‘You were saying something about hope deferred making the heart sick.’
‘Oh, yes. And having something to hope for. I just think that even when we can’t see justice anywhere, we still have to hope – perhaps that’s when we need it most of all.’
‘It’s easy to say that, but I saw plenty of men in the war who were full of hope – hope that they’d survive and go home. But they didn’t. You know, when we were at the Cenotaph on Monday I said those men it reminded me of were my family, but that wasn’t true. Maybe when I was first in the army it was – I did get to know the men I was serving with. But then time passed, and one by one they got killed off. Towards the end, I think I chose not to know them – to know their names, yes, but not to know them as people, in the way their real families would’ve known them, because I knew the chances were they’d soon die. And I didn’t let them know me either – because I’d probably soon be dead too. The truth is I think I didn’t want to matter to them.’
‘Is that still how you are now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you think we all want to be known? To be accepted by someone, even loved by them? Is it just women who feel like that, or is it possible for a man too?’
‘But that’s the problem. I’m not just a man. I’m a policeman, and that means if you have feelings you don’t show them. I’m expected to submit to every regulation, obey every order and never question it. When I’m on duty I’m not supposed to think about anything except that duty. One of the first things they taught us when I joined the police was that lounging about was the worst sin you could commit. They called it “gossiping”, and any officer they caught doing that was for it. And I always had to be civil and polite to the public, never get angry, listen respectfully to whatever they said.’
‘But you’re off duty now.’
‘Am I? I’m not sure I ever am.’
Jago twisted round and looked back down Charing Cross Road to where a police constable was on point duty, directing the traffic.
‘You see that man down there? And that blue-and-white striped armlet on his left sleeve?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that means he’s on duty. It goes back to the old days, when policemen had to wear their uniform all the time, so they put the armlet on to show they were on duty. At training school they drummed it into us right from the start that whether we were officially on duty or off, our responsibility to the public was the same – to prevent and detect crime by all possible means. In other words, I was to be a policeman twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’s been like that for twenty years now, and I don’t feel as though I’m me any more. I’m just this detective that you see before you.’
‘But I don’t just see a policeman. I see John Jago, a boy who grew up and found the world was a cruel place full of bad people, but who’s done his best to be good and true. I see a man, a human being. You need people you can talk to from the heart – people who can understand you as a person, not just as a policeman.’
Jago didn’t know how to answer her. Who did he have that kind of relationship with? The only person who came anywhere close to it within the Metropolitan Police Service was his old friend and colleague Frank Tompkins. And outside the force? Well, there was Rita. She seemed to understand him, but it wasn’t what you’d call a deep or intimate relationship. Apart from her, over all these two decades he hadn’t let anyone into his life – there was just too much risk of being hurt.
He looked up and caught Dorothy’s eyes. They were warm and peaceful, and yet they seemed to see straight into him. He looked away quickly. When Carol had described Joan she might just as easily have been speaking of him. He recognised the ache he’d felt inside – it was a longing for intimacy, to know just one other person and to be known truly, deeply and totally by them. The realisation sent an unexpected surge of pain through him, and he bit his lip to stop it.
‘I don’t know if I’ll ever change,’ he said.
‘While there’s life there’s hope – that’s what people say, isn’t it?’ said Dorothy quietly.
‘They do these days,’ he replied.
‘And I suppose you could say while there’s hope there’s life, too. That’s why it’s important to know what people’s hopes are – you need to know what they long for to understand them.’
Jago nodded. He felt as he had when he was nine years old, standing on the edge of the swimming pool at the West Ham Municipal Baths and being told to dive in. Now, here, he realised he was staring into the distance and saying nothing.
‘What are you thinking?’ said Dorothy.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he replied, looking at her. ‘I was miles away. I was thinking about when we were having breakfast at Rita’s on Wednesday. You asked Rita what she hoped for.’
‘That’s right. She said she hoped for an end to the war and a good husband for her Emily.’
‘Yes. But I noticed you didn’t ask me. You didn’t ask what I hoped for.’
‘No, I didn’t. I sensed it was maybe what Rita wanted me to ask her – or maybe what she was hoping you might ask her. But I wasn’t so sure it was a question you wanted to answer yourself. So you’re right, I didn’t ask you. But then you didn’t ask me what I hoped for either.’
‘I see. Yes, of course, you’re
