My Policeman (16 page)

‘What are you having?’ I asked. Well, you have to start somewhere.

Without hesitation, he replied, ‘Scotch.’ I ordered him a double from the Duchess and we both watched Older Miss Brown pour his drink.

He thanked me as he took the whisky, drank half of it back in one gulp, did not look in my direction.

‘Still wet out there?’ I tried.

He drained his glass. ‘Bucketing. Shoes are bloody soaked.’

I ordered him another drink. ‘Why don’t you join me by the fire? Soon have you dried out.’

Then he looked at me. Eyes large. Something drawn and hungry in his pale face. Something young but brittle. Without another word, I walked back to my table and sat down, certain he would follow.

Whatever happens, I thought, my policeman is still coming on Tuesday. He is coming to my flat. In the meantime, I can enjoy this, whatever it may turn out to be.

It took only a few moments for him to join me. I insisted he move his chair closer to the fire – closer to me. When he’d done so, there was a long silence. I offered him a cigarette. As soon as he took it, the Duchess moved in with a light. I watched the young man smoking. He lifted the cigarette slowly to his mouth, as if learning how to do it from a film, copying
an
actor’s every move. Narrowing his eyes. Sucking in his cheeks. Holding his breath for a few seconds and then blowing out. As he brought his hand up to his mouth again, I noticed a bruise about his wrist.

I wondered how he’d ended up here, who had told him this was the right place to come. His jacket was slightly worn-looking, but his boots were brand new and pointed at the toes. He should have been in the Greyhound, really. Someone had advised him badly. Or perhaps – like I once did, years ago – he’d simply screwed up all his courage and gone into the first place about which he’d heard a scurrilous rumour.

‘So, what brings you to this old dump?’ I asked. (I was a bit squiffy by now.)

He shrugged.

‘Let me get you another.’ I nodded to the Duchess, who was leaning on the bar, closely observing the two of us.

Once the new drinks came, together with a clean ashtray, all provided with a lingering look from the Duchess, I moved a little closer to the boy. ‘I haven’t seen you in here before,’ I said.

‘Ain’t seen you, neither.’

Touché.

‘Not that I’ve been in much,’ he added.

‘It’s a good place to come. Better than most.’

‘I know.’

Probably due to the amount of dry martini I’d consumed, I suddenly lost patience. The boy was obviously bored; he’d just wanted a drink he couldn’t afford to buy himself; he was not in the least interested in me.

I stood up and felt myself sway a little.

‘You off?’

‘It’s getting rather late …’

He looked up at me. ‘P’raps we could talk … somewhere else?’

Utterly brazen, really.

‘Black Lion,’ I said, grinding out my cigarette. ‘Ten minutes.’

I paid the bill, leaving a large tip for the gaping Duchess, and left the place. I was completely calm as I crossed the road and entered the narrow alleyway that leads to Black Lion Street. It had stopped raining. I swung my umbrella and had that lightness in my feet you get after alcohol. I walked fast but felt no sense of exertion, and may even have whistled ‘Stormy Weather’.

I did not hesitate to take the first steps down to the cottage. I didn’t even look about me to check if I were being watched. I’ve never been much of a one for this sort of encounter. I’ve had my moments, of course, especially before Michael and I became a regular thing. But since then I’ve made very little contact with any man’s flesh. Last night I suddenly realised how much I needed it. How much I’d missed it.

Then a tall man in a smart tweed overcoat, collar turned up, started up the steps. As he pushed past me, he muttered, ‘Fucking queer.’

Not, God knows, the first time. Certainly not the last. But it shocked me. Shocked me and turned my yearning flesh utterly cold. Because I’d had too many martinis. Because the rain had stopped. Because my policeman was coming on Tuesday. Because I’d been foolish enough to imagine I could enjoy this boy and just, for once, bloody well get on with it.

I stopped halfway down and leant against the cold tiled wall. The stench of urine, disinfectant and semen rose from the cottage below. I could still go down there. I could still
hold
this boy, and imagine he was my policeman. I could touch his coarse brown hair and imagine soft blond curls.

But my trochaic heart protested. So I hauled myself out of there and took a taxi home.

Strange. What remains with me now is the satisfaction of knowing that I actually went there. I took fright, but at least I got first to the Argyle, and then to the Black Lion. Two things I’ve very rarely achieved since Michael. And, despite this wretched hangover, my mood is surprisingly light.

Only two days, and then …

THE DAY: TUESDAY
. The time: seven-thirty in the evening.

I am standing at my window, waiting for him. Inside, the flat is tidied to within an inch of its life. Outside, the dark sea lies still.

DUM-de, goes my heart.

I have opened the drinks cabinet, displayed the latest copy of
Art and Artists
on the coffee table, made sure the bathroom is spotless. The daily, Mrs Gunn, is actually a weekly in my case, and I’m not sure she can see as well as she once did. I’ve dusted off my old easel and arranged it in the spare room, together with a palette, a few tubes of paint, some knives and brushes stuffed in a jam jar. The room still looks far too neat to be a studio – the vacuumed carpet, the crisply made bed – but I’m presuming this will be the first artist’s space he’s seen, and he won’t have many expectations.

Haven’t put my photographs of Michael away, despite considering doing so. Thought about playing some music, but decided that would be too much.

It’s just this evening turned quite chilly, so the heating’s on and I’m in my shirt sleeves. Keep touching my own neck, as if in preparation for where my policeman’s hand might go. Or his lips.

But I mustn’t think of that.

I go to the drinks cabinet and pour myself a large gin, then stand again at the window, listening to the ice release itself into the alcohol. Next door’s cat slinks along my sill and stares hopefully at me. But I won’t let her in. Not tonight.

As I wait, I’m reminded of Wednesdays. Of how my preparations for Michael’s arrival – the cooking, the arranging of the flat, of myself – were, for a while at least, almost more magical than the meetings themselves. It was the promise of what was to come, I know that. Sometimes, after we’d gone to bed and he was sleeping, I’d get up in the night and look at the mess we’d made. The dirty plates. Empty wine glasses. Our clothes strewn on the floor. Cigarette ends in the ashtray. Records lying on the sideboard without their sleeves. And I’d itch to put it all back into place, ready for the evening to begin all over again. If I could put everything back, I reasoned, when Michael rose before dawn he would see that I was ready for him. Waiting for him. Expecting him. And he might choose to stay the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next.

The buzzer goes. I put my drink down, run a hand through my hair. Take a breath. Go downstairs to the front door.

He’s not wearing his uniform, for which I’m grateful. It’s risky enough, having a lone male call at my door after six o’clock in the evening. He’s carrying a bag, though, which he waves at me. ‘Uniform. Thought you’d want me to wear it. For the portrait.’

He colours a little and glances down at the footplate. I wave him in. He follows me up the stairs (thankfully empty) and into the flat, his boots creaking.

‘Join me?’ When I hold up my glass, my hand shakes.

He says he’ll have a beer if there is one; he’s off duty now until six tomorrow morning. As I’m opening the only bottle
of
pale ale in the cabinet, I steal a glance at him. My policeman is standing on my rug, gloriously upright, the light from the chandelier catching his blond curls, and he’s looking around with his mouth slightly agape. His gaze pauses at the newly acquired oil I’ve proudly hung over the fireplace – a Philpot portrait of a boy with sturdily naked torso – before he walks to the window.

I hand him his glass. ‘Splendid view, isn’t it?’ I say, idiotically. There’s not much to see apart from our own reflections. But he agrees and we both squint out at the black sky in silence. I can smell him now: something faintly carbolic that reminds me of school – undoubtedly the smell of the station – but also a hint of pine talc.

I know I should keep talking so he won’t get too nervous, but I can’t think of a thing to say. He’s finally here, standing at my side. I can hear his breathing. He’s so close that my head feels dizzy with it, with his scent and his breath and the way he’s swallowing his drink in great gulps.

‘Mr Hazlewood—’

‘Patrick, please.’

‘Shall I change? Shouldn’t we get on with it?’

When he comes into the spare room he’s carrying his helmet, but everything else is in place. The black wool jacket. The tightly knotted tie. The belt with silver buckle. The whistle chain, slung between his breast pocket and his top button. The polished number on his shoulder. The shiny boots. It’s an odd thrill to have a policeman in my flat. Dangerous, despite his shy look. But also faintly ridiculous.

I tell him he looks splendid, and have him sit on the chair I’ve placed by the window. I’ve put a strong light beside it, and draped an old green tablecloth from the
curtain
rail as a backdrop. I’ve instructed him to place his hat on his knees and look into the corner of the room, over my right shoulder.

I settle myself on a stool, sketchpad on my lap, pencils to hand. The room is very quiet and I busy myself for a moment, getting to a clean page in the pad (which in truth hasn’t been used in years), selecting the correct pencil. Then, realising I am now free to look at him as blatantly as I like, for hours if I want to, I freeze.

I can’t do it. I cannot raise my eyes to him. My heart becomes frantic with the weight of it, this unfettered pleasure that lies ahead. I drop my pencil and paper and end up crouching on the floor before him, desperately trying to gather my things together.

‘Everything all right?’ he asks. His voice is light and yet grave, and I take a breath. Sit on the stool once more. Settle myself.

‘Everything’s fine,’ I say.

The work begins.

It’s strange. At first I can only take quick peeks at him. I’m worried I might start laughing with joy. I might start laughing at his youth, at the way he shines, at the way his cheeks are flushed, at the way his eyes are bright with interest. The way his thighs rest together as he sits. The way he holds his exquisite shoulders so square. Or, in this state, I might even start to weep.

I try to pull myself together. I realise I will have to convince myself I’m very serious about the drawing. It’s the only way I can allow myself to study him. I must try to see him from the inside, as my art teacher used to say. See the apple from the inside. Only then can you draw it.

Holding my pencil before my face, squinting, I examine
his
proportions: eyes to nose to mouth. Chin to shoulder to waist. Mark the points on the page. Note the lightness of his eyebrows. There’s a slight knobble on the bridge of his nose. His nostrils are elegantly angled. His mouth has a firm line. The upper lip is slightly fleshier than the lower (I almost lose concentration at this point). His chin has a subtle cleft.

Sketching it in, I actually manage to become quite absorbed in the work. The whispery sound of the pencil is very calming. So it’s something of a shock when he says: ‘Bet you never thought you’d have a policeman sitting in your bedroom.’

I don’t falter. I continue to draw, keeping my lines light, trying to remain focused on the work.

‘I’ll bet you never thought you’d be in an artist’s studio,’ I flash back, pleased with myself for remaining so composed.

He laughs a little. ‘Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.’

I look at him. Of course, he can’t
not
be aware of how he looks, I remind myself. He must know some of his power, despite his youth.

‘Seriously, though. I’ve always been interested in art and that,’ he states. His voice sounds proud, but there’s something boyish in his boast. It’s charming. He’s proving himself to me.

Then a thought strikes me: if I remain silent, he will continue to talk. He will let all this out. In this quiet room, with a tablecloth over the window and a lamp shining on his body, with my eyes on him but my voice silenced, he can be who he wants to be: the cultured policeman.

‘The other coppers aren’t interested, of course. They think it’s hoity-toity. But I think, well, it’s there, isn’t it? You can take it if you want to. It’s all there. It’s not like it used to be.’

He’s becoming more flushed; the hair around his temples is darkening with perspiration.

‘I mean, I didn’t have much education, really – secondary modern, all woodwork and technical drawing – and in the army, well. If you so much as hum a bit of Mozart they rip you to shreds. But now I’m my own man, aren’t I? It’s up to me.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘it is.’

‘’Course, you’ve got an advantage, if you don’t mind me saying. You were born into it. Literature, music, painting …’

I stop drawing. ‘True to an extent. But not everyone I knew approved of those things.’ My father, for a start. And Old Spicer, the housemaster at school. Once he said to me:
English Literature is no subject for a man, Hazlewood. Novels. Isn’t that what they study at these women’s colleges?
‘I imagine my school was just as stuffed with philistines as yours,’ I say.

There’s a small pause. I start drawing again.

‘But as you say,’ I continue, ‘you can show them now. They were wrong and you can show them.’

‘Like you have,’ he says.

Our eyes meet.

Slowly, I put down my pencil. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’

‘Is it finished?’

‘It will take several weeks. More than that, perhaps. This is just a preliminary sketch.’