affairs and beach stones

24th November 1957

IT'S SUNDAY MORNING and I've packed a picnic for us. Listen to

me. Us.

Yesterday I bought ox tongue from Brampton's, a couple of beers for him, a good hunk of Roquefort, a jar of olives and two iced buns. I chose everything whilst thinking of what my policeman might like to eat, but also of what I might like him to try. Dithered over whether to include napkins and a bottle of champagne. In the end decided to put both in. Why not try to impress him, after all?

All of which is utterly ludicrous, not least because it's the coldest morning of the year so far. The sun has retreated, a wet fog hangs over the beach, and I saw my breath in the lav first thing. But he's coming at twelve and I'm to drive him in the Fiat to Cuckmere Haven. Really I should take a flask of tea and a couple of warm blankets. Perhaps I'll put those in too, just in case we fail to get out of the car.

Still, the gloominess of the day bodes well for our privacy. Nothing spoils an outing more than too many suspicious glances. I hope he wears some sort of hiking gear, so as to at least look the part. Michael always refused to wear tweed of any kind and did not possess even one pair of stout walking shoes – one of the reasons we usually stayed indoors. Of course, there are places in the countryside where few people ever appear, but those that do can be a lumpen lot, glaring with weather-beaten eyes at anyone who fails to look just as they do. One learns to ignore a certain amount, but I can't bear the thought of my policeman sullied by those enraged looks.

Must go and check the Fiat's starting all right.

He arrived on time. The usual jeans, T-shirt, ankle boots. And the long grey coat over the top. 'What?' he asked as I looked him up and down. 'Nothing,' I said, smiling. 'Nothing.'

I drove recklessly. Stealing glances at him whenever I could. Throwing the car around corners. My foot on the accelerator giving me such a feeling of power that I almost started to laugh.

'You drive too fast,' he observed as we took the coast road out of town.

'Are you going to arrest me?'

He gave a short laugh. 'I didn't think you were the type, that's all.'

'Appearances,' I said, 'can be deceptive.'

I asked him to tell me all about himself. 'Start at the beginning,' I said. 'I want to know everything about you.'

He shrugged. 'Not much to tell.'

'I know that's not true,' I implored, throwing an adoring look his way.

He looked out of the window. Sighed. 'You know most of it already. I told you. School. Rubbish. National Service. Boring. Police force. Not so bad. And swimming ...'

'What about your family? Your parents? Siblings?' 'What about them?'
'What are they like?'
'They're ... you know. All right. Ordinary.'

I tried a different tack. 'What do you want out of life?'

He said nothing for a bit, then this: 'What I want, right now, is to know about you. That's what I want.'

So I did the talking. I could almost feel him listening, he was so eager to hear what I had to say. Of course, that's the greatest flattery: a willing ear. So I went on, and on, about life at Oxford, the years I spent trying to make a living from

painting, how I got the job at the museum, my beliefs about art. I promised to take him to the opera, to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall, and to all the major galleries in London. He'd already been, he said, to the National. On a school outing. I asked him what he remembered of the place, and he mentioned Caravaggio's Supper at Emmaus: the clean-shaven Christ. 'I couldn't take my eyes off him,' he said. 'Jesus without a beard. It was really strange.'

'Strange as in wonderful?'

'Maybe. It didn't seem right, but it was more real than anything else in the place.'

I agreed. And we've made a plan to go together next weekend.

The fog was worse around Seaford, and by the time we reached Cuckmere Haven the road in front seemed to have disappeared completely. The Fiat was the only vehicle in the car park. I said we didn't have to walk – we could just talk. And eat. And whatever else took our fancy. But he was determined. 'We've come all this way,' he said, letting himself out of the car. It was quite a disappointment, to have him spring away from me like that, no longer held captive.

The river, with its slow meander down to the sea, was lost to us in the fog. All we could see was the grey chalk of the path, and the foot – not the tops – of the hills along one side. Through the fog came the occasional glimpse of the dumb bulk of a sheep. Nothing more.

My policeman strode slightly ahead, hands in pockets. As we walked, we fell to a comfortable silence. It was as though we were cushioned by the quiet, forgiving fog. We saw not another soul. Heard nothing apart from our own feet on the path. I said we should head back – this was useless: we could see nothing at all of river, downs or sky. And I was hungry; I'd packed a picnic and I wanted to eat. He turned to look at me. 'We need to get a look at the sea first,' he said.

After a while I could hear the suck and rush of the Channel, even if I couldn't see the beach. My policeman's pace increased, and I followed. Once there, we stood side by side on the steep bank of pebbles, staring into the grey mist. He inhaled deeply. 'It'd be good swimming here,' he said.

'We'll come back. In the spring.'

He looked at me. That smile playing on his lips. 'Or sooner. We could come one night.'

'It'd be cold,' I said.

'It'd be secret,' he said.

I touched his shoulder. 'Let's come back when the sun's out. When it's warm. Then we'll swim together.'

'But I like it like this. Just us and the fog.'
I laughed. 'For a policeman, you're very romantic.' 'For an artist, you're very afraid,' he said.
My answer to that was to kiss him hard on the mouth.