Saving Ernest

Chapter 1

For all those who love men in—and out—of police uniforms.

It started out as your typical Saturday. I woke up a little after ten. I liked a lie-in at the weekend, and the heat wave we Londoners had been enjoying meant I hadn’t been able to get to sleep the previous night. I wouldn’t have minded the heat as much if I’d had a man to snuggle up against, but as they say, “once bitten twice shy.” When I was sufficiently awake to coordinate my hand movements, I reached over and switched on my bedside radio.

The news bulletin covered a long and depressing litany of murders, the goings-on in Westminster, and two well-known figures in the public eye who had finally admitted having an extra-marital affair.

I decided to start my day. First job was to get out of bed and relieve my bladder, brush my teeth and perform all the other morning rituals.

I dressed in a loose-fitting pair of shorts and an oversized white T-shirt—I’d taken heed of the advice of the overly-cheerful weatherman, or to give him his politically correct title, weatherperson.

I knew I’d have to smarten up my attire to meet Laurence for lunch, but that wasn’t until 1:00 P.M.

The milk had gone off, so after making a note on the pad stuck to the fridge door to buy more, I settled for a glass of orange juice and a toasted bagel. That was breakfast. Mother, who was being dried out in yet another over-priced private clinic, would have been horrified at the meagreness of my morning repast.

A quick sift through my post—nothing but junk, a cable bill, and, joy of joys, I’d been selected for the Readers’ Digest prize draw, oh, be still my beating heart. Setting the cable bill to one side, the rest went straight into the now overflowing pedal bin. I added ‘bin liners’ to the pad. A quick sniff at the cat’s litter tray, and I added ‘Cat Litter’ to the list, too.

Looking up at the calendar confirmed it was the second Saturday of the month, and the history magazine I subscribed to should be waiting for me at the newsagents on the high street.

So, having little else to do, I put on a pair of sandals and schlepped my way down to Mr Hussein’s shop.

I thought I might as well get myself a copy of The Guardian while I was at it. I wasn’t a regular newspaper reader, but I thought as it was going to be so warm today, I’d erect my parasol in my postage stamp-sized back garden and sit in my padded folding chair.

Picking up my newspaper, and a 4-pint carton of whole milk—I can’t stand the semi or-fully-messed-about-with kind—I went up to the counter and asked Mrs Hussein for my magazine. Then, following the usual polite enquiries about the health of her extended family, the expected warm weather, and the disgraceful amount of chewing gum on the pavements, I slowly made my way back along my street of Victorian terraced houses while leafing through my magazine. I was engrossed in an article on Project Ultra, the top secret code-breaking experiment that the allies had set up during the Second World War to intercept and decode the Nazi’s military signals, when a beautifully soft Irish voice brought me back to the present.

“Please be careful, sir.”

“Huh?” I looked up just in time to save myself from falling into a hole in the pavement caused by the absence of a manhole cover, or whatever the now politically correct term for such things were. Somehow ‘person-hole cover’ didn’t well…cover it.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling into the beautiful face of a policeman. I took in a sharp breath as the full impact of this stud’s magnificence impacted my brain. It was a good thing I was wearing loose shorts because Mr Happy was…extremely happy at the sight of the broad-chested hunk in front of me.

PC Plod stood arms akimbo, his whiter than white short-sleeved shirt stretching over what looked like a wonderfully muscled chest and oh-so-broad shoulders. The top button of the shirt was open to reveal the beginnings of a curly carpet of dark-red chest hair.

A quick sweep of my eyes upwards revealed a dazzling smile, the teeth just as perfectly white as the shirt. And such piercingly clear blue eyes. I began to melt. This man could either model clothes or toothpaste. And the hair…a tight mop of curly red hair topped this 6 feet 3 inch Adonis. I longed to run my fingers through those locks. But my eyes travelled downward to his not inconsiderable crotch.

His legs—encased in dark blue uniform trousers—looked thick, strong, and I hoped muscled…I swallowed and moved my eyes further downward. The stud was wearing a large pair of shiny black shoes. At least size 12, I thought. I wondered about the authenticity of the old adage regarding the correlation between feet and c**k size. Oh, to get my hands on that truncheon. Yes, I knew British policemen wielded nightsticks these days, but it wouldn’t have had the same literary ring to it. This man, who was sent out daily to protect innocent citizens, looked to be in his early thirties. He could protect this innocent citizen, anytime. Though I had lost my innocence—or rather faith in human nature—thanks to that bastard of an American student, Bradley Talbot III, quite a number of years ago.

Here was this gorgeous hunk, and here was I. Average in most senses of the word, from my modest features, medium length brown hair, grey eyes. All right, I was a smidgen under six feet tall, but my forty-one year old frame was slightly overweight. And my d**k—average-sized. That was me in a nutshell: average, average, average.

“There’s been a spate of thefts of manhole covers lately,” the vision said.

I hope I said something intelligible in response, as I found myself drawn ever deeper into those eyes.

“You all right, sir?” He was speaking again.

“Erm, oh, yes, sorry, it’s this heat I think, frying my brain.”

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Plod said, using his cap to fan his beautiful face.

“Yeah,” I said dreamily. “Forgive me. Will you have to stop here for long?”

“Until the Council comes with another cover. I’ve radioed in, but you know what it’s like to get a Council workman out, especially on a Saturday.”

“Yeah,” I said distractedly. I had to snap out of this before I made an even bigger prat of myself. “Look, I was just about to go back inside to my place for a glass of iced tea.” I pointed at my front door immediately behind him. “Would you like some, too?”

“I’ve never tried it, but it sounds nice.”

“An American friend…an American who I used to know,” I said, trying to keep the grimace off my face, “got me hooked on the stuff. It’s just the thing on a hot day. I’ll bring you out a glass, shall I?”

“Thank you.”

I rushed inside, not wanting to be parted from this god for long. In my haste, I tripped over the threshold and went headlong into the hall. Fortunately I managed to grab hold of the doorknob which prevented me from going arse over tit.

I’d made up a pitcher of sweet tea the night before, so I reached up to the cupboard and got out the best glass tumblers. Putting ice cubes into the bottom of the glasses, I then poured in a generous amount of the chilled liquid. After replacing the pitcher back in the fridge, I gently carried both glasses out to the waiting hunk. I thought I would drink mine out there, too; it would give me an excuse to be near him, gaze at his beauty, and engage him in conversation for a while.

“Here we are, PC 465,” I said, glancing at the numbers on his shoulder as I came back out onto the street.

I handed over one of the tall glasses. As our fingers brushed against each other, I became thankful once again for the loose-fitting shorts. The ice in the glass in my other hand was clinking away at the slight tremor that the brief contact with his flesh had set off.

“Please call me Liam,” the vision said before taking a swig from the glass. “This is great!” He treated me to a smile which further heated my already overheated insides.

“I pre-sweetened it. Trust me, you don’t want to drink it without sugar,” I babbled.

He smiled again and my insides melted even further.

We both sat down on the low brick wall that separated my miniature front yard from the street. My fearless fighter of crime stretched out his oh-so-long and thickly-muscled legs in front of him. I gulped at the sight and took a swallow of the tea to try and calm myself down. Then I realised I had gone off into dreamland again and hadn’t spoken for the past few moments.

“Forgive my ill manners. I’m Ernest, Ernest Porter. Mother was, and I guess still is, an Oscar Wilde fan, hence the ridiculously old-fashioned Christian name.”

The vision treated me to another wide grin. “Great to meet you, Ernest,” he said, holding up his glass in a toast. “Though if I told you my middle name, that would reveal a fair bit about Dad’s reading habits just before I was born.”

I raised an eyebrow. He blushed. God, he looked so sweet and innocent.

“It’s Ulysses. Dad was a Joyce fan.”

“Joyce Grenfell?” I questioned.

“Now you’re pulling my leg, so you are. No, I meant James Joyce.”

How his eyes twinkled when he laughed. His Irish accent seemed to thicken, too.

“Sorry, you were right…I was pulling your leg.” I took another long pull on my tea.

“It caused quite a few laughs down the station when the lads found out about my name. Though I bet none of them have read Joyce…half of them still have to run their fingers across the page, and you can see their lips moving when they read.”

“It’s not that bad, surely?”

“I was being a bit cruel, I suppose. It’s just my mates down the section house where I sleep kept me up half of last night. Paul, one of the guys on my relief, is getting hitched today, and it was his stag do last night.”

“Oh, right. You didn’t fancy going then?”

“I had to work today, and all that boozing doesn’t suit me. I don’t see the point in tanking yourself up with ale, then seeing it all either come back up again or peeing it out the other end. I prefer a nice glass of wine with one or two friends, either in a quiet pub or at home. Well, their home…can’t really take them back to the digs.”

“Yes, I see. A man after my own heart. I can’t think of anything nicer than spending a cosy evening with friends over a decent vintage.”

“Yeah.” Another brilliant smile.

Don’t smile at me like that, it’s not fair. “So…been pounding the beat long?” Hey, it was hot out there, and I was scrabbling around trying to keep the conversation going.

“Since my early twenties. Don’t know what attracted me to the job really.”

The uniform, I thought. “Yes…well I’m sure it’s a good career with plenty of opportunities for advancement.”

“I guess so, but I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a rut lately.”

I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t want to pry. So I moved the conversation onto less personal topics. The level of tea was getting ever lower in his glass, and I was trying to think of more things to say. Then a white Council van pulled up, and two jovial individuals in greasy overalls alighted from the front.

“Ah, so this is the hole, then,” the first workman, obviously a bear of very little brain, observed.

I winked at Liam, who gave out a chuckle.

The first oaf scratched his head and muttered something semi-technical to his colleague.

“We’ve got one of ’em in the back,” workman number two said.

The two men spent a few minutes moving things around inside their vehicle. Then they emerged with a metal cover. Unfortunately—for me—it fitted. My short-lived time in Heaven talking to this angel in blue was about to come to an end. Got to do something to keep him a bit longer.

“It’s time for Refs,” Liam said, looking at his watch. “I generally go down the greasy spoon just off the High Street for a sandwich. It’s much easier than trailing back to the station canteen.”

“Would you like to come into the house? I’m sure I can rustle something up for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” he said shyly. His bashfulness was so adorable.

“Not at all. I was about to make myself something anyway,” I lied. “So it’ll be no extra trouble.”

“Thank you, Ernest, I’d enjoy that.”

Liam said something into his radio on his lapel which had been quietly squawking away the whole time we’d been conversing. Then he turned it off and we ascended the few steps to the house, and I got the beautiful man sat down on one of the hard chairs in my small kitchen. I busied myself trying to create something from the few items I had in the larder. I didn’t keep that much in as I didn’t do any entertaining. Still, I managed to cobble together a few ham and tomato sandwiches, and there was still half of a cherry cake I’d bought at Safeway, so combined with more iced tea, this formed our lunch.

“So, Ernest, do you have any Gwendolyns, Cicelys, or perhaps a John or an Algernon as a sibling?” Liam’s eyes sparkled mischievously.

“You know the play, then?”

“Very well.” He nodded.

“No, I’m an only child, but my Aunt Phyllis could give lady Bracknell a run for her money.”

Liam laughed. A beautifully rich sound it was, too. “Well, there’s a ton of us. I’ve got five brothers and three sisters. I’m kind of in the middle somewhere.”

“Quite a crowd, then. They all live back in Ireland?”

“Yeah,” he said wistfully.

“Do you go back and visit much?”

He shook his head, and, for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of pain in his eyes.

I moved on quickly. “There’s just me and Lane here.”

“You’ve got a butler?” he asked in surprise.

“No, no,” I laughed. “Lane is the cat. He’s black and white, and…well…Mother, in one of her less sober moments, thought he looked a bit like a butler in livery, so the name stuck.”

“Oh, right,” he said, treating me to another gloriously warm smile.

His smile caused my insides to turn to mush, but I managed to recover enough to continue with the family saga. “Yes, just me and Lane. Dad ran off with his secretary about five years ago, and Mother hasn’t been the same since. She took it badly and spends most of her time looking into the bottom of an empty whisky glass.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, sounding sincere.

“It’s okay. Mother leads her own life, and I lead mine.” Under my breath I added, “Such as it is.”

“And what do you do with your life?” he asked.

“I spent some time in The City…a trader…but I hated the cut-and-thrust world of the stock market, so I left before the job burnt me out.” I didn’t add that I’d made enough money, and with careful investing, it should easily last me the rest of my life.

Liam nodded his understanding.

“I keep myself busy with voluntary work.”

Liam nodded again. “I coach a football team of inner-city kids on Sundays during the season, but I’m pretty much at a loose end at the moment.”

“No romantic prospects?” I asked, though knew I was pushing the boundaries.

He shook his head. “Whenever I start to get close to someone…when they find out what I do…it generally scares them off.”

“That’s a shame. I don’t suppose shift work helps.”

“Not really, no. And some people are turned off at the idea of going out with a policeman.”

I wasn’t. But of course I couldn’t tell him that. “I’m sure you’ll find the right person soon.”

Liam shrugged, not looking convinced. “Anyone special in your life?”

I sighed. “Thought I did once…a long time ago.” I shook my head. “But it didn’t work out.” I was well practiced at using non-gender-specific pronouns. “I came home one day and found a Dear John letter waiting for me on the table.” I tapped said table.

Liam looked genuinely saddened. I wondered if he would still feel the same way if he knew the person who’d written the letter was another man.

“I’ll have to get back at it.” His eyes glinted again. “Loads more criminals to apprehend, you know.”

“When constabulary duty’s to be done, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one,” I said, quoting W.S. Gilbert.

Liam’s eyes began twinkling again.

I tried to think of something that would enable me to see him again. “Look, you said you weren’t doing anything much tomorrow as it’s the closed season as far as your coaching is concerned. I was planning to take a trip out into the country somewhere. You know, stop off at a pub, or take a picnic and then go for a walk afterwards. If you’ve nothing better to do, you could…” I let the phrase trail off. Of course he’d have something better to do than hang around an old fool like me.

His face lit up. “That would be great. I was just going to plonk myself in front of the telly, or do something just as pointless. But getting out of London sounds great.”

My smile matched his. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

He told me where he lived, and we agreed on a time for me to be there.

Just before he left the house, he gave me a quick hug. I thought I would c*m in my shorts. Fortunately I didn’t have to speak—I wouldn’t have had enough breath to force air past my vocal chords. I just gave him a quick return squeeze, and we parted.

I collapsed back into the kitchen chair. Lane—who had been in hiding during Liam’s brief visit—came into the kitchen and jumped on my knee. Stroking him idly I replayed the past half hour.

“You don’t date. And you certainly don’t arrange to go out for the day with a straight guy, and a policeman to boot. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” I asked the oven. It came as no surprise when the oven didn’t offer a reply.