain dripping from the conifers outside. It was the first time we’d had breakfast together since that morning you spilled your cereal.
When we’d finished eating, I fetched my – what shall I call it? – my manuscript. I’d kept it in the kitchen drawer all along, half hoping that Tom would stumble across what I’d written. I placed it on the table, and I left the room.
Since then, I’ve been in my bedroom, packing a case. I’ve picked out only a few essential items: nightdress, change of clothes, washbag, novel. I don’t expect Tom will mind sending the rest on. Mostly I’ve been sitting on my plain IKEA duvet and listening to the low hum of Tom’s voice as he reads my words to you. It’s a strange, frightening, wonderful sound, this murmur of my own thoughts on Tom’s tongue. Perhaps this is what I’ve wanted all along. Perhaps this is enough.
At four this afternoon I cracked open your door and looked in on the two of you. Tom was sitting very close to your bed. At this hour you are usually asleep, but this afternoon, although your body wasn’t coping very well with the pillows Tom had arranged for you – you were wilting to one side – your eyes were open and fixed on Tom. His head (still beautiful!) was bent over my pages and he stumbled briefly on a sentence but continued to read. The day had darkened, and I slipped into the room to turn on a corner lamp so the two of you could see one another clearly. Neither of you looked my way, and I left you alone together, closing the door softly behind me.
You’ve never liked it here and neither have I. I won’t be sorry to say goodbye to Peacehaven and to the bungalow. I’m not sure where I will go, but Norwood seems a good place to start. Julia still lives there and I would like to tell her this story, too. And then I would like to listen to what she has to say, because I have had enough of my own words. What I’d really like now is to hear another story.
I won’t look in on you again. I’ll leave this page on the kitchen table in the hope that Tom will read it to you. I hope he will take your hand as he does so. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, Patrick, but I hope I can ask for your ear, and I know you’ll have been a good listener.
Acknowledgements
Many sources were helpful to me in writing this novel, but I am particularly indebted to Daring Hearts: Lesbian and Gay Lives in 50s and 60s Brighton (Brighton Ourstory Project); Peter Wildeblood’s searing memoir, Against the Law, and – not in the same class of brilliance but still illuminating – The Verdict of You All by Rupert Croft-Cooke. Thanks, too, to Debbie Hickmott at Screen Archive South East, and to my parents and Ruth Carter for sharing their memories of the period with me. I’m also grateful to Hugh Dunkerley, Naomi Foyle, Kai Merriott, Lorna Thorpe and David Swann for their comments on early drafts, to David Riding for his commitment to the book, and to Poppy Hampson for her editorial excellence. And thank you, Hugh, for all the other things.
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My Policeman Page 29