My Policeman (37 page)
Authors: Bethan Roberts
He began to cry, his tears wetting my fingers.
He wept a great deal over the following weeks. We would go to bed and I’d be woken in the night by the sound of his dry sobs. He would whimper, too, in his sleep, so that sometimes I wouldn’t know if he were awake or dreaming as he cried. I would draw him to me and he would come freely, resting his head on my chest as I held him until he was still and quiet. ‘Shush,’ I whispered. ‘Shush.’ And in the morning we would carry on as usual, neither of us mentioning the crying, what had been said that day when he smashed up the chairs, or your name.
Before your case went to court, Tom did as I’d suggested. He resigned from the force. During your trial, to my absolute horror, passages from your journal, detailing your relationship
with
Tom, whom you referred to as ‘my policeman’, were read aloud. Those passages have been with me ever since, like a low but constant ringing in my ears. I have never been able to shake myself free of your words.
They are so obviously mismatched that I had to smile when I saw them together
. I’ve always remembered that particular sentence. Your casual tone is what hurts the most. That, and the fact that you were right.
But by the time of the trial, Tom was close to the end of his notice and, despite your incriminating journal, somehow escaped any investigation. He told me very little about it, but I suspect the force was glad to let him go quietly. I’m sure the authorities wanted to avoid any further scandals, after all that fuss in the papers about corruption in the highest ranks. Another officer in the dock would have been a disaster.
About a month later he got a new job, as a factory security guard. He worked night shifts, which suited us both. We could barely look at one another and I could think of nothing to say to him. I visited you in prison once, mostly out of remorse for what I’d done, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that wanted to witness just how much misery you were experiencing. I didn’t tell Tom about the visit and I never suggested he do the same. I knew the mention of your name would be enough to make him walk out the door and never return. It was as though everything could continue only in conditions of complete silence. If I were to touch this wound, to probe its boundaries, it would never heal. And so I carried on, going to work, preparing meals, sleeping on the edge of the bed, away from Tom’s body. In some ways it was just as it had been before I’d married Tom. My access to him was so restricted that I began to cling to clues of his presence. When I washed his shirts, I’d press them
to
my face just to smell his skin. I’d spend hours arranging his shoes neatly under the bed, ordering his ties in the wardrobe, pairing his socks in his drawer. He’d gone, you see, from the house, and all that was left were these traces of him.
THIS EVENING I
told a lie. It was late, and Tom was in the kitchen, making himself something to eat. He’d been out all day, as usual. I stood in the doorway, watching him slice cheese and tomatoes and arrange them on bread. Standing there, I remembered how, when we were first married, he would sometimes surprise me by making lunch at the weekend. I recalled a soft omelette with cheese melting inside, and, once, French toast with streaky bacon and maple syrup. I’d never tasted maple syrup before, and he’d told me, very proudly, that you had given him a bottle of the stuff, as a gift.
He peered beneath the grill, watching his cheese bubble in the heat.
‘Dr Wells came today,’ I announced, sitting at the table. He gave no response, but I was determined to do this. So I waited for him. I did not want to lie to my husband’s back. I wanted to lie to his face.
When he’d put his meal on a plate and collected a knife and fork, I asked him to sit with me. He’d got through most of his food before he wiped his mouth and looked up.
‘He said Patrick doesn’t have long to live,’ I said, keeping my voice steady.
Tom continued to eat until he’d cleaned the plate. Then he leant back in his chair and replied, ‘Well. We’ve known that all along, haven’t we? It’s time for a nursing home, then.’
‘It’s too late for that. He’s got a week.’
Tom’s eyes met mine.
‘At the most,’ I added.
We held one another’s gaze.
‘A week?’
‘Maybe less.’ After giving this information a moment to sink in, I continued, ‘Dr Wells says it’s vital that we keep talking to him. It’s really all we can do now. But I can’t do it all by myself. So I was thinking maybe you could.’
‘Could what?’
‘Talk to him.’
There was a silence. Tom pushed his plate away, crossed his arms and said, very quietly, ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’
I had my answer ready. ‘Read, then. You could read to him. He won’t respond, but he can hear you.’
Tom was watching me carefully.
‘I’ve written something,’ I said, as casually as I could. ‘Something that you could read aloud to him.’
He almost smiled in his surprise. ‘You’ve
written
something?’
‘Yes. Something I want you both to hear.’
‘What’s all this about, Marion?’
I took a deep breath. ‘It’s about you. And me. And Patrick.’
Tom groaned.
‘I’ve written about – what happened. And I want you both to hear it.’
‘Christ,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What for?’ He was staring at me as if I’d gone utterly mad. ‘What on earth for, Marion?’
I couldn’t answer him.
He stood up and turned to leave. ‘I’m going to bed. It’s late.’
Springing from my chair, I grabbed his arm and made him face me. ‘I’ll tell you what for. Because I want
something
said. Because I can’t live with this silence any more.’
There was a pause. Tom looked down at my hand on his arm. ‘Let go of me.’
I did as he asked.
Then he fixed me with a stare. ‘You can’t live with the silence. I see.
You
can’t live with the silence.’
‘No. I can’t, not any more.’
‘You can’t live with the silence, so you make
me
break it. You subject me and that sick old man in there to your rantings, is that it?’
‘Rantings?’
‘I see what this is all about. I see why you dragged the poor bastard here in the first place. So that you could give him a bloody telling-off, just like at school. You’ve written it all down, have you? A catalogue of wrongs. A bad school report. Is that it, Marion?’
‘It’s not like that …’
‘This is your revenge, isn’t it? That’s what this is.’ He took hold of my shoulders and shook me, hard. ‘Don’t you think he’s been punished enough? Don’t you think we’ve both been punished enough?’
‘It’s not—’
‘What about
my
silence, Marion? Did you ever think about that? You have no idea …’ His voice cracked. He loosened his grip on me and turned his face away. ‘For God’s sake. I lost him once already.’
We stood together, both breathing heavily. After a while, I managed to say, ‘It’s not revenge. It’s a confession.’
Tom held up a hand, as if to say,
No more, please
.
But I had to see this through. ‘It’s my confession. It’s not about anyone’s wrongs but my own.’
He looked at me.
‘You said he needed you years ago, and that’s true. But he needs you now, too. Please. Read it to him, Tom.’
He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
I let out a breath. ‘Thank you.’
AFTER HEAVY RAIN
, this morning was coldly bright. I woke feeling oddly refreshed; I’d got to bed late but had slept deeply, exhausted by the day’s events. I had the usual lower backache, but I went about my morning duties with what you might call
considerable brio
, greeting you cheerfully, changing your bedclothes, bathing your body and feeding you liquidised Weetabix through a straw. I chatted all the while, telling you it wouldn’t be long now before Tom was coming to sit with you, and your eyes watched me with a hopeful light.
As I was leaving your room, I heard the kettle boiling. Funny, I thought. Tom had left the house at six for his regular swim, and I didn’t usually see him again until the evening. But when I went into the kitchen there he was, holding a cup of tea out for me. In silence, we sat down for breakfast with Walter at our feet. Tom looked over the
Argus
and I gazed out of the window, watching last night’s rain dripping from the conifers outside. It was the first time we’d had breakfast together since that morning you spilled your cereal.
When we’d finished eating, I fetched my – what shall I call it? – my manuscript. I’d kept it in the kitchen drawer all along, half hoping that Tom would stumble across
what
I’d written. I placed it on the table, and I left the room.
Since then, I’ve been in my bedroom, packing a case. I’ve picked out only a few essential items: nightdress, change of clothes, washbag, novel. I don’t expect Tom will mind sending the rest on. Mostly I’ve been sitting on my plain IKEA duvet and listening to the low hum of Tom’s voice as he reads my words to you. It’s a strange, frightening, wonderful sound, this murmur of my own thoughts on Tom’s tongue. Perhaps this is what I’ve wanted all along. Perhaps this is enough.
At four this afternoon I cracked open your door and looked in on the two of you. Tom was sitting very close to your bed. At this hour you are usually asleep, but this afternoon, although your body wasn’t coping very well with the pillows Tom had arranged for you – you were wilting to one side – your eyes were open and fixed on Tom. His head (still beautiful!) was bent over my pages and he stumbled briefly on a sentence but continued to read. The day had darkened, and I slipped into the room to turn on a corner lamp so the two of you could see one another clearly. Neither of you looked my way, and I left you alone together, closing the door softly behind me.
You’ve never liked it here and neither have I. I won’t be sorry to say goodbye to Peacehaven and to the bungalow. I’m not sure where I will go, but Norwood seems a good place to start. Julia still lives there and I would like to tell her this story, too. And then I would like to listen to what she has to say, because I have had enough of my own words. What I’d really like now is to hear another story.
I won’t look in on you again. I’ll leave this page on the kitchen table in the hope that Tom will read it to you. I hope he will take your hand as he does so. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, Patrick, but I hope I can ask for your ear, and I know you’ll have been a good listener.
Acknowledgements
Many sources were helpful to me in writing this novel, but I am particularly indebted to
Daring Hearts: Lesbian and Gay Lives in 50s and 60s Brighton
(Brighton Ourstory Project); Peter Wildeblood’s searing memoir,
Against the Law
, and – not in the same class of brilliance but still illuminating –
The Verdict of You All
by Rupert Croft-Cooke. Thanks, too, to Debbie Hickmott at Screen Archive South East, and to my parents and Ruth Carter for sharing their memories of the period with me. I’m also grateful to Hugh Dunkerley, Naomi Foyle, Kai Merriott, Lorna Thorpe and David Swann for their comments on early drafts, to David Riding for his commitment to the book, and to Poppy Hampson for her editorial excellence. And thank you, Hugh, for all the other things.
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781448130986
Published by Chatto & Windus 2012
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Copyright © Bethan Roberts 2012
Bethan Roberts has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work