My Policeman (22 page)

As I walked up the aisle, everyone but you looked round and smiled. But that didn’t matter to me. My shoes were soaked through and my stockings were splashed with mud and you were best man instead of Roy, which had caused some trouble, but none of it mattered. Even the fact that Tom wore the suit you’d bought for him (like yours, only grey rather than dark brown) instead of his uniform hardly registered with me. Because once I reached him, you passed him the ring that made me Mrs Tom Burgess.

We followed the ceremony with beer and sandwiches in the church hall, which smelled very like St Luke’s – all children’s plimsolls and overcooked beef. Sylvie, now actually pregnant, wore a plaid frock and sat smoking in the corner, watching Roy, who’d appeared to be drunk even before the reception started. I’d invited Julia, who I felt sure was becoming
a
firm friend, and she came wearing a jade-green two-piece and her wide smile. Did you talk to her, Patrick? I don’t recall. I just remember her trying to start up a conversation with my brother Harry, who kept looking past her towards Sylvie’s breasts. Tom’s parents were there, of course; his father kept slapping everyone on the shoulder, rather too hard (I suddenly saw that this was where Tom got it from). His mother’s shelf-like bosom was larger than ever and stuffed into a floral blouse. After the ceremony, she kissed me on the cheek and I smelled the slight staleness of her lipstick as she said ‘Welcome to the family’ and dabbed her eyes.

All I wanted was to leave that place with my new husband.

What did you say in your speech? At first no one listened very hard; they were all too keen to get to the luncheon-meat sandwiches and the bottles of Harvey’s. Still, you stood at the front of the hall and carried on regardless, while Tom looked around anxiously, and after a while, the sheer novelty of your fulsome, velvety voice with its Oxbridge vowels pricked people’s ears. Tom frowned a little as you explained how the two of you had met; it was the first time I’d heard about the lady on the bicycle, and you enjoyed yourself telling that story, pausing for comic effect before you repeated what Tom had said about her being a batty old bird, which made my father laugh uproariously. You said something about Tom and I making the perfect civilised couple – the policeman and the teacher. No one could accuse
us
of not paying our debt to society, and the people of Brighton could rest easy in their beds knowing that Tom was pounding the streets and I was attending to their children’s education. I wasn’t sure how serious you were, even at the time, but I felt a little twinge of pride as you said those things. Then you raised your glass in a toast, drank your half of stout down in a few gulps, said
something
to Tom that I couldn’t hear, patted him on the arm, firmly kissed my hand, and took your leave.

The night before the wedding, I went to Sylvie’s flat. I suppose this was what people would now call my ‘hen night’, since Tom had gone out with some of the boys on the force.

Sylvie and Roy had finally managed to move out of Roy’s mother’s place in Portslade, and their flat was in a new tower block, with lifts and large windows, overlooking the municipal market. The place had been occupied for only a few months; the corridors still smacked of wet cement and new paint. But when I entered the shiny lift, the doors opened smoothly.

Sylvie had irises on the wallpaper and the curtains in the living room, I remember – the deepest blue with yellow flecks. But everything else was modern; the sofa, with its low seat and thin arms, was covered in a slippery, cold fabric that must have been mostly plastic. ‘Dad felt sorry for us and shelled out,’ she said, seeing me glance at the sun-shaped wooden clock above the gas fire. ‘Guilty conscience.’

He’d refused to see Sylvie for months after the wedding.

‘Mackeson? Sit down, then.’

She was already quite big. Little, brittle Sylvie’s edges were blurring. ‘Don’t get yourself in the club as quick as me, will you? It’s bloody awful.’ She handed me a glass and lowered herself on to the sofa. ‘What’s really annoying,’ she continued, ‘is I didn’t even have to lie to Roy. As soon as we were married, I got pregnant anyway. He thinks I’m six months gone, but I know this baby’s going to be a late arrival.’ She nudged me and giggled. ‘I’m quite looking forward to it, really. My own little thing to cuddle.’

I remembered what she’d said on her wedding day about wishing she could do as she pleased, and I wondered what
had
happened to change her mind, but all I said was, ‘You’ve got it nice here.’

She nodded. ‘Not bad, is it? The council moved us in before it was finished – wallpaper was still damp – but it’s nice to be up high. Up in the clouds, we are.’

Four storeys up was hardly in the clouds, but I smiled. ‘Just where you should be, Sylvie.’

‘And where you must be, what with getting married tomorrow. Even if it is to my useless brother.’ She squeezed my knee and I felt myself blush with pleasure.

‘You really love him, don’t you?’ she asked.

I nodded.

Sylvie sighed. ‘He never comes to see me, you know. I know he’s fallen out with Roy good and proper over this best man thing, but he could come by when Roy’s not about, couldn’t he?’ She looked me in the face, her eyes wide and clear. ‘Will you ask him to, Marion? Tell him not to be a stranger.’

I said I would. I hadn’t realised Tom and Roy’s rift was quite so bad.

We drank our stout and Sylvie talked about baby clothes and how she was worried about getting the nappies dry in the flat. As she fetched more drinks and continued to chatter, I let my mind wander to the next day’s events, imagining myself on Tom’s arm, my red hair catching the sunlight. We’d be showered in confetti as he looked at me so intently, as if seeing me for the first time.
Radiant
. That would be the word to come to his mind.

‘Marion, you remember that thing I said to you, years ago, about Tom?’ Sylvie was on her third stout and was sitting very close to me.

I caught my breath and placed my drink on the arm of the sofa, just to be able to look away. ‘What thing?’ I asked, my
heart
beating a little faster. I knew full well to what she was referring.

‘That thing I said, about Tom not being, you know, like other men …’

That was not what she’d said, I thought. She had not said that. Not exactly.

‘Do you remember, Marion?’ Sylvie insisted.

I kept my eyes on the glass doors of her display cabinet. Inside, there was nothing but a blue jug with the words ‘Greetings from Camber Sands’ written on the side, and a photograph of Sylvie and Roy, unframed, on their wedding day, Sylvie’s downcast eyes making her look even younger than her years.

‘Not really,’ I lied.

‘Well. That’s good. Because I want you to forget it. I mean, none of us thought he’d get married, and now here you are …’

There was a small silence, and then I said, having managed to calm my heart by concentrating on the photograph of Sylvie’s wedding, ‘Yes. Here we are.’

Sylvie seemed to exhale. ‘So he must have changed, or maybe we were wrong, or something, but either way I want you to forget it, Marion. I feel awful about it.’

I looked at her. Although her face was pink and fleshy, it was still attractive, and I was back on that bench, listening to her tell me about how Roy had touched her and how I should give up all hope of ever gaining her brother’s affection.

‘I don’t even remember what you said, Sylvie,’ I stated. ‘So let’s just drop it, shall we?’

We sat in silence for a while. I could feel Sylvie groping around for the right thing to say. Eventually she came up with, ‘Soon we’ll both be married ladies, pushing our prams
along
the seafront.’ And for some reason, this utterance seemed to increase my irritation.

I stood up. ‘Actually, I plan to keep working at the school, so we’ll probably put off having children for a bit.’ The truth was, children hadn’t featured in my daydreams about marriage to Tom at all. I hadn’t even considered the prospect. I’d never imagined myself with a pram. I’d only imagined myself on his arm.

Making some excuse about having to rise early to make my preparations for the wedding, I fetched my coat. Sylvie said nothing. She walked with me into the chilly corridor and watched in silence as I waited for the lift.

When the lift doors opened, I didn’t look back to say goodbye, but Sylvie called out: ‘Get Tom to come here, won’t you?’ and, still not looking back, I grunted my assent.

‘And Marion?’

I had no choice but to hold the lift and wait. ‘Yes?’ I asked, fixing my gaze on the button that said ‘Ground’.

‘Good luck.’

Our ‘honeymoon’ was a night at the Old Ship Hotel. We’d talked vaguely about a few days in Weymouth at some other time, but since Tom wasn’t due any leave for a while, that would have to wait.

The Ship, whilst not quite the Grand, had the kind of hushed glamour that I found very impressive at the time. We both fell silent as we pushed through the revolving glass doors into the lobby. The thickly carpeted floor creaked and groaned reassuringly beneath our feet, and I repressed the urge to comment on the place even
sounding
like an old ship. Tom’s father had paid for the room and for dinner as a wedding gift. It was the first time either of us had spent a night at a
hotel
, and I think we both experienced a slight panic at not knowing the etiquette of such places. In the films I’d seen there were bellboys who manhandled your luggage, and desk clerks who wanted to know your personal details, but all was quiet that afternoon in the Ship. I had a small case, in which I’d packed a new lace-trimmed nightgown, the palest apricot in colour, bought especially for the occasion. I’d already changed from my wedding dress into a turquoise wool skirt and twinset, with a short bouclé jacket, and I felt just about smart enough. My shoes were not new, and were badly scuffed around the toes, but I tried not to dwell on it. Tom had only a canvas bag with him, and I wished he’d brought a suitcase, so as to look more the part. But, I thought, that was how men did things. They travelled light. They didn’t make a fuss.

‘Shouldn’t there be someone here?’ Tom asked, peering about the place for signs of life. He approached the desk and placed both his hands on the shining surface. There was a gold-coloured bell very close to his hand, but he didn’t touch it. Instead he waited, drumming his fingers on the wood and staring at the glass-panelled door behind the desk.

I made a little circuit behind him, taking in the menu board for the night (
sole au vin blanc
, lemon tart) and the list of conferences and balls for the coming week. I didn’t quite dare to sit in one of the high-backed leather armchairs, in case someone should appear and ask me if I wanted a drink. Instead, I made another circuit. And still Tom waited. And still no one came.

Not wanting to keep going round in circles, I paused at the desk and brought my hand down sharply on the bell. The clear ringing sound echoed around the lobby, making Tom flinch. ‘I could’ve done that,’ he hissed.

Immediately a man with polished black hair and a starched
white
jacket appeared. His eyes shifted from Tom to me and back again before he managed a smile. ‘So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr and Mrs …’

‘Burgess,’ said Tom, before I could. ‘Mr and Mrs Thomas Burgess.’

Tom’s father’s budget didn’t quite stretch to a sea view. Our room was at the back of the hotel, overlooking a courtyard where the staff gathered to gossip and smoke. Once inside, Tom wouldn’t sit down. Instead he stalked the place, plucking at the heavy crimson curtains that covered most of the window, stroking the liver-coloured eiderdown, exclaiming over luxuries (‘They’ve got a mixer tap!’), just as he’d done when we were at your flat, Patrick. After a struggle with the catch and a terrible squeal of wood, he managed to get the window open, letting in the afternoon whine of the seagulls.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked. This wasn’t what I’d meant to say.
Come away from the window and kiss me
, was what I’d wanted to say. I’d even thought, briefly, of saying nothing at all; of just beginning to undress. It was still early; not past five in the afternoon, but we were newly-weds. In a hotel. In Brighton. Where things like that happen all the time.

He gave me his lovely grin. ‘Never been better.’ He came over and kissed my cheek. I moved my hand up towards his hair, but he was already back at the window again, twitching the curtains and looking out. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘we should have some fun. It is our honeymoon.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘We could pretend we’re holidaymakers,’ he said, pulling on his jacket. ‘There’s plenty of time before dinner. Let’s go on the pier.’

It was still raining. Going on to the pier, or going out at
all
, was the last thing I wanted to do. I’d imagined an hour’s intimacy –
canoodling
, as we called it then, and sweet talk about being newly married – followed by dinner, followed, swiftly, by bed.

It may sound to you, Patrick, as though I was interested only in one thing. You may even be surprised to think of me, in 1958, as a twenty-one-year-old girl who couldn’t wait to lose her virginity. These things are commonplace now, and at a much earlier age, too; although, if truth be told, I believe I was a late starter, even for 1958. Certainly I remember feeling that I should be a little scared, at least, by the prospect of sleeping with Tom. It wasn’t as though I’d any experience at all, or knew much about the act itself, save what Sylvie and I had gleaned, years ago, from the copy of
Married Love
she’d stolen from somewhere. But I’d read plenty of novels, and I fully expected a sort of romantic mist to descend as soon as Tom and I were between the sheets, followed by some mysterious, mystical state called ‘ecstasy’. Pain and embarrassment didn’t enter my head. I trusted that he would know what to do, and that I would be transported, body and soul.

As Tom smiled and held his hand out to me, I knew I should pretend that I was nervous, however. A good, virginal bride would be timid; she would be relieved that her husband had invited her out walking, rather than jumping straight into bed.