My Policeman (20 page)

He lashed out an arm. Instinctively I ducked, but no blow came. I was almost disappointed. I’m ashamed to admit that I’d wanted his hands on me, whatever it took. Instead of
meeting
my cheek, his fist went to his own temple and he ground his flesh with his knuckles. Then he made a strange sound – something between a gargle and a sob. His face creased into a terrible red mask, his eyes and mouth clenched.

‘Don’t,’ I said, standing and putting a hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t.’

We stood together for a long time while he fought to get his breathing back under control. Finally he brought a forearm to his face and dragged it back and forth across his eyes. ‘Can I have a drink?’ he asked.

I fetched us some drinks and we sat together on the sofa, cradling our brandies. I kept trying to think of something to say that would reassure him, but could come up with nothing but platitudes, so kept my silence. And slowly, his face cooled, his shoulders relaxed.

I poured myself another and ventured: ‘You’re not a coward. It’s brave of you to come here at all.’

He looked into his glass. ‘How do you do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘Live … this life?’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That.’

Where to begin? I had a sudden desire to stand up and stride about like a barrister, telling him a truth or two about
this life
, as he put it. Meaning my life. Meaning the lives of others. Meaning the morally dissolute. The sexually criminal. Meaning those whom society has condemned to isolation, fear and self-loathing.

But I restrained myself. I didn’t want to scare the boy.

‘I don’t have much choice. I suppose I just jog along …’ I began. ‘Over the years, one learns …’ I trailed off. What does one learn? To fear all strangers, and distrust even those
close
to you? To dissemble whenever possible? That utter loneliness is inevitable? That your lover of eight years will never stay more than one night, will become ever more distant, until you finally break into his room and find his cold, grey, vomit-encrusted body slumped across the bed?

No, not that.

Perhaps, then, that despite all this, the idea of
normality
fills you with complete dread?

‘Well. One learns to live as one can.’ I took a long drink of brandy and added, ‘As one must.’ I tried to put all images of Michael out of my head. It was the smell in there that was so awful. The sweet, rotting closeness of death by medication. Such a cliché. I thought it even then, holding his poor, beautiful body in my arms. They’d won. He’d let them win.

I’m still furious with him for that.

‘Didn’t you ever think of getting married?’

I almost laughed, but his face was grave. ‘There was a girl once,’ I said, relieved to think of something else. ‘We got along well. I suppose it may have crossed my mind … but, no. I knew it would be impossible.’

Alice. I hadn’t thought about her for the longest time. Last night I played it down to my policeman, but it all came back to me: that moment, at Oxford, when I thought perhaps marriage to Alice would be the best solution. We enjoyed one another’s company. We even went to dances, although after a few weeks I sensed she wanted something to happen
after
the dance. Something I could not make happen. But she was cheerful, kind, open-minded even, and it did occur to me that with Alice as a wife I might be able to escape my minority status. I would have access to easy respectability. I’d have someone to look after me who might not make too many demands. Who might even understand if I suffered the
occasional
lapse … And I was fond of her. Many marriages, I knew, were based on much less than that. Then Michael and I became lovers. Poor Alice. I think she knew what – or rather, who – was keeping me from her, but she never caused a scene. Scenes weren’t Alice’s style, which was one of the things I liked about her.

‘I’m planning to marry,’ said my policeman.

‘Planning?’ I took a breath. ‘You’re engaged, do you mean?’

‘No. But I’m thinking about it.’

I put my glass down. ‘You wouldn’t be the first.’ I tried a laugh. If I could make light of it, I thought, we could get off the subject. And the sooner we got off the subject, the sooner he might forget all this nonsense and we might get to bed. I knew what he was doing. I’ve experienced it a few times before. The post-consummation straight talk.
I’m not queer. You know that, don’t you? I’ve got a wife and kids at home. This has never happened to me before
.

‘Thinking about it and doing it are entirely different propositions,’ I said, stretching a hand towards his knee.

But he wasn’t listening. He wanted to talk.

‘The other day I was called in to see the guv. And d’you know what he asked me? He said,
When are you going to make some girl a respectable policeman’s wife?
’

‘The impudence!’

‘It’s not the first time he’s mentioned it …
Some bachelors
, he says,
some bachelors have found it hard to rise through the ranks in this division
.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Not much. ’Course, they’re coming down hard on all of us now, what with the Chief being in the dock … Everyone’s got to be whiter than white.’

I knew all that business wouldn’t be good for us. ‘You
could’ve
told him you’re far too young to be married and it’s none of his beeswax.’

He laughed. ‘Listen to you.
Beeswax
.’

‘What’s wrong with
beeswax
?’

He just shook his head. ‘There’s plenty married much younger than me.’

‘And look at the state they’re in.’

He shrugged. Then gave me a sideways glance. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?’

His tone was so deliberately offhand that I knew he’d someone in mind. That he was already planning it. And I guessed it was the teacher he’d mentioned, that day I showed him Icarus. Why else would he mention her at all? I’d been so utterly stupid.

And so I said, as brightly as I could, ‘It’s the girl you mentioned, isn’t it?’

He swallowed. ‘We’re just friends, at the moment. Nothing serious, you know.’

He was lying.

‘Well. It’s as I said. I’d like to meet her.’

I have no choice, I know that. I can pretend she doesn’t exist and risk losing him altogether, or I can put myself through the ordeal and keep a crumb of him.

I could even work on putting him off the woman.

So we’ve arranged that she will come to the museum some time soon. I deliberately avoided setting a precise date with the rather pathetic hope that he might forget the whole thing.

And he’s agreed to sit and finish the portrait. I will get him on paper, whatever it takes.

IT’S SUNDAY MORNING
and I’ve packed a picnic for us. Listen to me.
Us
.

Yesterday I bought ox tongue from Brampton’s, a couple of beers for him, a good hunk of Roquefort, a jar of olives and two iced buns. I chose everything whilst thinking of what my policeman might like to eat, but also of what I might like him to try. Dithered over whether to include napkins and a bottle of champagne. In the end decided to put both in. Why not try to impress him, after all?

All of which is utterly ludicrous, not least because it’s the coldest morning of the year so far. The sun has retreated, a wet fog hangs over the beach, and I saw my breath in the lav first thing. But he’s coming at twelve and I’m to drive him in the Fiat to Cuckmere Haven. Really I should take a flask of tea and a couple of warm blankets. Perhaps I’ll put those in too, just in case we fail to get out of the car.

Still, the gloominess of the day bodes well for our privacy. Nothing spoils an outing more than too many suspicious glances. I hope he wears some sort of hiking gear, so as to at least look the part. Michael always refused to wear tweed of any kind and did not possess even one pair of stout walking shoes – one of the reasons we usually stayed indoors. Of course, there are places in the countryside where few people ever appear, but those that do can be a lumpen lot, glaring with
weather-beaten
eyes at anyone who fails to look just as they do. One learns to ignore a certain amount, but I can’t bear the thought of my policeman sullied by those enraged looks.

Must go and check the Fiat’s starting all right.

He arrived on time. The usual jeans, T-shirt, ankle boots. And the long grey coat over the top. ‘What?’ he asked as I looked him up and down. ‘Nothing,’ I said, smiling. ‘Nothing.’

I drove recklessly. Stealing glances at him whenever I could. Throwing the car around corners. My foot on the accelerator giving me such a feeling of power that I almost started to laugh.

‘You drive too fast,’ he observed as we took the coast road out of town.

‘Are you going to arrest me?’

He gave a short laugh. ‘I didn’t think you were the type, that’s all.’

‘Appearances,’ I said, ‘can be deceptive.’

I asked him to tell me all about himself. ‘Start at the beginning,’ I said. ‘I want to know everything about you.’

He shrugged. ‘Not much to tell.’

‘I
know
that’s not true,’ I implored, throwing an adoring look his way.

He looked out of the window. Sighed. ‘You know most of it already. I told you. School. Rubbish. National Service. Boring. Police force. Not so bad. And swimming …’

‘What about your family? Your parents? Siblings?’

‘What about them?’

‘What are they like?’

‘They’re … you know. All right. Ordinary.’

I tried a different tack. ‘What do you want out of life?’

He said nothing for a bit, then this: ‘What I want, right now, is to know about you. That’s what I want.’

So I did the talking. I could almost
feel
him listening, he was so eager to hear what I had to say. Of course, that’s the greatest flattery: a willing ear. So I went on, and on, about life at Oxford, the years I spent trying to make a living from painting, how I got the job at the museum, my beliefs about art. I promised to take him to the opera, to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall, and to all the major galleries in London. He’d already been, he said, to the National. On a school outing. I asked him what he remembered of the place, and he mentioned Caravaggio’s
Supper at Emmaus
: the clean-shaven Christ. ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off him,’ he said. ‘Jesus without a beard. It was really strange.’

‘Strange as in wonderful?’

‘Maybe. It didn’t seem right, but it was more real than anything else in the place.’

I agreed. And we’ve made a plan to go together next weekend.

The fog was worse around Seaford, and by the time we reached Cuckmere Haven the road in front seemed to have disappeared completely. The Fiat was the only vehicle in the car park. I said we didn’t have to walk – we could just talk. And eat. And whatever else took our fancy. But he was determined. ‘We’ve come all this way,’ he said, letting himself out of the car. It was quite a disappointment, to have him spring away from me like that, no longer held captive.

The river, with its slow meander down to the sea, was lost to us in the fog. All we could see was the grey chalk of the path, and the foot – not the tops – of the hills along one side.
Through
the fog came the occasional glimpse of the dumb bulk of a sheep. Nothing more.

My policeman strode slightly ahead, hands in pockets. As we walked, we fell to a comfortable silence. It was as though we were cushioned by the quiet, forgiving fog. We saw not another soul. Heard nothing apart from our own feet on the path. I said we should head back – this was useless: we could see nothing at all of river, downs or sky. And I was hungry; I’d packed a picnic and I wanted to eat. He turned to look at me. ‘We need to get a look at the sea first,’ he said.

After a while I could hear the suck and rush of the Channel, even if I couldn’t see the beach. My policeman’s pace increased, and I followed. Once there, we stood side by side on the steep bank of pebbles, staring into the grey mist. He inhaled deeply. ‘It’d be good swimming here,’ he said.

‘We’ll come back. In the spring.’

He looked at me. That smile playing on his lips. ‘Or sooner. We could come one night.’

‘It’d be cold,’ I said.

‘It’d be secret,’ he said.

I touched his shoulder. ‘Let’s come back when the sun’s out. When it’s warm. Then we’ll swim together.’

‘But I like it like this. Just us and the fog.’

I laughed. ‘For a policeman, you’re very romantic.’

‘For an artist, you’re very afraid,’ he said.

My answer to that was to kiss him hard on the mouth.

WE’VE BEEN MEETING
some lunchtimes, when he can get a long break. But he has not forgotten the schoolteacher. And yesterday, for the first time, he brought her with him.

What a great effort I made to be charming and welcoming. They are so obviously mismatched that I had to smile when I saw them together. She is almost as tall as he is, made no attempt to disguise it (wearing heels), and is not nearly as handsome as him. But I suppose I would think so.

Having said that, there was something unusual about her. Perhaps it’s her red hair. So coppery that no one could fail to notice it. Or perhaps it’s the way that, unlike many young women, she does not look away when you meet her eye.

Having met them at the museum, I led them both to the Clock Tower Café, which has become my policeman’s and my favourite haunt for the kind of hearty, no-nonsense meals that I sometimes crave. At any rate, it’s always wonderful to be in the greasy fug of the place after the dry silence of the museum, and I was determined to make no effort whatsoever to impress Miss Marion Taylor. I knew she would be expecting silver cutlery and a tablecloth, so I offered her the Clock Tower. Not the sort of place a schoolteacher likes to be seen. I can tell, just from those heels, that she’s the upwardly mobile type and she wants to drag my policeman up with her. She’ll have
his
future mapped out in kitchenettes, television sets and washing machines.

But I am being unfair. I have to keep reminding myself that I should give her a chance. That my best tactic is to get her on side. If I can make her trust me, then it will be easier to keep seeing him. And why shouldn’t she trust me? After all, we both have my policeman’s best interests at heart. I’m sure she wants him to be happy. Just as I do.