affairs and beach stones

15th October 1957

THIS BUSINESS WITH Mother has been most distracting. On Sunday night, lying in bed wide awake, I was convinced she had only a few days left and I should prepare myself for her death. But on Monday I thought perhaps, at the very worst, she was in for a long illness and I should bring her to Brighton so I could nurse her. I even had a look in Cubitt and West's window on the way home from the museum, to see if any flats were available near mine. By this morning, though, I reckoned Mother to be the surviving type who'd probably see a good few years before my intervention was required. Nevertheless, I'd decided I should at least ask her to come here, if only to show willing. And I was sitting down this evening, gin and tonic to hand, to write a letter to that effect when the buzzer went.

Same time next week. I smiled. Despite the distraction of Mother's illness, I'd been waiting for him, of course, and had prepared the spare room. But only at the sound of the buzzer did I admit to myself that, despite sending him away last time, I had been expecting my policeman to return.

I sat for a few moments and relished the anticipation of his appearance. I took my time, and even read through what I'd written. Dear Mother, I'd begun, I hope you won't think I'm interfering, or that I'm panicking about your condition. I was, of course, doing both.

Then it went again. A long, impatient trill this time. He'd come back. I'd sent him away, but he'd come back. And this meant everything was different. It was his decision. He was the insistent one, not me. There he was, outside, pushing my buzzer again. I gulped back the rest of my gin and went downstairs to let him in.

On seeing me, his first words were, 'Am I early?'

'Not at all,' I said, without consulting my watch. 'You're right on time.' I showed him up the stairs and into the flat, walking behind him so he wouldn't see the irrepressible spring in my step.

He was carrying his uniform again, and wearing a black sweater and jeans. We reached the sitting room and stood together on the rug. To my surprise, he gave me a small smile. He didn't seem as nervous as I'd first thought. For a second, everything seemed so simple: here he was, back at the flat. What else could matter? My policeman was here, and he was smiling.

'Right then,' he said. 'Shall we get going?' There was a new confidence, a new determination in his voice.

'I think we should.'

And he turned, walked into the spare bedroom and closed the door behind him. Trying not to dwell too much on the fact that he was undressing behind that door, I went into the kitchen to fetch him a beer. Passing the hallway mirror, I checked my appearance and couldn't stop myself giving my reflection a sly grin.

'Ready,' he called, opening the door to the 'studio'. And there he was, all dressed for me, waiting to begin.

After I'd finished drawing him, we came through to the sitting room and I gave him another drink.

The beer must have relaxed him. He unbuckled his belt, took off his jacket, slung it across my armchair, and sat himself on the chesterfield without being invited. I looked at the shape his jacket made on the back of the chair. Thought how limp it looked without his body to fill it.

'Do you like the uniform?' I asked.

'You should've seen me when I first got it. Kept pacing up and down the front room, looking at myself in the mirror.' He shook his head. 'I didn't realise, then, how heavy it would be.'

'Heavy?'
'Weighs a bloody ton. Try it.' 'It wouldn't fit me ...'
'Go on. Give it a go.'

I picked it up. He was right: the thing was weighty. I rubbed the wool between my finger and thumb. 'It is a little coarse ...'