I was so tired from the journey, I was half in a doze as he spoke. Then I saw the site at the bottom of the hill: a collection of buildings and Nissen huts, and a large area like a school playground.
‘That’ll be where we parade, I’ll bet,’ whispered Ted as we passed by.
I wondered what that would involve. I had seen soldiers marching, during the war and at the pictures. But I had never done it myself.
When we arrived, Sergeant Wooding pointed the lads in one direction and then showed me over to the women’s hut. Boys and girls were strictly separated, to avoid any ‘unnecessary … distractions’, as he put it.
Our sleeping quarters were old iron Nissen huts, where I supposed the soldiers from the US Army must have slept before us. They were divided up into little bedrooms; Sergeant Wooding opened a door to one and waved me in.
It was pretty stark and simple inside, with a small table and chair and a low metal bed with a single blanket. There was a little window, and the whole place smelled of dust and beeswax. A former resident had scratched something onto the desk: ‘Jennie and Derek. 1949’. And there was a little love heart next to it. But I was happy: it was clean enough and it was all mine for the next thirteen weeks.
‘You have a wardrobe and a sink and shared bathrooms there, at the end. And there’s a shelf for your books here,’ Wooding said. ‘Wake up call is at six thirty a.m. sharp for Parade at seven a.m. Breakfast at eight a.m. and lectures from nine a.m. Schedule is typed up here.’ He handed me a piece of light green paper with all the information for the week on it.
‘Lights out at ten thirty p.m. but you’re free to go into town before that. Just look out for Merriweather, he notices everything. So no funny business. Fridays we have a dance in the main hall. Any questions?’
My head was spinning and I couldn’t think of anything useful to ask, so with a nod he left me to it. As I unpacked my case, I could hear two girls already in the bedroom next to mine talking and laughing. I laid out all my clothes and my official police equipment on the bed.
There was my tunic – the traditional police jacket – two crisp white shirts, one navy skirt, three pairs of stockings. I also had two sets of gloves – one white, one brown – and a large navy greatcoat.
Then there were my other bits and bobs. I was issued with a small leather bag. The lads would have a truncheon and a whistle, but we women only had a whistle. The police didn’t carry radios at all in those days. We had a tape measure, for measuring distances in case of traffic accidents, and a torch for going on the beat in the dark, plus a little first-aid kit and a notebook and pencil.
I stood back and admired all the new items, then arranged them in size order, wondering if and when I might get to use them. A knock at the door made me jump. I peeped round and a strapping lass with freckles and a shock of blonde curly hair stood next to a smaller, slim girl with pale skin, her brown hair cut into a bob.
‘I’m Sally,’ said the taller girl, holding out her hand. ‘And this is Marge,’ she said, speaking for her companion. ‘We’re both from Durham, it turns out. Quite a coincidence. But we don’t know each other. Well, we do now, but we didn’t before,’ she laughed. ‘We got here last night. The rooms are quite small, and a bit chilly at night, but we’ve got enough to survive. I suppose it’s a bit like camping.’
Marge peered into my room and looked desperate to come in, so I moved aside.
‘Did you know these huts were used by American soldiers during the war, or so I was told. I could swear I heard the ghost of one whispering out last night, during the night. Didn’t I, Marge?’
Marge nodded.
‘How terrifying,’ I answered. ‘I’m Pam, from Scarborough, but I’ve only just got here. I suppose my room’s much the same as yours, is it?’
‘Yes. Pretty much. Ooh, you’ve laid all your things out. How efficient,’ said Sally, peering about. ‘Your bed’s the other side to mine. I haven’t even unpacked yet. Everything’s still just spilling out of my case all over the floor.’
She paused, looked around and picked up one of my books, flicked through it, then put it back down again.
‘Marge’s room is that side of you and I’m on the other side. We wondered who would be in here. Anyway, we’ll leave you to unpack and see you at dinner?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Nice to meet you,’ I answered, slightly stunned by Sally’s confidence.
Marge, who had said nothing throughout the duration of the visit, flashed me a very pretty smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth and then they turned and left.
I packed my things away in the cupboard and made my way down to the canteen for dinner. Everyone filed along with trays past a lady called Mrs Bevell, who was dishing out what soon came to be known as ‘slop’. Today, slop had been given the grand title of lamb stew, but when I sat down to eat I couldn’t find a trace of lamb in it. It was 1951 and rationing was still in full swing, but I did, after some sifting, discover what might well have been a pea or possibly a piece of carrot, but then it could just as easily have been turnip.
Sally and Marge, who were already seated, waved me over to join them. They were with two lads, one was Ted, who I’d met on the walk up from the station. The other was a chap called Allan, from Liverpool, who had black wavy hair and intense brown eyes.
‘The food’s not much to write home about, is it?’ Allan said, prodding warily at his plate. ‘Did she say it was rat stew?’
For a moment I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not.
‘I don’t know. It’s not bad,’ said Ted, shovelling away, barely stopping to breathe. ‘Besides, I’m starved to the brim.’
‘Well, it’s better than what me mam cooks, I suppose,’ said Sally, somewhat siding with Ted on the issue. They looked at each other and smiled.
Marge said very little as she ate a mouse-sized portion, but when it came to the rice pudding for afters, she swallowed the lot practically in one mouthful. We all stopped talking, slightly shocked as she wiped her mouth and grinned.
After that first evening the real regime started. We were to be up at the crack of dawn for inspection on the parade ground. After breakfast, there would be an introductory talk from Inspector Merriweather, followed by self-defence and then lectures in the afternoon.
That night, I lay on my bed in the little hut, thinking of how different my life suddenly was. I wondered what Jane was up to, and Mam and Dad, and wrote them letters on my new notepaper, telling them all about the Nissen huts and the slop and all the new people I’d met.
When I looked at my little wind-up alarm clock it was still only nine o’clock, so I pulled the blanket round me and started to leaf through one the textbooks we’d been given, Stone’s Justices’ Manual. It sounded so grand. It was full to the brim with ‘definitions’, legal descriptions that we’d have to learn for our final exams, in order to identify whether a crime had been committed or not.
Today, you can look things up on a computer. But back then we had to remember every last legal detail, and I can still reel off dozens of the definitions at the drop of a hat:
A constable is a citizen, locally appointed but having authority under the Crown for the protection of life and property, the maintenance of order, the prevention and detection of crime and the prosecution of offenders against Peace.
A firearm is a lethal barrelled weapon of any description from which any shot, bullet or other missile can be discharged.
Theft. A person steals who, without authority of the owner and without a claim of right in good faith, takes and carries away anything capable of being stolen with the intention at the time of such taking to permanently deprive the owner thereof.
Assault. An attempt or offer by force or violence to do bodily injury to another.
As the words started to blur into one, I lay back, just about ready to doze off, when the book fell open on a page entitled ‘Incest’.
Heavens. I had only read about this in the News of the World and I wasn’t even entirely sure
what it was. And now I’d have to be learning about it for real. What had I got myself into? I may have been about to embark on a new career, but I felt very unworldly indeed as I drifted off to sleep that night.
No sooner had I dozed off, or so it seemed, when my alarm clock rang loudly and dragged me back to reality. As the sun drifted in through the small window, I got up, stretched and reached out for my new uniform, hanging in the wardrobe. I checked my shoes were still shiny and gave them one last spit and polish. I grabbed my hat, which we were expected to wear at all times on site, and bumped into Marge and Sally in the corridor.
We headed out together onto the parade ground, an area about the size of a netball court, covered in tarmac and surrounded by small oak trees, with a front gate at the end leading out onto the lane.
We hadn’t had breakfast yet and it was a chilly morning, with the sun just creeping out over the tops of the trees, mist hanging in the air. I hugged myself and stamped my feet to try to keep warm as the rest of the group made its way out. There were Ted and Allan, and other faces I’d never seen before. In total there were five girls and twenty-one boys on our course, and we all lined up for inspection.
‘Do you actually know how to march?’ whispered Sally, as we stood in line waiting for the Sergeant. ‘My dad tried to teach me a bit.’ She grimaced, demonstrating a moment of wild marching. ‘It was a disaster. I kept tripping up all over the place and I couldn’t take it seriously. He gave up in the end.’
‘I’m so nervous my legs feel like jelly,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know the proper way to salute. Is it the left or the right hand?’
Just then Sergeant Thompson came striding onto the field. I expect we looked a right raggedy bunch. He walked up and down and checked our uniforms, pulled a few collars into line and made sure the lads were clean-shaven. He pulled one lad aside.
‘You, boy. What’s yer name?’ he asked in a loud drawl.
‘Carson, sir. Ted Carson.
‘Well, Ted Carson, learn how to use a razor!’
‘Sorry, Sergeant; yes, Sergeant,’ he answered.
‘You’re a slovenly lot and no mistake. But it’s your first day, and we’ll make an exception, this once. But from tomorrow Inspector Merriweather will be out, and if there’s a stitch out of place, it’ll be hell to pay for the lot of you. Atten–shun!’
‘Parade, parade. Quick … march!’
And we were off, trying desperately to keep some kind of meaningful formation. We would have marching practice every day from now on, in preparation for the Passing Out parade which would come at the end of our course. Every year wanted to be the best and we were no exception.
The lads all seemed to know exactly what to do, having all just come fresh from their National Service. But we girls had no idea and got legs and arms in all kinds of disarray, veering off course in every direction and bumping into each other. Then, to my horror, Sergeant Thompson made us go right out of the front gates and up the road.
‘About … turn! One, two, one, two.’
We marched past the village church and up the little lane towards the post office and on towards the Three Crowns public house. Marge, Sally and I were doing our best to desperately keep in rhythm, get our arms swinging to match our feet, and get everything to match the Sergeant. Marge seemed to be getting it all right in the end, but Sally and I were a lost cause.
When we got to the end of the lane we passed a pair of elderly ladies out walking their dogs. They stopped to stare and one of the dogs ran up to Sergeant Thompson and started biting at his trouser legs. That was it, it was too much to bear, and Sally, Marge and I only just managed to stave off a fit of hysterics. But this was a serious business and the Sergeant just carried on until the animal gave up. Nothing seemed to phase him.
When we finally arrived back at the parade ground Thompson dismissed everyone, but beckoned us three over before we could leave.
‘Names!’ he ordered.
‘Rhodes.’
‘Lyons.’
‘Peters.’
We all spoke at once, staring straight ahead. My legs were shaking.
For a while he didn’t say a word, just paced up and down, his top lip quivering, as though mourning the loss of a very large moustache.
‘They said it was a good idea bringing women in. And I relented. In the end. And I’m not old-fashioned. I know times are changing. But this is not. I repeat NOT some village dance.’
Then he continued in a near whisper, with his face right up against ours. ‘It’s not a game. So you either buck up your ideas, or you’ll be … there will be trouble. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ we said, and Sally bit her lip, just managing to suppress a smile. We gave our best attempt at standing to attention and were duly dismissed.
After breakfast, Inspector Merriweather met us all in the lecture hall for what he called his ‘introductory speech’.
Along the wall was a row of pictures depicting jowly men in various authoritative poses. At the very end was a picture of a whiskered Victorian gentleman in a uniform, maybe one of the first policemen ever, I thought. I didn’t see any pictures of women.
Merriweather walked out onto the stage. He had a fawn-coloured sprout of hair, rather like the top of a broomstick. There was a persistent rumour that it was a wig, but we never found out for sure. Merriweather was a fervent and heartfelt Evangelical Christian, and he assumed an enormous sense of propriety over the students, particularly the ladies. He clasped his hands together and emitted a high, squeaking voice.
‘So, you think you’ve made it. You think you’re going to be top dogs.’
What he lacked in depth of tone, he made up for with volume and zeal.
‘Well, let me get one thing straight. Nothing is certain in this world. Least of all success. You have to earn it. Day by day, minute by minute.’
He cracked his fingers one by one. Ted scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it to Allan, who stifled a smirk, then passed it on to Sally, who passed it to me where it stopped.
Inspector Merriweather eyed us all suspiciously.
I opened the note carefully. It was a cartoon sketch of Merriweather in the shape of a cartoon broomstick, resplendent in hat. I scrunched it up straight away and put it deep in my pocket for fear of being caught.
‘Cursing,’ he continued after a long pause, ‘will not be tolerated under any circumstances. You ladies here –’ he waved along the row with a flourish – ‘I see it as my unparalleled duty to protect and uphold you all, in the name of virtue. And I will not suffer swearing or taking the Lord’s name in vain from the men.’
He paused again and inhaled deeply.
‘Not in the halls and corridors, not in your own rooms, not even in your dreams. And under no circumstances will you fraternize. We run a tight ship and there is no room for … personalities.’
He said that last word as though biting into a particularly bitter piece of fruit.
‘I will be watching you. UNDERSTOOD?’
There was a mumble of ‘yes, sirs’, but I got the distinct feeling we weren’t going to be able to take Merriweather entirely seriously.
The introductory talk now over, our first real class was self-defence. I had no idea what this would involve, but it was to be led by Sergeant Wooding, who had met us at the station.
Wooding never seemed to run out of energy, at any point, ever. He was limbering up in the main hall as we walked in. We all stood in a row as he explained that he would be showing us the basic methods to restrain without injury, as well as various holds and arm locks in case of need.
‘OK. Who wants to be my first victim?’ he asked, with an impish smile.
‘How about you, young lad?’ he leapt over and pointed at Ted, who was the tallest man in the room and, at a strapping six foot six inches, at least a head taller than Wooding.
Ted smiled awkwardly as he stood up, and we all, for one moment, genuinely feared for Wooding’s safety.
‘OK, lad.
Now give me your best left hook.’
Ted poked at him flimsily with one finger on the arm.
‘No! Not like that, man,’ said Wooding, hopping from one leg to the other. ‘Imagine we’re in a tavern brawl. I’ve just nicked your pint, or your girl! And you’re going to clobber me one. I’m your worst enemy. Now go!’
Ted swung at the officer with a wild left hook. And, in what I can only describe as a blur, in the flicker of an eye Sergeant Wooding turned on his feet, avoided the punch and twisted Ted’s arm, pinning him to the floor and threatening at any moment to break his arm.
‘Tap if it hurts, lad. That’s how I know when to let it off,’ he grinned joyfully.
Ted tapped the mat immediately and – after some time – Wooding released him.
We strained forward in excitement and fear as Ted stood up, released from his strange contortion and clutching his arm.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll toughen you lot up. Right, who’s next?’
We all tried to avoid eye contact with Wooding as he continued to demonstrate in a similar manner on a succession of students. They were asked to play crooks and villains being arrested or picking fights, and each time the sergeant produced a swift and efficient method of escape and capture, leaving the victim bewildered and clutching their limbs in pain.
Wooding explained that the techniques were based on a martial art called ju-jitsu; they would disarm and disable an attacker or a thief in an instant, and these basic moves would be invaluable ‘on the ground’, by which he meant once we were in the real world.
‘Right. Who’s next …’ he looked up and down the row as we all tried to avoid his gaze.
‘You, lass. What’s your name?’ He was staring right at me. I wanted the floor to dissolve so I could fall right through it, but there was no escape.
Bobby on the Beat Page 5
