My Policeman (11 page)

Tom stared at me, eyes bright with surprise.

‘Can’t we have a drink, like a normal couple?’

He looked up and down the street. I knew passers-by were staring at me, thinking,
Redheads. They’re all the same
. But it was too late to care.

‘Marion—’

‘All I want is to be alone with you! Is that so much to ask? Everyone else manages it!’

There was a long pause. My arms were still rigid, but my hand had relaxed. I knew I should apologise, but I was frightened that if I opened my mouth a sob would come out.

Then Tom took a step forward, grasped my head in his hands, and kissed me on the lips.

Now, looking back, I think: did he do it just to silence me? To prevent any further public humiliation? After all, he was a police constable, albeit one still on probation, and probably not taken at all seriously by the local criminal population. But at the time, this thought did not cross my mind. I was so surprised to feel Tom’s lips on mine – so sudden, so urgent – that I thought nothing. And it was such a relief, Patrick,
to
merely
feel
for a change. To allow myself to melt, as they say, into a kiss. And it was like melting. That letting go. That sliding into the sensations of another’s flesh.

We said little after that. Together we strolled along the seafront, arms about each other’s waists, facing the wind from the sea. In the darkness I could see the white tops of the waves, rising, rolling, dispersing. Boys on motorbikes raced up Marine Drive, giving me an excuse to hold Tom tighter every time one whipped by. I had no idea where we were going – I didn’t even consider our direction. It was enough to be walking in the evening with Tom, past the upturned fishermen’s boats on the shore, away from the bright blare of the pier and towards Kemp Town. Tom did not kiss me again, but I occasionally let my head rest on his shoulder as we walked. I felt very generous towards you then, Patrick. I even wondered if perhaps you’d gone away deliberately, to give us some time alone.
Take Marion out somewhere nice
, you’d have said.
And for heaven’s sake give her a kiss, won’t you!

I’d hardly noticed where we were going until we reached Chichester Terrace. The wide pavements were quiet and empty. The place hasn’t changed since you left: it’s still a hushed, solid street where the glossy doors are set back from the pavement, each one announced by a sturdy set of Doric columns and a flight of black and white tiled steps. On that street, the brass knockers are shining and uniform. Each facade is flatly white, iced in brilliant plaster, and each railing is straight and unchipped. The long windows cleanly reflect the street lamps and the occasional flash of traffic. Chichester Terrace is grand yet understated, without the arrogance of Sussex Square or Lewes Crescent.

Tom stopped walking and felt in his pocket.

‘Isn’t this …’

He nodded. ‘Patrick’s place.’ He dangled a set of keys in front of my face, gave a quick laugh, and skipped up the steps to your front door.

I followed him, my shoes making a lovely light clipping sound on the tiles. The huge door dragged on the thick carpet as Tom opened it to reveal a hallway papered deep yellow, patterned with gold trefoils, and a red carpet running right up the stairs.

‘Tom, what’s going on?’

Tom put a finger to his lips and beckoned me upwards. On the landing of the second floor, he paused and fumbled with the keys. We were facing a white door, to the side of which was a small gold-framed name plate:
P. F. Hazlewood
. Your door. We were outside your door, and Tom had the keys.

By now my mouth was dry and my heart was kicking in my chest. ‘Tom,’ I began again, but he’d already opened the door and we were inside your flat.

He let the door close without putting on the light, and there was a moment when I believed you were in there after all, that Tom would yell out, ‘Surprise!’ and you’d come blinking into the hallway. You’d be shocked, of course, but you’d recover quickly and you’d soon be your usual gracious self, offering drinks, bidding us welcome, talking into the small hours of the morning whilst we sat in separate chairs and listened appreciatively. But the only sound was Tom’s breathing. I stood in the darkness, my skin prickling as I felt Tom move closer to me.

‘He’s not here, is he?’ I whispered.

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It’s just us.’

The first time Tom had kissed me, he’d pressed his mouth so hard upon mine that I’d felt his teeth; this time, his lips were softer. I was just reaching out to put my arms around his neck when he pulled away and switched on the light.

His eyes were very blue and serious. He looked at me for the longest time, there in your hallway, and I basked in the intensity of that gaze. I wanted to lie down and sleep in it, Patrick.

Then he grinned. ‘You have to take a look at this place,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you round.’

I followed him in a kind of daze. My whole body still felt doped from that look, those kisses. I remember, though, that it was very warm in your flat. You had central heating, even then, and I had to take off my coat and my angora cardigan. The radiators hummed and ticked, hot enough to burn.

First stop was the enormous living room, of course. That room was bigger than my classroom, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Tom scampered about, flicking on huge table lamps, and it all came into soft focus: the piano in the corner; the chesterfield, crammed with cushions; the cream walls covered in pictures, some of them with their own spotlight; the grey marble fireplace; the chandelier, which had glass flower petals rather than crystal drops and was all colours. And (Tom introduced this with a flourish) the television set.

‘Tom,’ I said, trying to make my voice stern. ‘You’re going to have to explain this to me.’

‘Isn’t it incredible?’ He peeled off his sports jacket and threw it on an armchair. ‘He’s got everything.’

He was childlike in his wonder and excitement. ‘Everything!’ he repeated, gesturing again towards the television set.

‘I’m surprised he has that,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought he’d be against that sort of thing.’

‘He thinks it’s important to keep up with new things.’

‘I bet he doesn’t watch ITV.’

It was a nice set: walnut veneer, carved into scrolls at the top and bottom of the screen.

‘How come you’ve got his keys?’ I asked.

‘Shall we have a drink?’ And Tom clicked open your cocktail cabinet to display deep rows of glasses and bottles. ‘Gin?’ he offered. ‘Whisky? Brandy? Cognac?’

‘Tom, what are we doing here?’

‘Or how about a martini?’

I frowned.

‘Come on, Marion. Stop acting like a schoolteacher and at least have a brandy.’ He held out a glass to me. ‘It’s great here, isn’t it? You can’t tell me you don’t like it.’

He smiled so widely that I had to join him. We sat together on the sofa, laughing as we lost ourselves in your cushions. Once I’d struggled to the edge of my seat, I fixed Tom with a look. ‘So?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

He sighed. ‘It’s all right. Really. Patrick’s in London, and he’s always said I could use the place whilst he’s away …’

‘Do you come here a lot?’

‘Of course,’ he said, taking a long drink from his glass. ‘Well. Sometimes.’

There was a pause. I put my brandy down on your coffee table, next to a pile of art magazines.

‘Those keys – are they yours?’

Tom nodded.

‘How often do you—’

‘Marion,’ he said, leaning across to kiss my hair. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. And it’s fine, believe me. Patrick would want us to come.’

There was something odd, something un-Tom-like in his voice, a theatricality which, at the time, I put down to nerves. I glimpsed our reflections in the long window, and we looked almost like a cultured young couple, surrounded by tasteful artefacts and quality furniture, enjoying a drink together on a Saturday night. Trying to ignore the feeling that this was all
happening
in the wrong place, to the wrong people, I finished my drink quickly and said to Tom, ‘Show me some more of the flat.’

He took me to the kitchen. You had a spice rack, I remember – it was the first time I’d seen one – and a double sink and drainer, and the walls were tiled light green. Tom couldn’t stop pointing things out for me. He opened the top door of the large fridge. ‘Freezer compartment,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you love one of these?’

I said that I would.

‘He’s a great cook, you know.’

I expressed surprise, and Tom opened all your cupboards, and showed me their contents, as evidence. There were copper pans, earthenware casseroles, a set of steel chopping knives, one with a curved blade that Tom announced was called a mezzaluna, bottles of olive oil and wine vinegar, a book by Elizabeth David on the shelf.

‘But you cook too,’ I said. ‘You were in the Catering Corps.’

‘Not like Patrick. Pie and mash is about all I do.’

‘I like pie and mash.’

‘Simple tastes,’ said Tom, grinning, ‘for a schoolteacher.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, opening the fridge. ‘A bag of fish and chips does me fine. What’s he got in here?’

‘He said he’d leave something. You hungry?’ Tom reached past me for a plate of cold breaded chicken. ‘Want some?’ He took a wing and sucked the meat from the bone. ‘It’s good,’ he said, holding the plate out to me, his lips glistening.

‘Should we?’ I asked. But my hand was already on a drumstick.

Tom was right: it was good; the crumbs were light and crisp, the meat fabulously rich and greasy.

‘That’s it!’ Tom’s eyes were still wild. He took piece
after
piece, exclaiming all the while over the elegance of your kitchen, the tastiness of your chicken, the delicacy of your brandy. ‘Let’s have the lot,’ he said. And we stood there in your kitchen, devouring your food, drinking your alcohol, licking our oily fingers, giggling.

Afterwards, Tom took my hand and led me to another room. I’d had a few drinks by then and, as I moved, I experienced the strange sensation of my surroundings not quite catching up with me. We didn’t go to your bedroom, Patrick (although I would love to tell you that we did). We went to the spare room. It was small and white, with a single bed, primroses on the coverlet, a plain mirror above the skinny fireplace, and a wardrobe whose hangers clanged together in the empty space as we walked across the floor. A plain, practical room.

Still holding hands, we stood near the bed, neither one of us daring to look directly at it. Tom’s face had gone very pale and serious; his eyes were no longer wild. I thought of him on the beach, how big and healthy and joyful he was in the water. I remembered my vision of him as Neptune, and almost told him about it, but something in his eyes kept me silent.

‘Well,’ he said.

‘Well.’

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘No. Thank you.’

I began to shiver.

‘Cold?’ asked Tom, putting an arm around me. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘If you want to go …’

‘I don’t want to go.’

He kissed my hair, and when his fingers brushed my cheek, they were trembling. I turned to face him, and the ends of our noses touched.

‘Marion,’ he whispered. ‘I haven’t done this before.’

I was shocked by that statement, and even thought that he might be playing the innocent for my sake, to make me feel better about my own inexperience. Surely there must have been someone, whilst he was in the army?

Writing this now, picturing him confessing his weakness to me, I’m filled with love for him all over again. Whatever else he didn’t tell me, daring to admit such a thing was a great achievement.

Of course, I had no idea how to respond to this confession, and so I think we stood like that, nose to nose, for a very long time, as though we were frozen together.

Eventually I sat on the bed, crossed my legs and said, ‘It’s all right. We don’t have to do anything, do we?’ I was rather hoping, of course, that this would spur him into action.

Instead, Tom paced to the window, hands in his pockets, and stared out into the darkness.

‘We could have another drink,’ I ventured.

Silence.

‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ I said.

Silence.

‘One more brandy?’

Silence.

I sighed. ‘I suppose it is getting late. Perhaps I’d better get back.’

Then Tom turned to face me, biting his lip and looking as though he was about to burst into tears.

‘Whatever is it?’ I asked. In answer, he knelt beside me and, clasping me around the stomach, leant his head on my bosom. He pressed into me so hard that I thought I might fall back on the bed, but I managed to keep myself upright. ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘what’s the matter?’

But he said nothing. I held his head to my chest and stroked his hair, my fingers clinging to his beautiful curls, digging into his scalp.

I tell you, Patrick, there was a part of me that wanted to pull him up by his roots, fling him on the bed, wrench the shirt from his back and plunge my body on to his. But I remained still.

He sat back on his heels, face flushed pink and eyes shining. ‘I wanted it to be nice for you,’ he said.

‘It is. It really is.’

There was another long pause.

‘And I wanted to let you know … how I feel.’

‘How’s that, Tom?’

‘I want you to be my wife,’ he said.

WHY WRITE AGAIN?
When I know that I must exercise caution. When I know that to commit my desires to paper is madness. When I know that those screaming bitch types who insist on trolling all over town spoil it for the rest of us. (I saw Gilbert Harding last week in his ghastly Roller, screeching out of the window at some poor lad on a bicycle. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.)

Why write again? Because today things are different. One might even say everything’s changed. And so here I am, writing this journal. And that means indiscretions. But I can’t keep quiet about this one. I’m not going to name names – I’m not completely reckless – but I am going to write this: I have met someone.

Why write again? Because Patrick Hazlewood, thirty-four, has not given up.