My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

I considered starting with these words: I no longer want to kill you—because I really don’t—but then decided you would think this far too melodramatic. You’ve always hated melodrama, and I don’t want to upset you now, not in the state you’re in, not at what may be the end of your life.

Because when you’re in love with someone for the first time, their name is enough. Just seeing my hand form Tom’s name was enough. Almost.

I suspect that you know about desire, about the way it grows when it’s denied, better than anyone. Every time Tom was home on leave I seemed to miss him, and I wonder now if I did this deliberately. Was waiting for his return, forgoing the sight of the real Tom, and instead writing about him in my notebook, a way of loving him more?

They were quite keen on girls having plans for the future, although I knew, even then, this was all a pipe dream that only stood up inside the walls of the school. Outside, plans fell apart, especially for girls.

When I look over the fields to the sea, on these autumn days when the grass moves in the wind and the waves sound like excited breath, I remember that I once felt intense and secret things, just like you, Patrick. I hope you will understand that, and I hope you can forgive it. *

tried to hear her words again. To hear them clearly, distinctly. I tried to find the right meaning in what she’d said about Tom. But whichever way I formed the words, they made little sense to me. As I lay on my bed in the dark, listening to my mother’s coughing and my father’s silence, I breathed into the sheet I’d pulled up to my nose and thought, she doesn’t know him like I do. I know what he’s like.

Something strange is happening as I write. I keep telling myself that what I am writing is an account explaining my relationship with Tom, and everything else that goes with it. Of course, the everything else—which is actually the point of writing at all—is going to become much more difficult to write about very soon. But I find, unexpectedly, that I’m enjoying myself immensely. My days have the kind of purpose they haven’t had since I retired from the school. I’m including all sorts of things, too, which may not be of interest to you, Patrick. But I don’t care. I want to remember it all, for myself, as well as for you. And as I write, I wonder if I will ever have the courage to actually read this to you. That has always been my plan, but the closer I get to the everything else, the more unlikely this seems.

All my dreams seemed to be along these lines at that time, no matter how much I longed to dream of Tom and myself in the sea, of the two of us going out and coming in, coming in and going out with the waves. So: I rose early, having dreamed of desks and chalk and cardboard milk bottle tops pierced with a straw, and from my window I saw that it was not a promising morning. It had been a mild September, but the month was drawing to a close now, and as I walked past Victoria Gardens the grass was soaked. I was very early, of course; probably it wasn’t yet seven, and this added to the delicious feeling I had of doing something secret. I’d left my parents sleeping, and had told no one where I was going. I was out of the house, away from my family, away from the school, and the whole day lay ahead.

People say that love is like a lightning bolt, but this wasn’t like that; this was like warm water, spreading through me.

I am comforted by all this, Patrick. I am comforted by the fact that I am tending you, cheerfully, by the fact that you let me do this with the minimum of fuss, by the fact that I can wash every part of you, rub it all clean with my Marks and Spencer’s Pure Indulgence range flannel, and then throw the cloudy water down the drain. I can do all this without my hands shaking, without my heart rate increasing, without my jaw slamming shut with such fierceness that I fear it may never open again.

On our way to the museum I’d had to listen again to his descriptions of Patrick Hazlewood, Keeper of Western Art at Brighton Museum and Art Gallery, who was down-to-earth, just like us, friendly, normal, no airs and graces, yet educated, knowledgeable, and cultured. I’d heard it so many times that I’d convinced myself you would be just the opposite. Trying to picture you, I saw the face of the music teacher at St. Luke’s—a small, pointed face flanked by meaty ear lobes. I was always amazed that that teacher, Mr. Reed, looked so much like a musician. 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’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. You were planning a series of lunchtime concerts to bring in new people, and you were absolutely set on getting the schoolchildren into the gallery, doing their own work. You even suggested I could help you with this, as though I had the power to change how the education system worked. You almost made me believe that I could do such a thing.

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. I could see him swallowing it all down in great gulps.

By this time I’d been at the school several months, but still didn’t have my own chair in the staff room. Tom said it was the same at the station: a selection of chairs appeared to have the names of their “owners” stitched somewhere in invisible thread—that must have been why no one else ever sat on them.

But Tom hated dancing, he’d told me that early on, and I’d convinced myself that what we did was special, because it was different. We weren’t like other couples. We were getting to know each other. Having proper conversations. And, having just turned twenty-one, I felt a bit old for all that teenage stuff, jukeboxes and jive.

There was such stillness and silence, apart from the scratching of my pen, and the whole place seemed to soften as the light outside disappeared. I had that lovely feeling of being brisk and organized, a teacher in control of her lessons, fully prepared for the work that lay ahead. It was during these moments, sitting alone at my desk, surrounded by dust and quiet, that I would convince myself that the children liked me. Perhaps, I thought, some of them even loved me. After all, hadn’t they been well-behaved that day? And didn’t every day now end with a triumphant story time, when I read aloud from The Water-Babies and the children sat around me, cross-legged on the rug?

I’m not sure exactly when the terrible moment used to fall, the moment at which a woman was judged to have been left on the shelf. Every time I thought of it, I thought of an old clock, ticking away the days. Many of the girls I’d known at school were already married. I knew I had a few years still to go, but if I wasn’t careful, the other teachers would look at me in the same way they looked at Julia, a woman alone; a woman who has to work for her own living, reads too many books, and is seen out shopping on a Saturday with a trolley instead of a pram or a child in tow, wearing trousers and obviously in no hurry to get home. In no hurry to get anywhere, in fact.

There was something odd, something un-Tom-like in his voice, a theatricality which, at the time, I put down to nerves. I glimpsed our reflections in the long window, and we looked almost like a cultured young couple, surrounded by tasteful artifacts and quality furniture, enjoying a drink together on a Saturday night. Trying to ignore the feeling that this was all happening in the wrong place, to the wrong people, I finished my drink quickly and said to Tom, “Show me some more of the apartment.”

Writing this now, picturing him confessing his weakness to me, I’m filled with love for him all over again. Whatever else he didn’t tell me, daring to admit such a thing was a great achievement.

Why write again? When I know that I must exercise caution. When I know that to commit my desires to paper is madness. When I know that those screaming bitch types who insist on trolling all over town spoil it for the rest of us. (I saw Gilbert Harding last week in his ghastly Roller, screeching out of the window at some poor lad on a bicycle. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.)

Very late, and no sleep. Shadowy thoughts—bad thoughts—chasing me. Have thought about burning my last entry many times. Cannot. What else can make him real, except for my words on paper? When no one else can know, how can I convince myself of his actual presence, of my actual feelings? It’s a bad habit, this writing things down. Sometimes, I think, a poor substitute for real life. Every year I have a clear-out—burn the lot. Even Michael’s letters I burned. And now wish I hadn’t.

He’d lowered his voice now we were near the artworks, as almost everyone does. It’s a great pleasure and mystery to me, the way people change when they come into the place. I never know whether it’s down to actual awe, or just slavish respect for museum protocol. Either way, voices are hushed, walks slowed, laughter stifled. A certain absorption takes place. I’ve always thought that in a museum people draw into themselves, and yet become more aware of their surroundings. My policeman was no different.

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 realize 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 each other’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 realize there will have to be words.

Immediately I recognized the old familiar feeling of being appraised by more than a dozen pairs of male eyes. A feeling exquisitely balanced between pleasure and pain. It’s not that they all turned and stared—the Argyle would never be that blatant—but my presence was noted. I’d taken care over my appearance, shaping my mustache, running some oil through my hair and selecting my most well-cut jacket (the gray marl from Jermyn Street) before I ventured out, so I was prepared. I keep myself fit—calisthenics every morning. The army did that for me, at least. And I don’t yet have a gray hair on my head. I’ve never been obsessed with these matters, but I do keep them in check. I was ready. I was, I thought, looking quite elegant. I was—in my head this is already taking on a strange reality—an artist about to embark on a daring new portraiture project.

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.

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.

I know I won’t be able to pretend for much longer. I won’t be able to make small talk about art and schooling and the trials and tribulations of being a young police officer. I will have to touch him, and the thought of him turning away is so terrifying that before I can steady myself, I say, “That’s it. Same time next week?” The words come out in a rush and I can’t look him in the eye.

Sunday, a day I’ve always hated for its quiet respectability, seems to be the fitting time for a family visit.

Mother has never mentioned my minority status to me, and I have never brought it up with her. I doubt the subject will ever be broached by either of us, but I do feel she understands my situation in some vague, subconscious way. Not once, for example, has she asked when I am going to bring a nice girl home to meet her. When I was twenty-one, I overheard her field Mrs. Drewitt’s annual inquiry into my marital status with the words, “Tricky’s not made that way.” Amen to that.

Our righteous indignation caused us to blunder over there together that Sunday afternoon with no plan, no clue of what we were doing. Once we’d walked past the door a few times we realized the place was utterly empty. It was this emptiness that made me suddenly aware of the seriousness of the situation. This threat was faceless. It was something we couldn’t see, let alone fight. We came home in silence. Although I tried to tell him not to, Michael sent the money. I knew he’d no choice, but felt I should be the voice of dissent. He refused to discuss it any further. Some weeks later I found another note in his apartment, and this time the price of silence had doubled. Within two months of that first letter, Michael had killed himself.

So I do wonder, sometimes, about Mrs. Esme Owens and her discretion. At Michael’s funeral she was wearing a very expensive-looking fur stole. And acting rather more distraught than was necessary for a landlady.

I think, perhaps rather romantically, that he’s like I was: he’s spent many years, ever since he was a very young boy, looking at men and wanting to be touched by them. He may already have begun to tell himself that he’s a minority. He may even know that no woman will offer a “cure.” I hope he knows that, although it wasn’t at all obvious to me until I was almost thirty. Even when I was with Michael there was a small part of me that wondered if some female couldn’t snap me out of it. But when he died I knew this to be utter folly, because there was no word for what I’d lost other than love. There. I’ve written it.

“For a policeman, you’re very romantic.” “For an artist, you’re very afraid,” he said.

That my best tactic is to get her on my side. If I can make her trust me, then it will be easier to keep seeing him. And why shouldn’t she trust me? After all, we both have my policeman’s best interests at heart. I’m sure she wants him to be happy. Just as I do.

don’t sound convincing, even to myself. The truth is, I’m a little afraid that her red hair and assured manner have turned his head. That she can offer him something I cannot. Security, for a start. Respectability (she has that in spades, although she may not be aware of it). And perhaps a promotion.

She does look to be a worthy rival. I could see her steadfastness—or was it stubbornness?—in the way she waited for my policeman to hold the door of the café open for her, and the way she watched his face carefully whenever he spoke, as if trying to fathom his real meaning. Miss Taylor...

I’d almost forgotten the joy of waking up and, before you’ve even opened your eyes, knowing by the shape of the mattress beneath you, by the warmth of the sheets, that he’s still there.

Looking back, I’ve often wondered about his haste. At the time it was thrilling, this dizzy rush into marriage, and it was flattering, too. But now I suspect he wanted to get it over with, before he changed his mind.

I tell you all this, Patrick, so you’ll know how it was between me and Tom. So you’ll know there was tenderness, as well as pain. So you’ll know how we failed, both of us, but also how we both tried.

I wonder how much longer we have, if I’m honest, to get through this story. And I wonder how much time I have to persuade Tom to talk to you. Last night he didn’t sleep well either—I heard him get up at least three times. It won’t surprise you to know we’ve had separate rooms for many years now. During the day he goes out, and I don’t ask him where he spends his hours anymore. I stopped asking at least twenty years ago, after I received the answer I’d known was coming.

You see, the truth is he didn’t want you to come here. It was my idea. In fact, I insisted. You’ll find it hard to believe, but in over forty years of marriage, I’ve never insisted on anything like I insisted on this.

Every morning I hope my husband won’t leave the house. But since the morning when I tried to have you sit at what Nurse Pamela calls the “family table,” Tom doesn’t even breakfast with us. I used to find his absence something of a relief, after everything we’d been through, but now I want him here by my side. And I want him by your side, too. I hope that he will join us in your room, if only for a little while. I hope that he will come and at least look at you—really look at you—and see what I can see: that despite everything, you still love him. I hope this will break his silence.

Last night, while you were sleeping, I stayed awake in the hope of being able to talk to Tom. This involved a disruption to our usual routine, which has been in place now ever since we both retired, and goes as follows. Every evening I prepare a rather lackluster meal, nothing like the feasts you used to offer us: oven-ready lasagna, a chicken pie, or a few sausages from the butcher in Peacehaven, who somehow manages to be both surly and obsequious. We eat at the kitchen table, perhaps engage in a little conversation about the dog or the news, after which I wash up while Tom takes Walter for his final walk around the block. We then watch television for an hour or so. Tom buys the Radio Times every week and highlights the programs he doesn’t want to miss using a yellow marker pen. We have a satellite dish, and so he has access to the History Channel and National Geographic.

Lately, though, I’ve gotten into the habit of sitting with you while my husband watches television. Tom has said nothing about it, but rather than joining him in the living room, I sit at your bedside and read aloud. We are currently enjoying Anna Karenina. Although you still cannot speak yourself, I know you understand every word I read, Patrick, and not just because you are doubtless very familiar with the novel. I see you close your eyes and enjoy the rhythm of the sentences. Your face becomes still, your shoulders relax, and the only sound apart from my voice is the television’s regular hum coming from the living room. Tolstoy’s grip on the female mind is, I’ve always thought, remarkable. Last night I read one of my favorite sections: Dolly’s reflections on the sufferings of pregnancy and childbirth, and tears came to my eyes because so often, over the years, I’ve longed for those sufferings, imagining that a child could have brought Tom and me closer together—despite everything, I’m convinced he wanted children; and even when I knew this could never happen, I imagined a child might bring me closer to myself.

It was a relief to drop down out of the wind and look over the deep valley. Although I’d lived in Brighton all my life, I’d never fully realized such a landscape surrounded my home town. The hills were bald of trees, but this seemed only to enhance the beauty of their curves, and their colors—everything from purplish brown to grasshopper green—sang out in the clear air. The larks were calling insistently above, just as they’d done on the Isle of Wight, and buttercups dotted the grass. We could see right down to the sea, which sent out white sparks. I stopped and stared, letting the sun warm my bare arms. I hadn’t anticipated the strength of the wind up here, and had hung my cardigan on the back of my chair in the classroom, leaving only my pink blouse to protect me now. Julia told the children they could start their lunch, and the two of us sat at the back of

I can’t say, Patrick, that I hadn’t thought about it before. But up until that moment on Castle Hill, no one had spoken the word aloud to me, and I’d done my level best to press it right down in my brain and keep it in a place where it could never be fully examined. How could I begin to admit such a thing? At the time, such a thing was non-admissible. I hadn’t the first idea about gay life, as I would call it now.

Looking back now, and writing this, it’s obvious to me that I’d known, on some level, all along—perhaps from when Sylvie had told me that Tom wasn’t like that, and certainly from the moment I witnessed the two of you standing together outside Osborne House. But at the time it didn’t seem obvious—or, at least, admissible—at all, and I find it’s impossible, now, to pinpoint the exact moment when I allowed the full picture to dawn on me.

I don’t know what I was hoping to find. Or praying I would not find. A copy of Physique Pictorial? A love letter from you? Both ideas were ludicrous; Tom would never have taken such risks. But out it all came, and looking at Tom’s things around me on the rug, I saw that they didn’t amount to very much. Nevertheless, I carried on, digging about in the debris under the bed, sweeping aside odd socks and an unopened box of handkerchiefs, my blouse sticking to me, my hands gray with dust, finding nothing that could further fuel my rage.

Instead I began to cry. It was such a relief, Patrick, to take this woman’s way out. Tom helped me up onto the bed and I sat, sputtering out loud sobs, opening my mouth wide, not bothering to cover my face. Tom put his arm around me and I allowed myself the luxury of resting my wet cheek on his chest. That was all I wanted at that moment. The oblivion of tears cried into my husband’s shirt. He said nothing; just rested his chin on the top of my head and slowly rubbed my shoulder.

“Is that what all this is about?” He was using his policeman’s voice again. I recognized it from our last discussion about you. He’d repressed the lilt, the hint of a laugh that was usually behind all his utterances. He has this talent, doesn’t he, Patrick? The gift of being able to remove oneself utterly from one’s words. The gift of being physically in a place, talking, responding, while not actually—not emotionally—being there at all. At the time I thought it was part of a policeman’s training, and for a while I told myself that Tom needed to do this, that he couldn’t help it. Removing himself was his way of coping with his work, and it had leaked into his life. But now I wonder whether it wasn’t always a part of him.