My Policeman (13 page)

Then he took off his helmet and I saw his hair for the first time, his hair and the exquisite shape of his head. This nearly knocked me off balance. His hair is waves and curls, cut short but with plenty of life in it. I noticed a little dent running all around his scalp where that ugly hat had been. He rubbed at the back of his hair, as if trying to erase the line, and then replaced the helmet.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been asked to model before!’

I was afraid then. Afraid that he’d see through me, and close himself off completely.

But instead he gave a quick laugh and said, ‘Will my picture be in the museum?’

‘Well, perhaps, yes …’

‘I’ll do it. Yes. Why not?’

We shook hands – his large and cool – arranged a date, and parted.

As I walked away, I started to whistle, and had to stop myself. Then I almost looked back over my shoulder (pathetic creature!), and had to stop myself from doing that, too.

I heard nothing, save my policeman’s ‘yes’, for the rest of the day.

VERY LATE, AND
no sleep. Shadowy thoughts – bad thoughts – chasing me. Have thought about burning my last entry many times. Cannot. What else can make him real, except for my words on paper? When no one else can know, how can I convince myself of his actual presence, of my actual feelings?

It’s a bad habit, this writing things down. Sometimes, I think, a poor substitute for real life. Every year I have a clear-out – burn the lot. Even Michael’s letters I burnt. And now wish I hadn’t.

Since meeting my policeman, I’m more determined than ever that nothing can take me back to that dark room. Five years since Michael was lost, and I will not allow myself the luxury of dwelling there.

My policeman is nothing like Michael. Which is one of the many things I love about him. The words that come to mind when I think of my policeman are
light
and
delight
.

I won’t go back to that dark room. Work has helped. Steady, regular work. Painting is all very well if you can take the rejection, the weeks of waiting for the right idea to come along, the yards of awful shit you have to turn out before you reach anything decent. No. What’s needed are regular hours. Small tasks. Small rewards.

Which is why, of course, my policeman is very dangerous, despite the
light
and the
delight
.

We used to dance, Michael and I. Every Wednesday night. I’d make everything right. Fire laid. Dinner made (he loved anything with cream and butter. All those French sauces –
sole au vin blanc, poulet au gratin à la crème landaise
– and, to finish, if I’d had time,
Saint Émilion au chocolat
). A bottle of claret. The sheets fresh and clean, a towel laid out. A newly pressed suit. And music. All the sentimental magic that he loved. Caruso to start (I’ve always hated him, but for Michael I endured it). Then Sarah Vaughan singing ‘The Nearness of You’. We’d cling to each other for hours, shuffle round on the rug like a couple of marrieds, his cheek burning against mine. Wednesdays were an indulgence, I know that. For him and for me. I made him his favourite butter-rich foods (which played havoc with my stomach), hummed along to ‘Danny Boy’, and, in return, he danced in my arms. Only when the records were all played, the candles burned down to pools of wax, would I slowly undress him, here in my sitting room, and we’d dance again, naked, in absolute silence, save for our quickening breaths.

But that was a long time ago.

He’s so young.

I know I’m not old. And God knows my policeman makes me feel like a boy again. Like a nine-year-old, peeking out of the railings in front of my parents’ London house at the butcher’s boy who delivered next door. It was his knees. Thick but exquisitely shaped, scabbed, thrillingly raw. Once he gave me a backie on his bicycle, all the way to the shops. I trembled as I held on to the seat, watching his little arse bounce up
and
down as he pedalled. I trembled, but felt stronger, more powerful than I had my whole life.

Listen to me. Butchers’ boys.

I tell myself that my age is an advantage, in this case. I am experienced. Professional. What I must never be is avuncular. An old quean with a young tough hanging on his every pound note. Is that what’s happening to me? Is that what I’m becoming?

Must sleep now.

7 A.M.

Better this morning. Writing this over breakfast. Today he comes. My policeman is alive and well and he is coming to meet me at the museum.

I mustn’t be too eager. It’s essential to maintain professional distance. At least for a while.

At work, I’m known as a gentleman. When they say I’m
artistic
, I don’t believe there’s any hint of malice there. It helps that it’s mostly youngish women, many of whom have better things than my private life to concern themselves with. Quiet, loyal, mysterious Miss Butters – Jackie to me – stands by my side. And the head keeper, Douglas Houghton – well. Married. Two children, the girl at Roedean. Member of Hove Rotary Club. But John Slater told me he remembers Houghton from Peterhouse, where he was a definite aesthete. Anyway. It’s his business and he’s never given me so much as a hint that he knows about my minority status. Not a glance passes between us that isn’t entirely official and above board.

I’ll tell my policeman, when he comes, about my campaign to install a series of lunchtime concerts – free for all – in the downstairs entrance hall. Music spilling on to Church Street during the lunchtime rush. I’ll say I’m thinking of jazz, even though I know anything more challenging than Mozart will
be
an impossibility. People will stop and listen, venture in, and maybe look at our art collection whilst they’re about it. I know plenty of musicians who’d be glad of the exposure, and what does it cost to place a few seats in the hallway? But there’s resistance from the powers that be (I’ll stress this). Houghton’s feeling is that a museum should be ‘a place of peace’.

‘It’s not a library, sir,’ I pointed out, the last time we had our usual discussion on this topic. We were having tea after our monthly meeting.

He raised his eyebrows. Looked into his cup. ‘Isn’t it? A kind of library for art, and artefacts? A place where objects of beauty are ordered, made available to the public?’ He stirred triumphantly. Tapped his spoon on the side of the china.

‘Well put,’ I conceded. ‘I only meant that it needn’t be silent. It isn’t a place of worship …’

‘Isn’t it?’ he began again. ‘I don’t mean to be profane, Hazlewood, but aren’t objects of beauty there to be worshipped? This museum provides respite from the trials of everyday life, does it not? Peace and reflection are here, for those who seek it. A little like a church, wouldn’t you say?’

But not nearly as suffocating, I thought. Whatever else this place does, it does not condemn.

‘Absolutely right, sir, but my concern is to widen the museum’s appeal. To make it available, attractive even, to those who wouldn’t normally seek out such experiences.’

He made a low gurgling noise in his throat. ‘Most admirable, Hazlewood. Yes. We all agree, I’m sure. But remember, you can take the horse to water, but you can’t make the bugger drink. Hmm?’

I shall make my changes. Houghton or no Houghton. And I’ll make sure my policeman knows about it.

7 p.m.

Rain means a busy day at the museum, and today water sluiced down Church Street, raging against car tyres and bicycle wheels, soaking shoes and splashing stockings. And so in they came, faces damp and shiny, collars darkened by rain, seeking shelter. They pushed through the stiff doors, shook themselves, stuffed their umbrellas in the steaming rack, made for a dry place. Then they stood and dripped on the tiles, glancing at the exhibits, always keeping one eye on the windows, hoping for a change in the weather.

Upstairs, I was waiting. I had a gas heater installed in my office last winter. Considered lighting it to cheer the place up a bit on such a gloomy day, but decided this was unnecessary. The office would suffice, would impress him enough. Mahogany desk, rotating chair, large window looking out over the street. I removed some papers from the armchair in the corner so he would have somewhere to sit, gave Jackie instructions for tea at four thirty. A pile of correspondence kept me busy for a while, but mostly I watched the rain course down the panes. Checked my watch quite a bit. But I had no plan of action. I didn’t quite know what I would say to my policeman. I trusted we would get off on the right foot somehow, and the way forward would become clear. Once he was here in this room, before me, everything would be all right.

Precisely four o’clock, and a call from Vernon on the front desk informed me that my policeman had arrived. Should he send him up? Although I knew the most sensible thing would’ve been to have him come straight to my office, thus avoiding any attention from other members of staff, I said no. I would go down and collect him.

Well, I wanted to show off. To show him the place. To walk up the sweeping staircase with him.

As he wasn’t wearing his uniform, it took me a few seconds to locate him. He was admiring the huge cat in the hallway. Arms folded, back straight. He looked much younger without his silver buttons and tall helmet. And I liked him even more. Soft sports jacket (soaked on the shoulders), light-coloured trousers, no tie. His neck exposed. His hair slick with rain. He looked such a boy that I was struck by the sensation that I’d made a ghastly mistake. I almost decided to send him home on some excuse. He was too young. Too vulnerable. And far too beautiful.

Thinking all this, I stood on the bottom step and watched him for a moment as he studied the enormous cat.

‘Feed it money and it purrs,’ I said, approaching him. I held out a professional hand, which he took without hesitation. Immediately I changed my mind. This was no mistake. Sending him home was the last thing I was going to do.

‘So glad you could come,’ I said. ‘You’ve been before?’

‘No. I mean – I don’t
think
so …’

I waved a hand. ‘Why would you? Musty old place. But I call it home – of sorts.’

I had to stop myself from bounding up the steps two at a time as he followed me upstairs.

‘We do have some exquisite displays, but I don’t suppose you’ve time …’

‘Plenty of time,’ he said. ‘Early shifts weekdays. On at six, off at three.’

What to show him? It’s hardly the British Museum. I wanted to impress him, but I didn’t want to over-egg it. My policeman should see something lovely, I decided, rather than challenging or in any way strange.

‘Is there anything you’d particularly like to look at?’ I asked as we reached the first floor.

He rubbed the side of his nose. Shrugged. ‘Dunno much about art.’

‘You don’t have to. That’s the wonderful thing about it. It’s about reacting to it. Feeling it, if you like. It’s not really anything to do with knowledge.’

I steered him into the watercolours and engravings room. The light was dim, greyish, and we were alone in there save for an old gent whose nose was almost touching the glass case.

‘That’s not the idea I get,’ he said, grinning. He’d lowered his voice now we were near the artworks, as almost everyone does. It’s a great pleasure and mystery to me, the way people change when they come into the place. I never know whether it’s down to actual awe, or just slavish respect for museum protocol. Either way, voices are hushed, walks slowed, laughter stifled. A certain absorption takes place. I’ve always thought that in a museum people draw into themselves, and yet become more aware of their surroundings. My policeman was no different.

‘The idea you get from where?’ I asked, rocking on my heels, smiling back, also lowering my voice. ‘School? The newspapers?’

‘Just the general idea. You know.’

I showed him my favourite Turner sketch in the collection. All waves crashing and foam pounding, of course. But delicate, in that way of Turner’s.

He nodded. ‘It’s – full of life, isn’t it?’ He was almost whispering now. The old gent had left us alone. I saw the colour rise in my policeman’s cheeks, and understood what a risk he’d taken in uttering such an opinion in my presence.

‘That’s it,’ I whispered back, like a conspirator. ‘You’ve got it. Absolutely.’

Once in my office, he paced the room, examining my photographs.

‘Is this you?’ He was pointing at one of me squinting in the sun outside Merton. It’s on the wall opposite my desk because Michael took it; his shadow is just visible in the foreground. Whenever I look at that photo I see not my own image – a bit skinny, far too much hair, slightly receding chin, standing awkwardly in an ill-fitting hound’s-tooth jacket – but Michael, holding his beloved camera, telling me to pose as if I mean it, every sinew of his nimble body concentrated in this moment of capturing me on film. We hadn’t yet become lovers, and in that photo there is something of the promise – and the threat – of what was to come.

I stood behind my policeman, thinking all this, and said, ‘That’s me. In another life.’

He stepped away from me, gave a little cough.

‘Please,’ I said, ‘have a seat.’

‘I’m all right standing.’ His hands were locked in front of him.

A small silence. Once more I pushed down the fear that I’d made an awful mistake. Sat behind my desk. Coughed a little. Pretended to tidy some papers. Then I buzzed Jackie to bring in the tea, and we waited, not quite meeting one another’s eyes.

‘I’m most grateful to you for coming,’ I said, and he nodded. I tried again: ‘Please won’t you sit down?’

He looked at the chair behind him, gave a little sigh and finally lowered himself on to the seat. Jackie came in with the tea and we both watched in silence whilst she poured two
cups
. She glanced over at my policeman, then looked at me, her long face utterly impassive. She’s been my secretary since I came to the museum and has never betrayed any interest in my affairs, which is just the way I like it. Today was like any other day. She asked me no questions, gave no hint of curiosity. Jackie is always well-presented, not a hair out of place, lipstick firmly applied, and she is quietly efficient. Rumour has it that she lost her sweetheart in the TB outbreak some years ago, and so has never married. Sometimes I hear her laughing with the other girls, and there’s something in that laugh that unnerves me a little – it’s a noise not unlike radio static – but Jackie and I rarely share a joke. She has recently purchased new spectacles with tiny diamanté decorations in the wings of the frames, which give her a strange look, somewhere between glamour queen and headmistress.