My Policeman (2 page)

When I was first invited to Sylvie’s house in Patcham, she had a peach silk neckerchief and as soon as I saw it I wanted one too. Sylvie’s parents had a tall drinks cabinet in their living room, with glass doors painted with black stars. ‘It’s all on the never-never,’ Sylvie said, pushing her tongue into her cheek and showing me upstairs. She let me wear the neckerchief and she showed me her bottles of nail varnish. When she opened one, I smelled pear-drops. Sitting on her neat bed, I chose the dark purple polish to brush over Sylvie’s wide, bitten-down nails, and when I’d finished, I brought her hand up to my face and blew, gently. Then I brought her thumbnail to my mouth and ran my top lip over the smooth finish, to check it was dry.

‘What are you doing?’ She gave a spiky laugh.

I let her hand fall back into her lap. Her cat, Midnight, came in and brushed up against my legs.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Midnight stretched and pressed herself along my ankles with greater urgency. I reached down to scratch her behind the ears, and whilst I was doubled over the cat, Sylvie’s bedroom door opened.

‘Get out,’ Sylvie said in a bored voice. I quickly straightened up, worried that she was speaking to me, but she was glaring over my shoulder towards the doorway. I twisted round and saw him standing there, and my hand came up to the silk at my neck.

‘Get out, Tom,’ Sylvie repeated, in a tone that suggested she was resigned to the roles they had to play out in this little drama.

He was leaning in the doorway with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, and I noticed the fine lines of muscle in his forearms. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen – barely a year older than me; but his shoulders were already wide and there was a dark hollow at the base of his neck. His chin had a scar on one side – just a small dent, like a fingerprint in plasticine – and he was wearing a sneer, which even then I knew he was doing deliberately, because he thought he should, because it made him look like a Ted; but the whole effect of this boy leaning on the door frame and looking at me with his blue eyes – small eyes, set deep – made me blush so hard that I reached down and plunged my fingers back into the dusty fur around Midnight’s ears and focused my eyes on the floor.

‘Tom! Get out!’ Sylvie’s voice was louder now, and the door slammed shut.

You can imagine, Patrick, that it was a few minutes before I could trust myself to remove my hand from the cat’s ears and look at Sylvie again.

After that, I did my best to remain firm friends with Sylvie. Sometimes I would take the bus out to Patcham and walk past her semi-detached house, looking up at her bright windows, telling myself I was hoping she would come out, when in fact my whole body was strung tight in anticipation
of
Tom’s appearance. Once, I sat on the wall around the corner from her house until it got dark and I could no longer feel my fingers or toes. I listened to the blackbirds singing for all they were worth, and smelled the dampness growing in the hedges around me, and then I caught the bus home.

My mother looked out of windows a lot. Whenever she was cooking, she’d lean on the stove and gaze out of the tiny line of glass in our back door. She was always, it seemed to me, making gravy and staring out of the window. She’d stir the gravy for the longest time, scraping the bits of meat and gristly residue around the pan. It tasted of iron and was slightly lumpy, but Dad and my brothers covered their plates with it. There was so much gravy that they got it on their fingers and in their nails, and they would lick it off while Mum smoked, waiting for the washing-up.

They were always kissing, Mum and Dad. In the scullery, him with his hand gripped tight on the back of her neck, her with her arm around his middle, pulling him closer. It was difficult, at the time, to work out how they fitted together, they were so tightly locked. It was ordinary to me, though, seeing them like that and I’d just sit at the kitchen table, put my
Picturegoer
annual on the ribbed tablecloth, prop my chin in my hand and wait for them to finish. The strange thing is, although there was all that kissing, there never seemed to be much conversation. They’d talk through us:
You’ll have to ask your father about that
. Or:
What does your mother say?
At the table it would be Fred, Harry and me, and Dad reading the
Gazette
and Mum standing by the window, smoking. I don’t think she ever sat at the table to eat with us, except on Sundays when Dad’s father, Grandpa Taylor, would come too. He called Dad ‘boy’ and would feed his yellowing Westie,
crouched
beneath his chair, most of his dinner. So it was never long before Mum was standing and smoking again, clearing away the plates and crashing the crocks in the scullery. She’d station me at the drainer to dry, fastening a pinny round my waist, one of hers that was too long for me and had to be rolled over at the top, and I’d try to lean on the sink like her. Sometimes when she wasn’t there I’d gaze through the window and try to imagine what my mother thought about as she looked out on our shed with the slanting roof, Dad’s patch of straggly Brussels sprouts, and the small square of sky above the neighbours’ houses.

In the summer holidays Sylvie and I often went to Black Rock Lido. I always wanted to save my money and sit on the beach, but Sylvie insisted that the Lido was where we should be. This was partly because the Lido was where Sylvie could flirt with boys. All through school, she was seldom without some admirer, whereas I didn’t seem to attract anyone’s interest. I never relished the thought of spending another afternoon watching my friend being ogled, but with its sparkling windows, glaring white concrete and striped deckchairs, the lido was too pretty to resist, and so more often than not we paid our ninepences and pushed through the turnstiles to the poolside.

I remember one afternoon with particular clarity. We were both about seventeen. Sylvie had a lime-green two-piece, and I had a red swimsuit that was too small for me. I kept having to yank up the straps and pull down the legs. By this time, Sylvie had rather impressive breasts and a neat waistline; I still seemed to be a long rectangular shape with a bit of extra padding around the sides. I’d had my hair cut into a bob by then, which I was pleased with, but I was too tall. My father
told
me not to stoop, but he also made a point of telling me to always choose flat shoes. ‘No man wants to look up a woman’s nose,’ he’d say. ‘Isn’t that right, Phyllis?’ And Mum would smile and say nothing. At school they kept insisting that with my height I should be good at netball, but I was dreadful. I’d just stand at the side, pretending to be waiting for a pass. The pass never came, and I’d gaze over the fence at the boys playing rugby. Their voices were so different to ours – deep and woody, and with that confidence of boys who know what the next step in life will be. Oxford. Cambridge. The bar. The school next door was private, you see, like yours was, and the boys there seemed so much more handsome than the ones I knew. They wore well-cut jackets and walked with their hands in their pockets and their long fringes falling over their faces, whereas the boys I knew (and these were few) sort of charged towards you, looking straight ahead. No mystery to them. All up-front. Not that I ever talked to any of those boys with the fringes. You went to one of those schools, but you were never like that, were you, Patrick? Like me, you never fitted in. I understood that from the start.

It was not quite hot enough for bathing outside – a freshening wind was coming from the sea – but the sun was bright. Sylvie and I lay flat on our towels. I kept my skirt on over my costume, whilst Sylvie arranged her things in a neat row next to me: comb, compact, cardigan. She sat up and squinted, taking in the crowds on the sun-drenched terrace. Sylvie’s mouth always seemed to be pulled in an upside-down smile, and her front teeth followed the downward line of her top lip, as if they’d been chiselled especially into shape. I closed my eyes. Pinkish shapes moved around on the insides of my eyelids as Sylvie sighed and cleared her throat. I knew she wanted to talk to me, to point out who else was at the pool,
who
was doing what with whom and which boys she knew, but all I wanted was some warmth on my face and to get that far-away feeling that comes when you lie in the afternoon sun.

Eventually I was almost there. The blood seemed to have thickened behind my eyes and all my limbs had gone to rubber. The slap of feet and the crack of boys hitting the water from the diving board did nothing to rouse me, and although I could feel the sun burning my shoulders I remained flat on the concrete, breathing in the chalky smell of the wet floor and the occasional waft of cold chlorine from a passer-by.

Then something cool and wet fell on my cheek and I opened my eyes. At first all I could see was the white glare of the sky. I blinked, and a shape revealed itself, outlined in vivid pink. I blinked again and heard Sylvie’s voice, petulant but pleased – ‘What are
you
doing here?’ – and I knew who it was.

Sitting up, I tried to gather myself together, shading my eyes and hastily wiping sweat from my top lip.

There he was, with the sun behind him, smirking at Sylvie.

‘You’re dripping on us!’ she said, brushing at imaginary droplets on her shoulders.

Of course, I’d seen and admired Tom at Sylvie’s house many times, but this was the first time I’d seen quite so much of his body. I tried to look away, Patrick. I tried not to stare at the bead of water crawling its way from his throat to his navel, at the wet strands of hair at the nape of his neck. But you know how hard it is to look away when you see something you want. So I focused on his shins: on the glistening blond hairs that covered his skin; I adjusted the straps of my one-piece, and Sylvie asked again, with an overly dramatic sigh: ‘What do you want, Tom?’

He looked at the two of us – both bone-dry and sun-blotched. ‘Haven’t you been in?’

‘Marion doesn’t swim,’ announced Sylvie.

‘Why not?’ he asked, looking at me.

I could have lied, I suppose. But even then I had a terrible dread of being found out. In the end, people always found you out. And when they did, it would be worse than if you’d simply told the truth in the first place.

My mouth had dried, but I managed to say, ‘Never learned.’

‘Tom’s in the sea-swimming club,’ said Sylvie, with what sounded almost like pride.

I’d never had the urge to get wet. The sea was always there, a constant noise and movement on the edge of town. But that didn’t mean I had to join it, did it? Until that moment, not being able to swim hadn’t seemed the least bit important. But now I knew that I would have to do it.

‘I’d love to learn,’ I said, trying to smile.

‘Tom’ll teach you, won’t you, Tom?’ said Sylvie, looking him in the eye, challenging him to refuse.

Tom gave a shiver, then snatched Sylvie’s towel and wrapped it about his waist.

‘I could,’ he said. Rubbing roughly at his hair, trying to dry it with one hand, he turned to Sylvie. ‘Lend us a bob.’

‘Where’s Roy?’ asked Sylvie.

This was the first I’d heard of Roy, but Sylvie was obviously interested, judging by the way she dropped the question of swimming lessons and instead craned her neck to see past her brother.

‘Diving,’ said Tom. ‘Lend us a bob.’

‘What are you doing after?’

‘None of your business.’

Sylvie opened her compact and studied herself for a moment
before
saying, in a low voice, ‘I bet you’re going to the Spotted Dog.’

At this, Tom stepped forward and made a playful swipe for his sister, but she ducked to avoid his hand. His towel fell to the floor and again I averted my eyes.

I wondered what was so bad about going to the Spotted Dog, but, not wanting to appear ignorant, I kept my mouth shut.

Sylvie let a small silence pass before she murmured, ‘You’re going there. I know it.’ Then she grabbed the corner of the towel, jumped up, and began to twist it into a rope. Tom lunged for her, but she was too quick. The end of the towel landed across his chest with a crack, leaving a red line. At the time, I fancied I saw the line pulsing, but I’m not sure of that now. Still, you can picture it: our beautiful boy beaten by his little sister, marked by her soft cotton towel.

A flash of anger passed across his face, and I bristled; it was getting cooler now; a shadow was creeping over the sunbathers. Tom looked to the ground and swallowed. Sylvie hovered, unsure of her brother’s next move. With a sudden grab, he had the towel back; she was ducking and laughing as he flicked the thing madly about, occasionally slapping her with its end – at which she’d let out a high-pitched squeal – but mostly missing. He was gentle now, you see, I knew it even then; he was padding about and being deliberately clumsy, teasing his sister with the idea of his greater strength and accuracy, with the idea that he
might
strike her hard.

‘I’ve got a bob,’ I said, feeling for change in my cardigan pocket. It was all I had left, but I held it out to him.

Tom stopped flicking the towel. He was breathing hard. Sylvie rubbed at her neck where the towel had hit. ‘Bully,’ she muttered.

He held out his palm, and I placed my coin in it, letting my fingertips brush his warm skin.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and he smiled. Then he looked at Sylvie. ‘You all right?’

Sylvie shrugged.

When he’d turned his back, she stuck out her tongue.

On the way home, I smelled my hand, breathing in the metallic scent. The tang of my money would be on Tom’s fingers now, too.

Just before Tom left for his National Service, he gave me a glimmer of hope that I clung to until his return, and, if I’m honest, even beyond that.

It was December and I’d gone to Sylvie’s for tea. You’ll understand that Sylvie rarely came to my house, because she had her own bedroom, a portable record-player and bottles of Vimto, whereas I shared a room with Harry and the only thing to drink was tea. But at Sylvie’s we had sliced ham, soft white bread, tomatoes and salad cream, followed by tinned mandarins and evaporated milk. Sylvie’s father owned a shop on the front that sold saucy postcards, rock dummies, out-of-date packets of jellied fruits, and dolls made from shells with dried seaweed for collars. It was called Happy News because it also sold newspapers, magazines and copies of the racier titles wrapped in cellophane. Sylvie told me that her father sold five copies of the
Kama Sutra
every week, and that figure trebled over the summer. At the time, I’d only a dim idea that the
Kama Sutra
was, for reasons unknown to me, a forbidden book; but I’d pretended to be impressed, opening my eyes wide and mouthing ‘Really?’ as Sylvie nodded, triumphant.