My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

It is a tale of wasted years, misguided love and thwarted hope, of how at a time when the country was on the verge of change so much was still impossible.

It is a tale of wasted years, misguided love and thwarted hope, of how at a time when the country was on the verge of change so much was still impossible.

I was a young woman wearing a tight pointed bra, carrying a yellow flowered bathing cap in her basket, ready to meet her recently returned sweetheart for a secret early-morning swim.

I started to giggle at myself, and only the sight of Tom – the real, living, breathing, land-walking Tom – stopped me.

In those days it was rare, wasn’t it, Patrick, for Tom’s voice to become what you might call serious; there was always a lot of up-and-down in it, a delicacy, almost a musicality

I realised that Tom would make a good policeman. He had the knack of sounding as though he were in control.

Tom said he’d like to go into space, I remember that, and I remember saying, ‘Perhaps you will, one day,’ and him laughing hysterically at my optimism.

We were both hungry for this other world, and back then it seemed as though Tom could be my partner in some new, as yet undefined, adventure.

‘I’ve been going to the art gallery.’ This was the first time that Tom had told me about anything he did – apart from swimming – in his spare time. ‘I could get really interested in it,’ he said. ‘I’ve never looked at it before, you know? I mean, why would I?’

‘But now I am, and I think I’m seeing something there, something special.’

Women didn’t live alone then. Not if they could help it.

It was this touch, more than anything, that convinced me to act as I did over the following few months, Patrick. It went right through the sugared-almond green of my frock and into my hip. People say that love is like a lightning bolt, but this wasn’t like that; this was like warm water, spreading through me.

To cover the relief I felt on hearing that masculine pronoun, I took a long drag on my cigarette.

And there were my kitten heels, tapping inappropriately on the mosaic, echoing around the walls like scattered coins.

He wore a three-piece suit and a fob watch, and his thin hands were often pointing at something, as if he were about to start conducting an orchestra at any moment.

It was then I realised that Tom was the one who would mind. Whenever we met, he was always exactly on time.

‘It’s time now,’ said Tom. ‘He’s late.’

Then, stepping from my side, he raised his hand. I looked up, and there you were. Average height. Mid thirties. White shirt, crisply ironed. Navy-blue waistcoat, a good fit. Dark curls worn slightly too long but well under control. A neat face: thick moustache, pinkish cheeks, wide forehead. You were looking at Tom without smiling, with an expression of deep absorption. You considered him, in the same way that others in the room were considering the displays.

It’s difficult, now, to remember exactly how I felt about you on that day, after all that’s happened since. But I think I liked you then. You talked so enthusiastically about your ideas for the museum – you wanted it to be an open place, democratic was the word you used, where everyone would be welcome.

That’s what Tom had told me, early on: He doesn’t make assumptions just because of how you look. You were too gracious for that. I liked you well enough. And Tom liked you, too. I could tell he liked you because he listened. I suspect that’s how it always was between the two of you. Tom was full of concentration as you spoke. He was immensely focused, as if afraid to miss a key phrase or gesture.

You’d insisted that I sit between the two of you (‘A rose between two thorns,’ you’d said).

in that final, awful, wonderful scene, Tom reached for my hand.

and Tom’s fingers were on mine in the darkness.

And, having just turned twenty-one,

Something that would allow me to become Tom’s lover.

‘And I wanted to let you know … how I feel.’ ‘How’s that, Tom?’ ‘I want you to be my wife,’ he said.

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.

There was that grin again, the one that policemen shouldn’t have.

I know I’m not old. And God knows my policeman makes me feel like a boy again.

‘It’s not a library, sir,’ I pointed out,

‘Isn’t it? A kind of library for art, and artefacts? A place where objects of beauty are ordered, made available to the public?’

‘Well put,’ I conceded. ‘I only meant that it needn’t be silent.

‘Isn’t it?’ he began again. ‘I don’t mean to be profane, Hazlewood, but aren’t objects of beauty there to be worshipped? This museum provides respite from the trials of everyday life, does it not? Peace and reflection are here, for those who seek it. A little like a church, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Most admirable, Hazlewood. Yes. We all agree, I’m sure. But remember, you can take the horse to water, but you can’t make the bugger drink. Hmm?’

I would go down and collect him. Well, I wanted to show off. To show him the place. To walk up the sweeping staircase with him.

His hair slick with rain. He looked such a boy that I was struck by the sensation that I’d made a ghastly mistake. I almost decided to send him home on some excuse. He was too young. Too vulnerable. And far too beautiful.

I wanted to impress him, but I didn’t want to over-egg it. My policeman should see something lovely,

He rubbed the side of his nose. Shrugged. ‘Dunno much about art.’ ‘You don’t have to. That’s the wonderful thing about it. It’s about reacting to it. Feeling it, if you like. It’s not really anything to do with knowledge.’

I imagined his arms cutting the waves, his legs twisted with seaweed.

Patrick had similar thoughts to Marion about Tom in the sea

‘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 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.

Got into bed wearing the pyjamas I hate. Flannel, blue stripes.

Lover, I cannot deal with. Lover is different.

We have looked at Icarus together and he has given me his secret smile and he is coming.

Brighton, for all its cosmopolitan airs, is a small town. It was a dreary night, wet and mild, very few stars. I was glad of the rain – it gave me an excuse to shelter beneath my largest umbrella.

There are always fresh roses on the bar. Last night’s were pale yellow, very delicate.

I had a sudden itch to run after him, kiss his hand and tell him he was braver than any soldier, to wear that much make-up in an English seaside town, even if that town did happen to be Brighton.

‘You’re not a coward. It’s brave of you to come here at all.’

What does one learn? To fear all strangers, and distrust even those close to you? To dissemble whenever possible? That utter loneliness is inevitable? That your lover of eight

‘Or sooner. We could come one night.’ ‘It’d be cold,’ I said. ‘It’d be secret,’ he said.