My Policeman (29 page)

Julia nodded and murmured her agreement, but was obviously waiting for further revelations.

‘And I think this H-bomb testing business is awful. Terrifying. I’m considering joining that campaign against it.’ This was not entirely true. At least, it didn’t become true until the moment I said it.

Julia lit another cigarette. ‘I went on the march at Easter. They have regular meetings about it in town, too. You should
come
along. We need all the help we can get to spread the word. A disaster’s waiting to happen, and most people are more concerned about what the bloody royals are wearing.’

She looked away from me, towards the bar, blowing smoke upwards.

‘When’s the next one?’ I asked.

‘Saturday.’

I said nothing for a moment. Tom had promised to take me out on Saturday afternoon, even though it was your turn to see him. It was his suggestion; a way, I knew, of making amends for going to Venice with you. Your trip had been fixed for mid-August, and Tom had said he’d spend every Saturday with me until then.

‘Of course,’ said Julia, ‘they won’t let you in without a Fair Isle sweater and a pipe.’

‘Then I’ll have to do my best to get hold of those things,’ I said. We smiled at each other and raised our glasses.

‘To resistance,’ said Julia.

When Tom asked me where I’d been that evening, I told him the truth – it had been a hard day and Julia and I had discussed it over a drink. He seemed almost relieved to hear this, despite what Julia had said about you. ‘I’m glad you’re seeing friends,’ he said. ‘Going out. You should see more of Sylvie, too.’

I said nothing to Tom about my plans for Saturday. I knew he wouldn’t approve of me going to a political meeting. It wasn’t the sort of thing policemen’s wives were supposed to do. When I’d described to him my horror at the head’s recent announcement that all staff would be expected to teach a session on how to survive a nuclear attack, his response had been, ‘Why shouldn’t they be prepared?’ And he’d moved from
the
bread and butter to the cake I’d placed on the table in an effort to prove myself a good and loyal wife.

You can see, Patrick, that I was very confused about everything at this time. The only thing of which I felt sure was that I wanted to be more like Julia. At school, we ate lunch together and she told me about the march she’d been on. There was colour in her cheeks as she described the way that all kinds of people – Christians, beatniks, students, schoolteachers, factory workers, anarchists – had come together to make their voices heard. On that cold spring day they’d joined ranks and walked from London to the nuclear research centre at Aldermaston. She mentioned a friend, Rita, who’d marched with her. They’d walked all the way, despite the dismal weather and the fact that, towards the end, they’d wished they were in the pub instead. She laughed and said, ‘Some of them can be a bit – you know – po-faced. But it’s a wonderful thing. When you’re marching, you feel like you’re doing something. You’re all in it together.’

It sounded magical to me. It sounded like another world entirely. One I couldn’t wait to enter.

Saturday came and I insisted that Tom go to see you after all, saying that he shouldn’t let you down, and he could make it up to me next weekend. He looked confused, but he went anyway. At the door, he kissed my cheek. ‘Thanks, Marion,’ he said, ‘for being so good about everything.’ He was watching my face, obviously still unsure whether to take advantage of my apparent generosity or not. I waved him off with a smile.

After he’d gone, I went upstairs and tried to work out what might be a suitable outfit to wear to a meeting of the local Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament group. It was a warm
July
day, but my best summer frock – light tangerine in colour with a cream geometric print – would have been, I knew, deeply inappropriate. Nothing in my wardrobe seemed serious enough for the occasion. I’d seen pictures in the paper of the Aldermaston march, and knew that Julia was only half joking when she’d mentioned the need for a Fair Isle sweater and a pipe. Spectacles, a long scarf and a duffel coat seemed to be the uniform of those marchers, male and female alike. I looked through the pastel colours and flower prints of my wardrobe and felt disgusted with myself. Why didn’t I have a pair of trousers, at least? In the end I decided upon one of the outfits I regularly wore to school: a plain navy skirt and a light pink blouse. Taking up my cream cardigan with the big blue buttons, I set off to meet Julia.

When I arrived at the Friends’ Meeting House, I knew I needn’t have worried about blending in. Julia obviously had no such concerns: her jade green dress and orange beads were easily spotted in the crowd. I write ‘crowd’, but there can’t have been more than thirty people in the Meeting House lecture room. The room was white-walled with high windows at one end, and sunlight filled the place with warmth. At the back of the hall there was a trestle table with cups and an urn of tea set out on a paper tablecloth. At the front of the room was a large banner with the words CND BRIGHTON appliquéd on. As I arrived, a man with a short beard and a very crisp white shirt, the sleeves of which were neatly rolled to his elbows, was standing up to speak. Julia spotted me and gestured that I should sit on the bench next to her. I crept over to her as quietly as I could, glad that I hadn’t worn my kitten heels. She grinned, patted my arm, then turned a serious face towards the front.

The room didn’t look like a religious place, but a sense of quiet awe was present on that Saturday afternoon. The speaker
had
no platform on which to stand, let alone a pulpit from which to preach, but he was dramatically back-lit by the sunshine pouring through the windows, and everyone fell silent even before he began his speech.

‘Friends. Thank you all for coming today. I’m especially pleased to see some new faces …’ He turned his gaze to me, and I found myself smiling back. ‘As you know, we’re here to unite in the struggle for peace …’

As he spoke, I noticed how gentle yet firm his voice was, and how he managed to appear both casual and urgent. It was something to do with the way he leant back very slightly as he spoke, smiled around the room and let his words do the talking, without the dramatic gestures or the shouting that I’d expected. Instead, he was quietly confident, as were, it seemed to me, most of the people in the room. What he said was so evidently sensible that I found it hard to understand why anyone should disagree. Of course survival should come before democracy or even freedom. Of course it was pointless to argue about politics in the face of the destruction a nuclear attack would bring. Of course the H-bomb tests, which could cause cancer, should be stopped immediately. He explained how Britain could lead the world by its example. ‘After all, where we go, others follow,’ he declared, and everyone clapped. ‘We are supported by many great and good men and women. Benjamin Britten, E.M. Forster and Barbara Hepworth are just a few of the names I’m proud to say have added their voices to our campaign. But this movement cannot afford to be complacent. We rely on the grass-roots support of men and women like you. So please, take as many leaflets as you can and disseminate them as widely as you can. Leave them in public house, classroom and church. Without you, nothing can be done. With you, much is possible. Change is possible,
and
it will come. We will ban the bomb!’ As he spoke, there were vigorous nods of approval, and murmurs of assent, but only one woman shouted out, and she did so at odd moments. I saw a pained look pass across the speaker’s face as she bellowed ‘Hear, hear!’ at the words ‘Collect your leaflets from Pamela, who’s stationed at the tea table …’ Pamela gave a little wave, then patted her tight curls. ‘After you’ve had tea, of course,’ she added, and everyone laughed.

I thought, for a moment, how pleased you would be that I was part of something that involved such an esteemed group of writers and artists. You’d introduced Tom and me to the work of the people the speaker had mentioned, and you would be proud, I knew, to see me sitting there and listening to this speech. You’d be proud that I’d taken, in my own small way, a stand for what I believed in. You might even help me, I thought, to convince Tom that he should be proud too.

But I knew that such exchanges and understandings between the two of us were impossible. I would never tell you about this day. It would be my secret. You and Tom had your secrets, and now I had mine. It was a small, rather harmless secret, but it was my own.

After we’d collected our leaflets, Julia suggested a stroll along the seafront. As we got closer to the sea, we were harangued by salesmen hollering their wares to the crowds of day-trippers: big-banger sandwiches, fresh-shelled oysters, cockles, winkles, dirty postcards, ice cream, sun hats, sticks of rock, toilet-roll holders with naughty inscriptions. Reaching the prom, we leant on the railing and watched the scene on the beach below. The high sun felt like a slap in the face, I remember, after the gentle light of the Meeting House. Behind windbreaks, families were busy consuming sandwiches and cream cakes; children
cried
to go in the sea, and then cried to come out again; young men in coloured shirts sat in groups, drinking bottles of beer, and young women dressed in black tried to read novels in the glare of the sun; little girls shrieked at the water’s edge, their skirts tucked into their knickers; ladies wearing head-scarves, sitting silently in deckchairs, lined the pavement, surveying the whole thing.

It was a very different picture to the one that had greeted me the morning I’d first met Tom for our swimming lessons. Now there was endless noise: the clatter of coins from the amusement arcade, gun blasts from the shooting gallery, laughter and music from Chatfield’s bar, screams from the helter-skelter. The image of Tom’s face at the top of the stairs, pale and childlike, came to me again. That had been the only time, I realised, he’d shown me any real weakness. I looked at Julia, who was shading her eyes against the sun, smiling down at the chaos of the beach, and I had a sudden urge to tell her everything. My husband is afraid of heights. And he’s also sexually abnormal. I thought I might be able to say these things to her and she wouldn’t be shocked or disgusted; I might even be able to say such things without fear of ending our friendship.

‘Let’s paddle,’ said Julia, lifting her bagful of leaflets back on to her shoulder. ‘My feet are so hot I think they might burst.’

Letting the bright light blur my vision a little, I followed her on to the pebbles. We stumbled together to the water’s edge, grabbing at each other’s elbows for ballast. Julia unstrapped her sandals and I looked out at the hard glitter of the waves.

I wanted, I realised, to wade deep into the water, to go under and let the sea hold me again, let it wash away all the
noise
of the beach, let its coldness numb my scorching skin and slow my thoughts to a stop. I kicked off my shoes and, without thinking about it, reached under my skirt to unhook my stockings. Julia was already paddling, and she looked back at me and gave a hoot. ‘You hussy! What if one of the schoolchildren should see you?’

But I ignored her. I focused on the sea’s glint, and the cacophony of the beach receded as I walked into the water. I didn’t stumble on the stones or hesitate as I had with Tom. I just walked right in, hardly feeling the shock of the sea’s cold touch, the hem of my skirt soaking up the water until I was up to my waist in it. Still I went further, keeping my eyes on the horizon.

‘Marion?’ Julia’s voice sounded very far away. As I went deeper, I thought about how the sea could knock me one way or the other, or take me fully under. The current was playing around my legs, making me rock back and forth. But it didn’t seem like a threat this time. It seemed like a game. Letting my body go limp, I swayed with the waves. Tom’s body had been so springy on that day, I remembered. He’d moved with the sea. Perhaps I could do the same.

Lifting my feet off the bottom, I thought: he taught me to swim, but what use has it been? It would have been better never to have gone in the water at all.

I heard Julia’s voice again. ‘Marion! What are you doing? Marion! Come back!’

My feet found the bottom and I saw her standing in the shallows, one hand on her forehead. ‘Come back,’ she called, laughing nervously. ‘You’re scaring me.’ She held out a hand. I walked towards it, my wet skirt sticking to my thighs, water dripping from my fingers as they met hers. Once she had my hand in her grip, she pulled me towards her with
some
force, wrapping her hot arms around me. I smelled the sweet tea on her breath as she said, ‘If you want to swim, you’ll need a costume. You’ll have the lifeguard out otherwise.’

I tried to smile but could not. Panting and shivering at the same time, I let my head rest on her shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ said Julia. ‘I’ve got you.’

YOU SENT A
postcard from Venice. The picture on the front was not one of the classic views of St Mark’s Square or the Rialto Bridge. There wasn’t a canal or a gondolier in sight. Instead, you sent me a reproduction of a scene from Carpaccio’s
Legend of St Ursula
cycle:
The Arrival of the English Ambassadors
. The card showed two young men in tomato-coloured tights and fur-collared jackets leaning on a railing, their extravagant hair curling on to their shoulders. One of them held a peregrine falcon on his arm. It struck me that the pair were both onlookers and poseurs, watching and undoubtedly aware of being watched. On the back you wrote, ‘This painter gave his name to the slices of cold beef they eat here. Raw, thrillingly red; thin as skin. Venice is too beautiful to describe. Patrick.’ Below, Tom had written, ‘Journey long but OK. A great place. Missing you. Tom.’ You had done such a good job of saying everything, and Tom had said absolutely nothing. I almost laughed at the contrast.