My Policeman (12 page)

I do think he’s perfect. Ideal, even. And it’s more than his body (though that is ideal, too).

My
affaires
– such as they’ve been, and they’ve been few – tend to be complicated. Drawn out. Reluctant, perhaps. How others like Charlie get along so damned carefree is beyond me. Those boys at the meat rack have their charms, but it’s all so – I won’t say sordid, I don’t mean that –
fleeting
. Beautifully, awfully fleeting.

Will burn this after writing. It’s one thing to commit oneself
to
paper; quite another to leave that paper lying about for any pair of eyes to devour.

It took place over a middle-aged lady sitting on a pavement. I was walking along Marine Parade. A bright, warm late-summer morning. The day: Tuesday. The time: approximately 7.30. Early for me, but I was on my way to the museum to catch up on some paperwork. Strolling along, thinking how pleasant it was to enjoy the quiet and the solitude, vowing to get up an hour earlier every day, I saw a car – a cream Ford, I’m sure it was – nudge the wheel of a bicycle. Just gently. There was a slight delay before the bicycle wobbled enough to tip its rider, hands splayed, legs tangled with wheels, on to the pavement. The car drove on regardless, leaving me to hurry over to the woman in distress.

By the time I reached her, she was sitting up on the edge of the kerb, so I knew there was no serious damage. She looked to be in her forties, and her basket and handlebars were loaded with bags of all types – string, paper, some kind of canvas construction – so it wasn’t surprising that she’d lost her balance. I touched her on the shoulder and asked if she was all right.

‘What does it look like?’ she barked. I took a step back. Her voice had venom in it.

‘You’re shocked, of course.’

‘Livid is what I am. That bastard knocked me off.’

She was a sorry sight. Her spectacles lopsided, her hat askew.

‘Do you think you can stand?’

Her mouth twisted. ‘We need the police here. We need the police, now!’

Seeing I had no alternative but to go along with her wishes, I dashed to the nearest police box on the corner of Bloomsbury
Place
, thinking I could call from there, leave her with some obliging bobby and get on with the rest of my day.

I’ve never had much patience with our boys in blue. Have always despised their brutish little ways, their stocky bodies squeezed into thick wool, those ridiculous helmets rammed on their heads like black jam jars. What was it that officer said about the incident at the Napoleon, where that boy was left with half his face carved away from the bone?
Damned pansy’s lucky that’s all they cut off
. I think those were his exact words.

So I wasn’t relishing the thought of coming face to face with a policeman. I steeled myself for the evaluating glance up and down, the raised eyebrows in response to my voice. The clenched fists in response to my smile. The chilled relations in response to
the cut of my jib
.

But the young man who stepped from the box as I approached was quite, quite different. I could see it straight away. He was properly tall, for a start, with shoulders that looked like they could take the weight of the world and yet were exquisitely shaped. Not a hint of bulk. I thought immediately of that wonderful Greek boy with the broken arm in the British Museum. The way he glows with beauty and strength, the way the warmth of the Mediterranean exudes from him (and still he manages to blend perfectly with his British surroundings!). This boy was like that. He wore his awful uniform lightly, and I could see at once there was life pulsing beneath the rough black wool of his jacket.

We looked at each other for a beat, he with a serious mouth, me with all my words vanished.

‘Good morning,’ he said as I tried to remember what it was I wanted. Why it was I’d sought out a policeman in the first place.

Eventually I stammered, ‘I need your help, Officer.’

My actual words. And God knows I meant them. My plea for help, my cry for protection. It reminds me, now, of when I first became friends with Charlie at school. I went to him in desperation, thinking he could help me stop the bullying. And he did teach me not to care so much. Charlie always had something so nonchalant in his manner, something that made them back off – something so
fuck you
, is how he’d put it – and I’ve always loved that. Loved it and wished I could have it myself.

‘There’s been an accident,’ I continued. ‘A lady’s come off her bicycle. I’m sure it’s nothing serious, but—’

‘Show me the way.’ Despite his youth, he managed to sound very capable. And he walked with great energy and determination, frowning slightly now, asking me all the necessary questions – was I the only witness? What did I see? What make of car was it? Did I get a glimpse of the driver?

I answered as best I could, wanting to give him all the information he needed as I followed his great strides.

When we reached the woman, she was still sitting on the pavement, but I noticed she’d gained enough strength to gather her bags around her. As soon as she saw my policeman, her demeanour changed completely. Suddenly she was all smiles. Looking up at him, eyes ablaze, lips newly licked, she declared herself quite all right, thank you very much.

‘Oh no, Officer, there’s been a misunderstanding,’ she said, without glancing in my direction. ‘The car did come close, but it didn’t
hit
me, I just slipped on the pedals – it’s these shoes,’ she displayed her scuffed black courts as though they were Hollywood dancing heels, ‘and I
was
a little stunned, you know how it is, Officer, early in the morning …’

On and on she went, chattering away like an excited sparrow.
My
policeman nodded, his face impassive, as she gabbled her nonsense.

When she’d run out of steam, he asked, ‘So you weren’t knocked off?’

‘Not a bit of it.’

‘And you’re all right?’

‘Right as rain.’

She held out a hand for him to help her up. He obliged, face still expressionless.

‘It was lovely to meet you, Officer.’ She was mounting her bicycle now, beaming for England.

My policeman granted her a smile. ‘Mind how you go,’ he said, and we both stood and watched as she cycled away.

He turned to me, and before I could begin any explanation he said, ‘Batty old bird, wasn’t she?’ and gave a small grin, the like of which I’m sure young police constables are meant to have knocked out of them during their probationary period.

He had total confidence in what I’d told him. He believed me, not her. And already he trusted me enough to insult a lady in my presence.

I laughed. ‘Not exactly a major incident …’

‘They rarely are, sir.’

I held out a hand. ‘Patrick Hazlewood.’

A hesitation. He considered my outstretched fingers. Briefly I wondered if there were some police regulation forbidding all physical contact – except the forcible kind – with the general public.

Then he took my hand and told me his name.

‘I have to say I thought you handled that very well,’ I ventured.

To my great surprise his cheeks went a little pink. Hugely touching.

‘Thank you, Mr Hazlewood.’

I winced, but knew better than to ask for first names at this early stage.

‘I suppose you get a lot of that sort of thing? Difficult people?’

‘Some.’ A moment’s pause, then he added: ‘Not so many. I’m new. Only been at it a few weeks.’

Again I was touched by his immediate, unquestioning trust. He’s not like the rest. Didn’t once give me the evaluating stare. Allowed no shadow to pass over his face at the sound of my voice. Didn’t close down. He was open. He remained open.

He thanked me for my help and turned to go.

That was two weeks ago.

The day after the so-called accident, I walked past his police box again. No sign of him. Still I floated. All the girls in the museum commented on it.
You’re chirpy today, Mr H
. And I was. Whistling Bizet wherever I went. I knew. That’s what it was. I just knew. It was only a matter of time. A matter of playing it right. Of not rushing things. Not scaring him off. I knew we could be friends. I knew I could give him something he wanted. It’s the long game with me. I’m well aware there are quicker, safer pleasures to be found down the Argyle. Or (heaven forbid) the Spotted Dog. And it’s not that I dislike those places. It’s the competitiveness that gets me down. All the moneyed minorities eyeing one another, positioning themselves for the evening, staking their claim on whatever comes through the door. Oh, it can be fun (I remember particularly a sailor fresh from Pompey, with a lazy eye and massive thighs). But what I want … well, it’s really very simple. I want more.

So. Day two. Caught a glimpse of him on Burlington Street, but he was so far away that the only way to reach him would have been to run. And I wasn’t going to do that. Still I
whistled
– perhaps a little quieter; floated – perhaps a little lower.

Day three: there he was, setting off from the box. I did hurry a little in an effort to catch up with him, but there was no running. I walked behind him – at a distance of about a hundred yards – for a while, watching his trim waist, the paleness of his wrists winking at me as he strode down the street. To call out for him would have been crass. Unwelcome. But I really couldn’t walk any faster. He is a policeman, after all; I don’t suppose he’d take kindly to being shadowed by any man.

And so I let him go. A whole weekend of waiting lay ahead. I’d forgotten, of course, that policemen do not keep the hours of mere mortals, and was not at all prepared when, on my way to buy a newspaper, I bumped into him on St George’s Road. The day: Saturday. The time: 11.30-ish. Another warm early-September day, full of glowing light. He was walking towards me, on the edge of the pavement. As soon as I saw the uniform, my blood rose. I’d been doing that all week – warming at the sight of police uniforms. A very dangerous way to carry on.

My thought was: I’ll glance his way, and if he doesn’t glance back, that will be the end of it. I’ll leave it up to him. He can return the look, or he can walk on. Through many years of experience, I’ve found this the safest way to conduct oneself. Don’t invite trouble and it won’t come looking for you. And fishing for a policeman’s gaze is an extremely risky business.

So I glanced. And he was looking straight at me.

‘Morning, Mr Hazlewood,’ he said.

I was beaming, no doubt, as we stood and exchanged a few pleasantries about the clemency of the weather. His voice is light. Not high-pitched, but not a serious police voice. It’s low, and delicate. Like very good pipe smoke.

‘Quiet morning so far?’ I asked. He nodded.

‘No more trouble from our bicycle lady?’

He gave a small smile, shook his head.

‘This must be when the job’s at its best, I suppose,’ I said, trying to prolong our chat. ‘Just strolling along, everything in order.’

He looked me in the eye, his face suddenly serious. ‘Oh no. I need a case. No one takes you seriously till you’ve had a case.’

He’s trying to be a rather grave young man, I think. He has an eagerness to impress, a longing to say the right thing. It’s quite at odds with that grin of his, with the life I can sense pulsing beneath his uniform.

There was a pause before he asked, ‘What’s your – line of work?’

He has a lovely Brighton accent, very non-U, which he doesn’t in the least modify for my benefit.

‘I work in the museum. The art gallery there. And I paint, a little.’

A light sprang up behind his eyes. ‘You’re an artist?’

‘Of sorts. But that’s not nearly as exciting as your work. Keeping the peace. Making the streets safe. Assailing criminals …’

There was another pause before he laughed. ‘You’re joking.’

‘No. I’m quite serious.’ I looked him in the face and he averted his eyes, mumbled something about having to get on, and we parted.

A cloud descended. All day I worried that I’d overstepped the mark, said too much, been too flattering, too eager. On Sunday it rained, and I spent many hours looking out of my window at the flat greyness of the sea, moping at having lost my policeman.

I can be a proper sulker. Have been that way since school.

Monday. Day six. Nothing. Walking through Kemp Town, I kept my head down, and did not allow myself to be distracted by any kind of uniform.

Tuesday. The seventh day. I was walking along St George’s Road when I heard footsteps, quick and deliberate, behind me. Instinctively, I made to cross the road, but stopped when I heard a voice.

‘Morning, Mr Hazlewood.’

The pipe-smoke tones unmistakable. I was so surprised that I swivelled right round and said, ‘Please. Call me Patrick.’

There was that grin again, the one that policemen shouldn’t have. A light colour in his cheeks. His quality of eager attentiveness.

It was that grin that made me plough on: ‘I’ve been hoping to bump into you.’ I fell in step by his side. ‘I’m doing a project. Images of ordinary people. Grocers, postmen, farmers, shop girls, policemen, that sort of thing.’

He said nothing. Our steps were roughly in time now, although I was having to walk quickly to keep up with his long strides.

‘And you’d be a perfect subject.’ I knew this was all too fast; but once I’ve started talking I can never seem to stop myself. ‘I’m making some studies, from life, of suitable subjects, such as yourself, and comparing them with past portraits – ordinary Brighton people, that’s what the museum needs – what we need – don’t you think? Real people, instead of all these stuffed shirts.’

I could tell by his cocked head that he was listening very carefully.

‘It’s something I hope will be in the museum. On display. It’s part of my plan to bring more people in … more ordinary
people
, that is. I think that if they see people, well, like themselves, they’ll be more likely to want to step inside.’

He stopped and looked me in the face. ‘What would I have to do?’

I exhaled. ‘Nothing at all. You sit. I draw. At the museum, if you like. A few hours of your time.’ I tried to keep my face quite blank. Quite straight. I even managed a nonchalant wave of my hand. ‘Up to you, of course. I just thought, since I’d bumped into you …’