My Policeman (23 page)

And so, a few minutes later, we were strolling arm in arm towards the noise and lights of the Palace Pier.

My bouclé jacket was a pretty flimsy affair, and I clung to Tom’s arm as we sheltered beneath one of the hotel’s umbrellas. I was glad there’d been only one available, so we had to share. We rushed across King’s Road, were splashed by a passing bus, and Tom paid for us to go through the turnstiles. The
wind
threatened to blow our umbrella into the sea, but Tom kept a firm grip, despite the waves foaming around the pier’s iron legs and throwing shingle up the beach. We battled past the sodden deckchairs, fortune-tellers and doughnut stalls, my hair coarsening in the wind, and my hand, clutching the umbrella above Tom’s, going numb. Tom’s face and body seemed set in a determined grimace against the weather.

‘Let’s go back …’ I began, but the wind must have stolen my voice, for Tom ploughed ahead and shouted, ‘Helter-skelter? House of Hades? Or ghost train?’

It was then I started to laugh. What else could I do, Patrick? Here was I, on my honeymoon, battered by a wet wind on the Palace Pier, when our warm hotel bedroom – bed still immaculately made – was only yards away, and my new husband was asking me to choose between fairground rides.

‘I’m for the helter-skelter,’ I said, and started running towards the blue and red striped turret. The slide – then called ‘The Joy Glide’ – was such a familiar sight, and yet I’d never actually been down it. Suddenly it seemed like a good idea. My feet were soaked and freezing, and moving them at least warmed them a little. (Tom has never felt the cold, did you notice that? A little later in our marriage, I wondered if all that sea swimming had developed a protective layer of seal-like fat, just beneath the surface of his skin. And whether that explained his lack of response to my touch. My tough, beautiful sea creature.)

The girl in the booth – black pigtails and pale pink lipstick – took our money and handed us a couple of mats. ‘One at a time,’ she ordered. ‘No sharing mats.’

It was a relief to get inside the wooden tower, out of the wind. Tom followed me up the stairs. Every ten or so steps, we caught a glimpse of the grey sky outside. The further we
ascended
, the louder the wind howled. Halfway to the top, something made me stop and say, ‘Hang her. We can share a mat. We’re newly-weds.’ And I threw mine down the stairs. It landed with a whump, having narrowly missed Tom’s startled face. He laughed nervously. ‘Will there be room?’ he asked, but I ignored him and ran the rest of the way to the top without stopping. The floorboards of the narrow platform thrummed in the wind. I took in great gulps of salty air. From there, I could see the lights coming on in all the rooms of the Ship Hotel, and I thought again of our bed with its thick cover and its sheets ironed to perfect slipperiness.

‘Hurry up,’ I called. ‘I can’t get down without you.’

When he emerged, he looked very pale, and before I could think about it, I stepped forward, grasped his face between my hands and kissed his cold mouth. It was a brief kiss, but his lips didn’t stiffen, and afterwards, as if catching his breath, he leant his head on my shoulder. He was shaking a little, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At last. He had responded to me.

Then he said, ‘Marion. You’ll think I’m a coward, but I don’t like heights very much.’

I looked out over the churning sea and tried to take in this information. Tom Burgess, sea-swimmer and policeman, was afraid because he was standing at the top of a helter-skelter. Up until that moment, he’d seemed wholly capable, unflappable, even. And now here was this weakness. And here was my chance to tend to him. I held him close, smelling the newness of his suit, and was surprised by the warmth of him, even in this cold, exposed spot. I could have suggested we walk back down the steps, but I knew his pride would be wounded, and I also did not want to forfeit my chance of sharing a mat with my new husband, the two of us clinging to each other as we rushed down the slide. ‘We’d better go down, then,
hadn’t
we?’ I said. ‘I’ll get on first, and you sit behind.’

He was holding on to the rail, his eyes fixed on my face, and I knew I had only to suggest an action for him to perform it; if I just kept talking in my best soothing-but-firm schoolteacher’s voice, he would do anything I asked. Nodding dumbly, he watched as I sat on the prickly mat. ‘Come on,’ I instructed. ‘We’ll be down in no time.’

He sat behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I leant into him, feeling his belt buckle against the small of my back. The wind blew about us, and at least a hundred feet below, the sea foamed.

‘Ready?’

His thighs were squeezing the breath out of me. I heard a grunt, took it for a ‘yes’, and pushed us off as strongly as I could. As soon as we moved, Tom gripped me tighter. We gathered speed around the first bend, and on the next we were going so fast that even I thought we might crash through the side and sail out over the water. Blaring music, coming from the pier’s tannoy, warped and waved as we went, and the greyness of the day became a sudden blast of refreshing air, a thrilling glimpse of the waves below. For a moment, it seemed as if there were nothing between us and the deep, save for a square of raffia mat. I screamed in delight, Tom’s clinging thighs forcing my squeals to a higher pitch, and it wasn’t until we were nearly at the bottom that I realised it wasn’t just me making a noise; Tom was wailing, too.

We overshot the end of the slide by quite some distance and crashed into the fence surrounding the mats. Our limbs were tangled in all sorts of impossible ways, but Tom was still gripping me around the waist. I began to laugh wildly, my wet cheek touching his, his breath heavy on my neck. At that moment, everything in me relaxed, and I thought – it’s going
to
be all right. Tom needs me. We are married and it’s going to be just fine.

Tom disentangled his body from mine and brushed his suit down.

‘Shall we do it again?’ I asked, jumping up.

He rubbed at his face. ‘God, no …’ he groaned. ‘Please don’t make me.’

‘I’m your wife. It’s our honeymoon. And I want to go again,’ I said, laughing and tugging at his hand. His fingers, I noticed, were slippery with sweat.

‘Can’t we just go for a cup of tea?’

‘Certainly not.’

Tom eyed me uncertainly, not sure if I was joking. ‘Why don’t you go again, and I’ll watch,’ he suggested, fetching the umbrella from the stand at the side of the booth.

‘But it’s no fun without you,’ I pouted.

I was enjoying this new feeling of careless flirtation, but again Tom seemed unsure how to react.

After a pause, he said, ‘As your husband, I am commanding you to come back to the hotel with me.’ And he slipped an arm around my waist.

We kissed once, very softly, and without a word I let him lead me back to the Ship.

All through dinner I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing at the slightest thing. Perhaps it was the relief of the wedding being over, perhaps it was the excitement of the helter-skelter, perhaps it was the anticipation of what was to come. Whatever it was, I had a breathless feeling of rushing towards something, headlong, unheeding.

Tom grinned, nodded, responded with a chuckle when I completed a long monologue about why the hotel was very
like
an old ship (the creaking floors, the flapping doors, the wind battering the windows, the staff looking a little seasick), but I got the impression he was simply waiting for this slightly hysterical mood to pass. I rushed on regardless, eating hardly a thing, drinking too much Burgundy, and laughing openly at the waiter’s waddling gait.

In our room, Tom switched on the bedside lamps and hung up his jacket whilst I collapsed on the bed, giggling. He’d ordered two glasses of Scotch to be brought up to us; when the boy appeared at the door with a small tray, Tom thanked him in the poshest voice I’d ever heard him use (he must have learned it from you), and I giggled all the more.

He sat on the edge of the bed, drank back his whisky, and said, ‘Why are you laughing?’

‘I suppose I must be happy,’ I replied, gulping down a burning swig of Scotch.

‘That’s good,’ he said. And then: ‘Shall we get ready for bed? It’s late.’ I liked the first half of that sentence: he’d used the word
bed
; but I didn’t much care for the second, with its tone of practicality, its suggestion of sleep. ‘Do you want to use the bathroom?’ he continued.

He was still using the quiet, drawn-out, slightly upper-class tone he’d tried out on the boy at the door. I sat fully upright, my head swimming a little. No, I wanted to say. No, I don’t want to use the bathroom. I want you to undress me, here on the bed. I want you to unzip my skirt, unhook my new lacy bra, and gasp at the beauty of my naked breasts.

Of course I said nothing of the kind. Instead, I went into the bathroom, slammed the door, sat on the edge of the tub and suppressed the urge to giggle. I took several deep breaths. Was Tom undressing on the other side of the door? Should I surprise him by bursting into the room wearing only my slip?
I
looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were blotchy and the wine had stained my lips brown. Did I look different now I was married? Would I look different in the morning?

When we’d first arrived at the hotel I’d unpacked my new apricot rayon nightdress and hung it on the back of the bathroom door, hoping Tom would spot it and be tantalised by the sight of its plunging neckline, the long split up one side. Leaving my skirt and twinset in a heap on the floor, I now pulled the nightdress over my head and combed my hair until it crackled. Then I brushed my teeth and opened the door.

The bedroom was dim. Tom had turned off all the lights, apart from the lamp on his side of the bed. Between the sheets and the pillow, his pyjama-jacketed shoulders lay straight and still. His eyes followed me as I approached the bed, pulled back the sheet and climbed in beside him. By this point, my heart was clattering about in my chest, and the urge to laugh had left me completely. What would I do if he merely switched off the light, said good night and turned his back to me? What, Patrick, could I possibly have done about that? As we lay there, not moving, my teeth began to chatter. I could not be the one to touch him first. We were finally married, but I had no right, I felt, to make any demands. As far as I knew, physical demands could not be made by wives. Women who pleaded for sexual contact were abhorrent, unnatural.

‘You look nice,’ said Tom, and I turned to smile at him, but he’d already turned off the light. My body stiffened. So that was it, then. Sleep was all that lay ahead. There was the longest silence. Then his hand brushed my cheek. ‘All right?’ he asked, softly, and I had no answer.

‘Marion? Are you all right?’ I nodded, and he must have felt the movement, because his big body shifted towards mine, and then his lips were on my mouth. Such warm lips. I wanted
to
lose myself then. I wanted that kiss to transport me, as the novels I’d read suggested it would. And it did, a little; I opened my mouth to let more of Tom in. Then he began to tug at my nightdress, pulling great handfuls of it up around my waist. I tried to move to make it easier for him, but it was difficult to do so when his other hand was on my hip, pinning me to the bed. My breath quickened; I stroked his face. ‘Oh Tom,’ I whispered, and saying it made me feel as though this was actually happening to me, here and now, in this pristine bed in the Old Ship Hotel. My new husband was making love to me. Tom planted his elbows on either side of my shoulders and heaved his whole body on to mine. I placed my hands on the small of his back and realised he’d taken off his pyjama bottoms. I let my hands stray to his buttocks, which were smoother than I could ever have imagined. He took a few lunges towards me. I knew he was nowhere near the target, but could say nothing. For one thing, I was holding my breath. For another, I didn’t want to spoil things by uttering something inappropriate.

After a while, he paused, panting slightly, and said, ‘Do you think you could – open your legs a bit more?’

I did as I was asked, thankful to shift down beneath him and wrap my thighs about his hips. He made no sound as he managed to enter me. What I felt was a sharp pain, but I told myself this would pass. We were there now. Ecstasy couldn’t be far away.

And it was wonderful, holding on to Tom as he moved in me, feeling his sweat on my fingers, his breath hot at my neck. Just the unbelievable closeness of him had a wonder about it.

But Patrick, I knew even then – although I doubt I admitted this to myself at the time – that the delicacy with which he’d held me during our swimming lessons was absent. As he made
his
thrusts, I found myself picturing that scene once again, imagining how I’d gone under and Tom had found me, how he’d held me at the waist as I’d floated in the salty water, how he’d carried me back to shore.

Suddenly Tom held his breath, made one last thrust that caused me almost to moan in pain, then collapsed by my side.

I stroked his hair. When he’d got his breath back he said, very quietly, ‘Was that all right?’ but I couldn’t reply because by then I was weeping, using my every muscle to do it silently and without moving. It was the relief of it all, and the wonder of it, and the disappointment. So I pretended not to have heard his question, and he kissed my hand, turned over and went to sleep.

I tell you all this, Patrick, so you’ll know how it was between me and Tom. So you’ll know there was tenderness, as well as pain. So you’ll know how we failed, both of us, but also how we both tried.