My Policeman (21 page)

I don’t sound convincing, even to myself. The truth is, I’m a little afraid that her red hair and assured manner have turned his head. That she can offer him something I cannot. Security, for a start. Respectability (she has that in spades, although she may not be aware of it). And perhaps a promotion.

She does look to be a worthy rival. I could see her steadfastness – or was it stubbornness? – in the way she waited for my policeman to hold the door of the café open for her, and the way she watched his face carefully whenever he spoke, as if trying to fathom his real meaning. Miss Taylor is a determined young woman, I’ve no doubt of that. And a very serious one.

As we walked back to the museum, she held on to my policeman’s arm, steering him ahead.

‘Next Tuesday evening,’ I said to him, ‘as usual?’

She gazed at him, her large mouth fixed in a straight line, as he said, ‘’Course.’

I placed a hand on my policeman’s shoulder. ‘And I want you both to come to the opera with me in the new year.
Carmen
at Covent Garden. My treat.’

He beamed. But Miss Taylor piped up: ‘We couldn’t possibly. It’s too much …’

‘Of course you can. Tell her she can.’

With a nod in her direction, he said, ‘It’s all right, Marion. We can pay something towards it.’

‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ I turned my back on her and looked him in the face. ‘I’ll let you know the details Tuesday.’

I said my farewells and headed down Bond Street, hoping she was noting the way I swung my arms.

LAST NIGHT, VERY
late, he came to the flat.

‘You did like her, didn’t you?’

I was groggy from sleep and had stumbled from bed in just my pyjamas, still half dreaming of him, and there he was: tense-faced, damp-haired from the night. Standing on the doorstep. Asking for my opinion.

‘For God’s sake come in,’ I hissed. ‘You’ll wake the neighbours.’

I led the way upstairs and into the sitting room. Switching on a table lamp I saw the time: a quarter to two in the morning.

‘Drink?’ I asked, gesturing towards the cabinet. ‘Or tea, perhaps?’

He was standing on my rug just as he had when he first visited – upright, nervous – and he was staring directly at me with an intensity I hadn’t seen before.

I rubbed my eyes. ‘What?’

‘I asked you a question.’

Not this again, I thought. The suspect-interrogator routine. ‘Rather late, isn’t it?’ I said, not caring if I sounded peevish.

He said nothing. Waited.

‘Look. Why don’t we have a cup of tea? I’m not quite awake.’

Without giving him time to argue, I fetched my dressing gown, then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

He followed me. ‘You didn’t like her.’

‘Go and sit down, won’t you? I need tea. Then we can talk.’

‘Why won’t you tell me?’

‘I will!’ I laughed and stepped towards him, but something in the way he was standing – so steady and straight, as if ready to spring – stopped me from touching him.

‘I just need a moment to gather my thoughts—’

The kettle’s scream interrupted us and I busied myself with measuring, pouring and stirring, aware all the while of his refusal to move.

‘Let’s sit.’ I held out a cup.

‘I don’t want tea, Patrick …’

‘I was dreaming of you,’ I said. ‘If you want to know. And now here you are. It’s a little strange. And lovely. And it’s late. Please. Let’s just sit down.’

He relented, and we sat at opposite ends of the chesterfield. Seeing him so twitchy and insistent, I knew what I had to do. And so I said: ‘She’s a super girl. And a lucky one.’

Immediately his face brightened, his shoulders relaxed. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought perhaps you didn’t, you know, take to her.’

I sighed. ‘It’s not up to me, is it? It’s your decision …’

‘I’d hate to think the two of you couldn’t get along.’

‘We got along fine, didn’t we?’

‘She liked
you
. She told me. She thinks you’re a real gent.’

‘Does she.’

‘She meant it.’

Perhaps due to the late hour, or perhaps in reaction to this declaration of Miss Taylor’s appreciation, I could hide my irritation no longer. ‘Look,’ I snapped, ‘I can’t stop you seeing her. I know that. But don’t expect it to change things.’

‘What things?’

‘The way things are with us.’

We looked at each other for a long moment.

Then he smiled. ‘Were you really dreaming of me?’

After I gave my seal of approval, he rewarded me richly. For the first time, he came to my bed and he stayed the whole night.

I’d almost forgotten the joy of waking up and, before you’ve even opened your eyes, knowing by the shape of the mattress beneath you, by the warmth of the sheets, that he’s still there.

I awoke to the wonder of his shoulders. He has the most pleasing back. Strong from all that swimming, with a soft tuft of hair at the very bottom of his spine, like the beginnings of a tail. His chest and legs are covered in wiry blond fuzz. Last night I put my mouth to his stomach, took small bites at the hair there, was surprised by the toughness of it between my teeth.

I watched the movement of his shoulders as he breathed, his skin lightening as the sun came through the curtains. When I touched his neck he awoke with a start, sat up and looked about the room.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘Christ,’ he replied.

‘Not quite,’ I smiled. ‘Just Patrick.’

‘Christ,’ he said again. ‘What time is it?’

He swung his legs out of the bed, barely giving me time to appreciate the sculptural marvel that is the whole of him, naked, before stepping into his underpants and pulling on his trousers.

‘After eight, I should think.’

‘Christ!’ he said again, louder. ‘I’m supposed to start at six. Christ!’

Whilst he hopped about, looking for various items of clothing that had been abandoned in the night, I pulled on a dressing gown. It was clear that all efforts at conversation, let alone a rekindling of intimacy, were useless.

‘Coffee?’ I offered, as he headed for the door.

‘I’ll get a bollocking for this.’

I followed him into the sitting room, where he grabbed his overcoat.

‘Wait.’

He stopped and looked at me, and I reached out and smoothed down a clump of his hair.

‘I’ve got to go—’

I delayed him with a firm kiss on the mouth. Then I opened the door and checked no one was about. ‘Off you go, then,’ I whispered. ‘Be good. And don’t let anyone see you on the stairs.’

Absolutely reckless, really, to let him leave at that hour. But I was in that state again. The state where anything seems possible. When he was gone, I put
Quando me’n vo’ soletta per la via
on the record-player. Turned the volume up to maximum. Waltzed around the flat, alone, until I was giddy. That’s what Mother says.
I’ve gone all giddy
. It’s a wonderful feeling.

Luckily it was a quiet morning. I managed to spend most of it locked in my office, looking out of the window, remembering my policeman’s touches.

That was quite enough to fill the hours until about two o’ clock, at which time I suddenly realised I had no idea when I would see him again. Perhaps, I thought, our one night together would be the last. Perhaps his rushing to work was just an excuse.
A
way to escape from my flat, from me, and from what had happened, as quickly as possible. I had to see him, if only for a minute. The whole thing, already dreamlike in its improbability, would crumble if I did not. I could not allow that to happen.

So when Jackie came in to ask if I would like tea, I told her I was on my way to an urgent meeting and wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. ‘Shall I tell Mr Houghton?’ she asked, her mouth curling a little at one side.

‘No need,’ I said, pushing past her before she could ask anything else.

Outside, the afternoon was crisp and cold. The intensity of the sun convinced me I had made the right decision. The pavilion glowed a rich cream. The fountains on the Steine glittered.

Once in the fresh air, some of my urgency seemed to pass. I trotted along the seafront, welcoming the icy breeze on my face. Took in the glaring whiteness of the Regency terraces. Reflected for the umpteenth time how lucky I am to live in this town. Brighton is the very edge of England, and there’s a sense here that we’re almost somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far away from the hedged-in gloom of Surrey, the damp, sunken streets of Oxford. Things can happen here that would not elsewhere, even if they’re only fleeting. Here, not only can I touch my policeman, he can stay with me all night, his heavy thigh clamping mine to the mattress. The thought of it was so outrageous, so ludicrous and yet so real that I let out a laugh, right there on Marine Parade. A woman passing in the other direction smiled at me in the manner of someone humouring a maniac. Still chuckling, I turned up Burlington Street and headed to Bloomsbury Place.

There was the police box, no bigger than a privy, the blue light weak in the sun. To my delight, there was no bicycle
propped
outside. A bicycle outside means a visit from the sergeant; he’s told me that. Still, I stopped and looked up and down the street. No one to be seen. In the distance, the soft crash of the sea. The frosted windows of the box gave nothing away. But I trusted he would be in there. Waiting for me.

What an ideal location, I thought, for a tryst. Inside we’d be hidden, but we’d be in a public place. A police box offers both seclusion and excitement. Who could ask for more? Love in a police box. It could be one of those rather wonderful paperbacks that are available by mail order only.

Giddy. And anything seemed possible.

I knocked loudly at the door. DUM-de, went my heart. DUM-de. DUM-de. DUM-de.

POLICE, said the sign. IN AN EMERGENCY, CALL FROM HERE.

This did feel something like an emergency.

As soon as the door opened, I said, ‘Forgive me,’ and had a fancy I was like a Catholic boy begging for a confession.

There was a pause as he registered what was happening. Then, first checking the coast was clear, he grabbed my lapel and pulled me inside, slamming the door closed. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he hissed.

I brushed myself down. ‘I know, I know …’

‘Isn’t it enough that I get a bollocking for being late? Do you have to make things worse?’ He puffed out his cheeks, held his forehead.

I apologised, kept smiling. Giving him time to get over the shock of seeing me, I looked around the place. It was pretty gloomy in there, but there was an electric heater in the corner, and on the shelf was a sandwich box and a Thermos flask. I suddenly pictured his mother cutting him triangles of meat-paste-filled
white
bread and felt a new rush of love for him.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea?’ I asked.

‘I’m on duty.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘so am I. Well, I’m supposed to be. I crept out of the office.’

‘That’s completely different. You can break the rules. I can’t.’ As he said this, he hung his head a little, like a sulky boy.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I reached out to touch his arm, but he moved away.

There was a pause. ‘I came to give you these.’ I held out a set of keys to my flat. I keep spares in the office. An impulse. An excuse. A way to win him over. ‘So you can come by whenever you like. Even if I’m not there.’

He looked at the keys but made no move to take them. So I placed them on the shelf, next to his flask. ‘I’ll go then,’ I sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.’ But instead of turning for the door, I caught hold of the top button of his jacket. I kept a tight grip on it, feeling its coolness between my fingertips. I didn’t undo it. I just held on until it warmed in my hand.

‘It’s just,’ I said, moving down to the next button and holding it fast, ‘I can’t seem to …’

He didn’t flinch, or make a sound, so I moved down to the next button: ‘… stop thinking …’

Next button: ‘… about your beauty.’

His breath quickened as I worked my way down, and as I reached the final button, his hand caught my own. Gently he guided two of my fingers into his open mouth. His lips so hot on that cold day. He sucked and sucked, making me gasp. He is greedy for me, I know it. Just as greedy as I am for him.

Then he took my fingers from his lips and, pressing them against his groin, he asked, ‘Can you share?’

‘Share?’

‘Can you share me?’

I felt him harden, and I nodded. ‘If that’s what it takes. Yes. I can share.’

And then I was on my knees before him.

WATCHING YOU LOOK
out of your window at the rain, I wonder if you remember the day Tom and I were married, and how it poured like it would never stop. Probably that day seems more real to you than this one, a Wednesday in November in Peacehaven at the end of the twentieth century, where there is no relief from the drabness of the sky or the wailing of the wind at the windows. It certainly seems more real to me.

The twenty-ninth of March 1958. My wedding day, and it rained and rained. Not just a spring shower that might have dampened frocks and freshened faces, but an absolute downpour. I woke to the sound of water hammering on our roof, clattering down the guttering. At the time it seemed like good luck, like some sort of baptism into a new life. I lay in my bed, picturing cleansing torrents, thinking of Shakespearean heroines beached on foreign shores, their past lives washed away, facing brave new worlds.

We’d had a very short engagement – less than a month. Tom seemed keen to get on with things, and so, of course, was I. Looking back, I’ve often wondered about his haste. At the time it was thrilling, this dizzy rush into marriage, and it was flattering, too. But now I suspect he wanted to get it over with, before he changed his mind.

Outside the church, the path was treacherous beneath my sateen shoes, and my pillbox hat and short veil gave me no
protection
. All the daffodil heads were bent and battered, but I walked tall down that path, taking my time, despite my father’s impatience to reach the relative safety of the porch. Once there, I expected him to say something, to confess his pride or his fears, but he was silent, and when he adjusted my veil, his hand shook. I think to myself now: I should have been aware of the significance of that moment. It was the last time my father could make any claim to be the most important man in my life. And he was not a bad father. He never hit me, rarely raised his voice. When Mum wouldn’t stop crying over the fact that I was going to the grammar, Dad offered me a sly wink. He’d never said I was good or bad, or anything in between. I think, more than anything, I puzzled him; but he didn’t punish me for that. I should have been able to say something to my father at that moment, on the threshold of my new life with another man. But, of course, Tom was waiting for me, and I could think only of him.