My Policeman (15 page)

‘Sorry about that.’

He nodded, sipped his tea. ‘You were saying?’

‘Was I?’

‘About naked bodies?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I settled on the corner of the desk again. ‘Yes. Look, if you’re really interested, I’ll show you some fascinating examples.’

‘Now?’

‘If you have time.’

‘All right,’ he said, helping himself to a second biscuit. He eats rapidly, even noisily. His mouth slightly open. Enjoying himself. I offered him the plate. ‘Take as many as you like,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll show you something.’

We had half an hour before closing time. I decided to cut to the chase: the bronze Icarus. We walked side by side in silence until I said, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s unusual, isn’t it, for a policeman to be interested in art? Do any of your colleagues feel the same way, do you think?’

He gave a sudden laugh. It was loud and uninhibited, and it echoed around the gallery. ‘God, no,’ he said.

‘That’s a shame.’

He shrugged. ‘Down the station, if you like art, you’re wet. Or worse.’

A look at each other. His eyes were smiling, I swear it.

‘Well – that’s the
general
perception, I suppose …’

‘I only know one other person who likes it.’

‘And who’s that?’

‘Girl I know. A friend. She’s a teacher, actually. Books are more her line, though. But we do have, you know,
discussions
…’

‘About art?’

‘About all sorts. I’m teaching her to swim.’ He gave another laugh, softer this time. ‘She’s no good, though. Never gets any better.’

I’ll bet she doesn’t, I thought.

I pressed on, guiding him into the sculpture gallery.
Friend
, he’d said. A small revelation. Nothing to get panicked by. As he’d talked about her, the colour in his face had remained constant. He hadn’t once avoided my gaze.
Friend
I can deal with.
Friend. Girlfriend. Sweetheart. Fiancée
. I can deal with all of those. I’ve had some experience. Michael had a girlfriend, after all. Dim little thing she was. Always feeding him sandwiches. Rather sweet, in her way.

Wife
, even. I think I can deal with wife. Wives are at home, that’s the good thing about them. They’re at home, they’re silent, and they’re glad to see the back of him. Usually.

Lover
, I cannot deal with. Lover is different.

‘This,’ I said, ‘is
Icarus
, by Alfred Gilbert. It’s a cast. On loan to us at the moment.’

There he was, his wings about him like a bullfighter’s cape, and no fig leaf. The most impressive thing about him, to me, is his belief in those wings. Useless, fragile, attached to his arms by a couple of cuffs, and yet he believes in them as a child might believe a cloak will make him invisible. He is youthfully muscular, standing with his hip to the side, his leg bent, his gleaming chest catching the spotlight above. The
line
from his throat to his groin delicately curved. He stands alone on his rock, looking coyly down. He is both serious and absurd, and he is beautiful.

My policeman and I stood before him, and I said, ‘You know the story?’

He gave me a sideways glance.

‘Greek mythology again, I’m afraid. Icarus and his father, Daedalus, escaped from prison using wings they’d made from feathers and wax. But despite his father’s advice, Icarus flew too close to the sun, his wings melted, and – well, you can guess the rest. It’s a story often told to schoolchildren to warn them against being overambitious. And to impress upon them the importance of listening to their fathers.’

He was bending over, breathing on the glass case. He moved around, taking in the boy from all angles, whilst I stood back and watched. We caught each other’s reflection in the glass, our faces merging and warping with Gilbert’s golden Icarus.

I wanted to say to him:
I can’t swim. Teach me. Teach me to cut through the waves with you
.

But I did not. Instead, as brightly as I could, I told him: ‘You should bring her here.’

‘Who?’

Exactly the response for which I’d hoped.

‘Your friend. The schoolteacher.’

‘Oh. Marion.’

‘Marion.’ Even the name’s schoolteacherly. It brings to mind thick stockings, even thicker spectacles. ‘Bring her.’

‘To see the museum?’

‘And to meet me.’

He straightened up. Put a hand to his neck, frowned. ‘Do you want her to be part of the project?’

I smiled. Already he was worried about being usurped.
‘Perhaps
,’ I said. ‘But you’re our first subject. We’ll see how that goes, shall we? You are still coming?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday.’ On impulse, I added: ‘Would you mind changing the venue? There’s not really space in my office. Or the necessary equipment.’ I pulled my card from my pocket and handed it to him. ‘We could meet here instead. It would have to be a bit later. Say seven thirty?’

He looked at the card. ‘Is this your studio?’

‘Yes. And it’s where I live.’

He turned the card over before tucking it into his jacket. He was smiling as he said, ‘All right,’ but I couldn’t tell if his smile was one of happiness at the thought of coming to my flat, amusement at my wiles to get him there, or mere embarrassment.

But. He has the card in his pocket. And Tuesday it is.

TERRIBLE HANGOVER THIS
morning. I rose very late and have been sitting about drinking coffee, eating toast and rereading Agatha Christie in the hope that it will lift. It hasn’t yet.

Last night, after writing, decided to go to the Argyle. I didn’t relish the idea of another long evening, waiting for Tuesday, that was part of it. But in truth I was feeling puffed up at my success. The boy is to come here, to my flat. He has agreed. He is coming alone, Tuesday evening. We have looked at Icarus together and he has given me his secret smile and he is coming.

So I felt the Argyle might be fun. It is no good going to these places when one feels depressed and lonely. They just compound the misery, especially when one ends up leaving alone. But when one is feeling optimistic … well, then the Argyle is the place to be. It’s a place of
possibilities
.

I hadn’t been there for a very long time; since landing the curator’s job a few years ago, I’ve needed to be very discreet. Not that I’ve ever been anything else, really. Certainly Michael and I went out very rarely. Wednesday night was our one whole night together, and I wasn’t going to waste it by taking him out and sharing him with anyone else. I often visited him in the daytime but he always wanted me out of his room by eight o’clock, in case the landlady grew suspicious.

But even walking past the Argyle is risky. What if Jackie were to see me looking at that door? Or Houghton? Or any
of
the girls from the museum? Of course, if one does go to bars, one learns to take precautions – go after dark, go alone, don’t catch anyone’s eye whilst walking down the street, don’t go into any establishment too near your own house. Which is why I enjoy my nights in London with Charlie. Much easier to be anonymous on those streets. Brighton, for all its cosmopolitan airs, is a small town.

It was a dreary night, wet and mild, very few stars. I was glad of the rain – it gave me an excuse to shelter beneath my largest umbrella. Walked right along the seafront, past the Palace Pier, and crossed King’s Road to avoid the town centre. My steps rapid, but not hurried. Turned into Middle Street, keeping my head down. Thankfully, it was almost half past nine and the streets were fairly calm. Everyone was busy drinking up.

I slipped through the black door (graced only by the small gold plaque: ARGYLE HOTEL), signed in under the name I always use for places like this, removed my coat, slotted my soaking umbrella into the stand and went into the bar.

Candlelight. Log fire punching out too much heat. Leather armchairs. ‘Stormy Weather’ coming from the Oriental boy on the piano. They say he played at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. The smell of gin, Givenchy cologne, dust and roses. There are always fresh roses on the bar. Last night’s were pale yellow, very delicate.

Immediately I recognised the old familiar feeling of being appraised by more than a dozen pairs of male eyes. A feeling exquisitely balanced between pleasure and pain. It’s not that they all turned and stared – the Argyle would never be that blatant – but my presence was noted. I’d taken care over my appearance, shaping my moustache, running some oil through
my
hair and selecting my most well-cut jacket (the grey marl from Jermyn Street) before I ventured out, so I was prepared. I keep myself fit – callisthenics every morning. The army did that for me, at least. And I don’t yet have a grey hair on my head. I’ve never been obsessed with these matters but I do keep them in check. I was ready. I was, I thought, looking quite elegant. I was – in my head this is already taking on a strange reality – an artist about to embark on a daring new portraiture project.

Approached the bar, deliberately not looking anyone in the eye. I must have a drink in my hand before I can do that. The Miss Browns were, as usual, on their high stools behind the bar. The younger one – who must be approaching sixty by now – counts the takings. The older one greets the gentlemen and pours the drinks. Wearing a high lace collar and smoking a long cigarillo, she said hello, remembering my name.

‘And how are we?’ she asked.

‘Oh, tolerable.’

‘Like myself, like myself.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Wonderful to see you here again. One of the boys will take your order.’

Older Miss Brown is famous for relaying messages between her clients. You slip her your note over the bar and she will pass it on to the addressed gentleman. If he does not come in that night, she will store the note behind a bottle of crème de cacao on the bottom shelf. There are always a few new slips of paper behind that bottle. Nothing is ever said; the note is merely handed over with your change.

The Duchess of Argyle, as he’s known, took my order for a dry martini and showed me to a table by the heavily draped bay window. His face was powdered and his red jacket was, as always, tightly fitting and just the right side of military. After a few sips I began to relax and take a look around the
place
. A couple of faces I recognised. Bunny Waters, as dapper as ever, sitting at the bar, wearing bright white shirt sleeves, several gold bracelets and a maroon waistcoat. He made a slight nod of recognition in my direction, lifted his glass, and I returned the gesture. One New Year I watched him foxtrotting round the floor with the most handsome boy. No one else was dancing. I wonder, now, if it really happened, this vision of two neat, dark-haired men gliding around the room, everyone aware of them, everyone admiring them, but no one feeling it necessary to make the slightest acknowledgement of what was happening. It was a gracious moment. We all silently agreed that it was beautiful, and rare, and not to be spoken of. We acted as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world. I heard, later, that Bunny was at the Queen of Clubs the night it was raided for, apparently, not having a supper licence. He avoided, somehow, the whole hullabaloo with the press, his employers and so on, and didn’t face any charges. Others were not so lucky.

At a table not far from mine was Anthony B. I’m sure Charlie had a brief
affaire
with him, the year before he moved to London. Anton, he used to call him. He’s looking just as respectable as ever – was reading the
Times
, a little more grey in his hair, and kept glancing towards the door, but he’d be at home in any gentleman’s club. Still has the same red cheeks. There’s something rather attractive about red cheeks on a very respectable man. A suggestion, perhaps, that his cup spilleth over. That he cannot always contain his emotions. That underneath the controlled exterior there lies much blood; blood that will eventually out.

I don’t think I’ve blushed since school. It was my affliction, back then.
Cool, wet grass
, Charlie used to say to me.
Think of it. Allow yourself to lie in it
. It never worked. One of the
sports
masters called me the Pink Sap.
Come along, Hazlewood. Give it some welly, why don’t you. Can’t be a pink sap all your life, eh?
God, I hated him. I used to have dreams of throwing acid in his huge, sweating face.

I ordered another dry martini.

At about ten, a young man entered. Brown hair so short and coarse it looked like a pelt. A thin face and a compact, neat little body. Everyone stirred as he paused at the doorway, lit a cigarette and strode to the bar. He kept his eyes down as he walked, just as I had done. Let them get a look at you before you look back.

He took his time, this young man. Stood very square at the bar, refusing Older Miss Brown’s offer of a seat. Ordered a baby tolly, which I thought very sweet. Then he continued to smoke, watching his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

My policeman wouldn’t act like that. He would smile and nod, greet strangers warmly, show an interest in his surroundings. I allowed myself to picture the scene: the two of us making our entrance, shaking our coats free of rain. Older Miss Brown would ask if we were both tolerably well, and we would tell her that we were more than that, thank you, and would exchange a knowing smile before retiring to our usual table. All eyes would be on us, the gorgeous young man and his handsome gentleman. We’d discuss the film or show we’d been to see. There would be, as we stood to leave, a touch on the shoulder – I would touch my policeman’s shoulder in a slight but unmistakable gesture, a gesture that said,
Come along, darling, it’s getting late, let’s go home to bed
.

But he would never step into a place like this. If he’s come across the snatchers in vice squad by now, he’s sure to know about it. The signs suggest that he’s a sensible young man,
though
. Capable of being different. Capable of resistance. (I am so buoyant at the moment that I am incredibly, naively optimistic, despite my hangover.)

I ordered another dry martini.

And then I thought: why not? The young man at the bar hadn’t yet been bought a drink, and was looking into his empty glass. So I positioned myself next to him. Not too close. Body facing away from his, into the room.