My Policeman (14 page)

As she bent over the trolley I watched my policeman’s face, and noted that he did not follow her movements with his eyes.

When she’d gone and we’d both taken up our teacups, I launched into a long speech. I gazed out of the window so I wouldn’t have to look at my policeman as I outlined my fictitious project. ‘You probably want to know a bit more about this whole portrait business,’ I began. Then I chatted on for goodness knows how long, describing my plans, using words such as ‘democratic’, ‘new perspective’ and ‘vision’. All the time not quite daring to look at him. More than anything I wanted his big body to relax into those worn cushions, and so I went on and on, hoping my words would put him at ease. Or perhaps even bore him into submission.

When I’d finished, there was a pause before he put his cup down and said, ‘I’ve never been drawn before.’

I looked at him then, and saw his grin, the soft open collar
of
his shirt, his hair resting on my antimacassar. I said, ‘Nothing to it. All you have to do is keep still.’

‘When do we start?’

I hadn’t anticipated this eagerness. I’d supposed it would take a few meetings before we’d actually begin work. A bit of warm-up time. I hadn’t even brought any materials with me.

‘We have started,’ I said.

He looked puzzled.

‘Getting acquainted is part of the process. I won’t make any sketches for a while yet. It’s important we strike up a rapport beforehand. Get to know one another a little. Only then will I be able to translate your personality into a drawing …’ I paused, wondering if I could get away with this line of persuasion. ‘I can’t draw you if I don’t know who you are. Do you see?’

His eyes flickered towards the window. ‘So no drawing today?’

‘No drawing.’

‘Seems a bit … strange.’

He looked directly at me, and I did not look away.

‘Standard procedure,’ I said. Then I smiled and added, ‘Well, my procedure, anyhow.’ From the surprised look on his face I sensed the best thing to do was to press on regardless. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘do you like being a police constable?’

‘Is this part of the procedure?’ He was smirking a little, shifting about in his seat.

‘If you like.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Yeah. I think so. It’s a good job. Better than most.’

I selected a sheet of paper. Took hold of a pencil so as to look professional.

‘It’s good to know I’m doing something,’ he continued. ‘For the public. Protecting people, you know.’

I wrote down
protection
on my sheet. Without looking up, I asked, ‘What else do you do?’

‘What else?’

‘Besides your job.’

‘Oh.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I swim. In the sea-swimming club.’

That explained the shoulders. ‘Even at this time of year?’

‘Every day of the year,’ he announced with simple pride. I wrote down
pride
.

‘What does it take to be a good sea-swimmer, do you suppose?’

There was no hesitation in his answer. ‘Love of the water. You’ve got to love being in it.’

I imagined his arms cutting the waves, his legs twisted with seaweed. I wrote down
love
. Then I put a line through that word and wrote
water
.

‘Look, Mr Hazlewood—’

‘Patrick, please.’

‘Can I ask you something?’ He leant forward in his seat.

I put my pencil down. ‘Anything.’

‘Are you one of those … you know …’ He twisted his hands together.

‘What?’

‘One of those
modern
artists?’

I almost laughed. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean …’

‘Well, like I said, I don’t know about art, but what I mean is, when you draw me, it will look like
me
, won’t it? Not like – one of those new tower blocks or something.’

I did laugh then. I couldn’t help myself. ‘I can assure you,’ I said, ‘I could never make you look like a tower block.’

He seemed a bit put out. ‘All right. Just had to check. You never know.’

‘You’re right. Quite right.’

He looked at his watch.

‘Same time next week?’ I asked.

He nodded. At the door, he turned to me and said, ‘Thank you, Patrick.’

I can still hear him saying my name. It was like hearing it uttered for the first time.

Same time next week.

An age until then.

TWO DAYS SINCE
he came, and already I am losing my mind with impatience. Today, Jackie suddenly asked, ‘Who was that young man?’

It was early afternoon and she was handing me the minutes from my latest meeting with Houghton. She let the question drop without so much as a flicker. But she was wearing a look I hadn’t seen on her before – one of genuine curiosity. Even with those diamanté frames obscuring her eyes, I saw it.

Avoiding the issue fuels the fire. So I replied: ‘He was a subject.’

She had a hand on her hip as she waited for more.

‘We’re planning a portrait. A new project. Ordinary people of the town.’

She nodded. Then, after letting a moment pass: ‘Is he ordinary, then?’

I knew she was prying. The other girls have been talking about him. About me. Of course they have. Throw her a titbit, I thought. Get rid of her.

‘He’s a policeman,’ I said.

There was a pause as she digested this information. I half turned from her and picked up the telephone receiver in order to encourage her to leave. But she did not take the hint.

‘He doesn’t look like a policeman,’ she said.

Pretending not to have heard this, I started dialling a number.

When she’d finally gone, I replaced the receiver and sat very still, letting my rushing heart calm. Nothing to worry about, I told myself. Just natural curiosity. Of course the girls want to know who he is. A handsome young stranger. We don’t get many of those in the museum. And anyway. Everything is above board. Professional. And Jackie is loyal. Jackie is discreet. Mysterious, but trustworthy.

But. Rush, thump went the blood in my chest. It does this often. I’ve been to the doctor’s. Langland. He’s known as being sympathetic. Sympathetic up to a point, that is. Very keen on psychoanalysis, I believe. I explained to him: it most often comes in the night, when I’m trying to sleep. Lying still in my bed, I swear I can see it, this lump of muscle jumping in my chest. Langland says it’s perfectly normal. Or, if not normal, then usual. An ectopic heartbeat, he calls it. Surprisingly common, he says. Sometimes the beat is the wrong way round, and that makes you aware of your heart thumping. He demonstrated: ‘Instead of going de-DUM,’ (he slapped his hand on the desk) ‘it goes DUM-de. Nothing to worry about.’ ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘You mean it’s trochaic, rather than iambic.’ He seemed to appreciate this. ‘Exactly,’ he beamed.

Now I have a name for it, it’s a little easier to dismiss, but no less difficult to ignore. My trochaic heart.

I sat at my desk until it calmed. Then I walked out of the place. Out of my office, through the long gallery, down the stairs, past the money cat and on to the street.

Amazed that no one stopped me. Not one single person looked my way as I marched by. Outside, it was raining lightly, and the wind was up. Gusts of damp salty air came at me across the Steine. Clanging notes from the pier blew this way
and
that. Crossed into St James’s Street. Although the sky held a brownish tinge, the air was fresh after the museum. Quickened my pace. I knew where I was going, but I did not know what I was going to do once there. No matter. I pressed onward, elated at having escaped my office with so little fuss. Relieved at the regular beating of my heart. De-dum. De-dum. De-dum. Nothing outlandish or hurried. No rush of movement from chest to head, no thump of blood in the ears. Just that steady beat, and my steady walk towards the police box.

The rain became heavier. I’d come out without coat or umbrella, and my knees were wet. My collar, too, was damp. But I welcomed the feel of the rain on my skin. With every step I was closer to him. I didn’t have to explain myself or provide excuses. I just had to see him.

The last time I was like this was with Michael. So anxious to see him that anything seemed possible. Conventions, other people’s opinions, the law, all appear laughable in the face of your desire, your drive to reach your love. It’s a blissful state. It’s fleeting, though, this feeling. Soon you realise that you’re walking in the rain, getting soaked, when you should be at your desk. Women with children jostle you, casting their eyes suspiciously over a single man without coat or hat in a shopping street during the middle of the afternoon. Old couples scurrying to bus stops charge at you with umbrellas. And you think, even if he is there, what can I possibly say to him? Of course, in the moment itself, in the blissful moment when anything’s possible, there’s no need for words. You’ll simply fall into one another’s arms, him understanding everything –
everything
– at last. But when the feeling starts to wane, when another woman has just said
excuse me
but stepped on your foot anyway, when you’ve glimpsed your reflection in Sainsbury’s shop window and seen a wild-eyed, rain-scattering
man
past his first flush of youth gaping back at you, then you realise there will have to be words.

And what would I have said to him? What possible excuse could I give for arriving at his police box at this hour, soaked to the skin?
I just couldn’t wait to see you?
Or,
I needed to make some urgent preliminary sketches?
I suppose I could have played the temperamental artist card. But it’s probably just as well to keep that one in reserve for more testing times.

So I turned back. Then changed direction again, and headed for home. Once there, I telephoned Jackie and told her I was unwell. Said I’d popped out for a newspaper (this is not unheard of during the museum’s afternoon lull) and had been overcome by nausea. I’d spend the rest of the day in bed and would be back in the morning. Tell all callers I’d deal with them tomorrow. She didn’t sound surprised. She asked no questions. Good, loyal Jackie, I thought. What was I worrying about before?

I drew the curtains. Put the heating on. It wasn’t cold in the flat, but I felt in need of any warmth I could get. Stripped out of my wet clothes. Got into bed wearing the pyjamas I hate. Flannel, blue stripes. I put them on because it’s better than being naked in bed. Being naked just reminds you you’re alone. If you’re naked, there’s nothing to rub against but the sheets. At least flannel on your skin is a layer of protection.

Thought I might weep, but did not. Lay there with heavy limbs and a foggy brain. I didn’t think of Michael. I didn’t think of myself, scurrying along the street after nothing like a fool. I just shook until the shaking stopped, and then I slept. I slept through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Then I woke and wrote this.

Now I will sleep again.

WRITING THIS FRIDAY
evening. A most satisfying day.

After my little weakness, I resigned myself to the long wait for Tuesday. But then this. Half past four. Monstrously dull meeting with Houghton over, I walked through the main gallery, thinking vaguely about my tea and custard cream biscuit, more specifically about the fact that there were only three days until Tuesday.

And then: the unmistakable line of his shoulders. My policeman was standing, head on one side, looking at a rather mediocre Sisley we’ve currently got on temporary loan. No uniform (the same jacket as before). Magnificently alive, breathing, and actually here, in the museum. I’d pictured him so many times over the past days that I rubbed my eyes, as disbelieving girls do in films.

I approached. He turned and looked straight at me, then at the floor. A little coy. As if he’d been caught out. DUM-de, went my trochaic heart.

‘Beat finished for the day?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Thought I’d have another look. See what my mug’ll have to compete with.’

‘Do you want to come up? I was just about to have tea.’

Again he looked at the floor. ‘I don’t want to put you to no trouble.’

‘No trouble,’ I said, already leading the way to my office.

I showed him in, nodding at Jackie’s offer of tea as I did so, ignoring her look of interest. He sat in the armchair. I perched on the edge of the desk. ‘So. See anything interesting?’

He didn’t hesitate in his response. ‘Yeah. There’s one of a woman, no clothes, sitting on a rock, her legs like a goat’s …’

‘
Satyrs
. French School.’

‘That was pretty interesting.’

‘Why was that?’

He looked at the floor again. ‘Well. Women don’t have goat’s legs, do they?’

I smiled. ‘It’s a mythological thing … from the ancient Greeks. She’s a creature called a satyr, only half human …’

‘Yeah. But isn’t all that just an excuse?’

‘An excuse?’

‘Art. Is it just an excuse to look at – well, naked people? Naked women.’

He didn’t look down this time. He was staring at me so intently, his small eyes so clearly blue, that I was the one who had to look away.

‘Well.’ I straightened my cuffs. ‘Well, there’s certainly an obsession with the human form – with bodies – and yes, sometimes a celebration of the beauties of the flesh, I suppose you could say – male and female …’

I flicked a look at him, but Jackie chose this moment to come in with the tea trolley. She was wearing a daffodil-yellow frock, very tight about the waist. Matching yellow shoes. A string of yellow beads. The effect was almost blinding. I saw my policeman take in this golden vision with what I thought was some interest. But then he looked back at me and there was that small, rather secret grin.

Jackie, not seeing our exchange of glances, said, ‘Good to see you back again, Mr …’

He told her his name. She passed him his tea. ‘Having your portrait done?’

His cheeks flushed pink. ‘Yeah.’

A little pause as she kept hold of his saucer, looking as though she were preparing herself to fish further.

I stood and held the door open. ‘Thank you, Jackie.’

She pushed out her trolley with a tight smile.