Bobby on the Beat

by Pamela Rhodes

  ‘Pam.’

  ‘OK, pretend to walk down the street with your handbag. Hold it at your side, like this.’

  He walked up and down, pretending to hold a handbag, eliciting a loud laugh from a few of the lads.

  I stood up and walked up and down the hall with my pretend handbag, as if I was looking in shop windows. It all felt very silly.

  ‘Right, Ted. Go up and try to snatch the bag.’

  As Ted tried to creep up behind me, I pretended to be oblivious, but was waiting warily for the pounce. After a moment, he darted forward, went for the imaginary bag and then grabbed my real arm.

  ‘So what do you do now?’ shouted Wooding.

  ‘I don’t know!’ I was wriggling to try to break his grip, but Ted clung on tighter to my arm.

  ‘Give me that bag, missy!’ said Ted, getting into the role a little too enthusiastically for my liking.

  Then, out of the blue, I somehow managed to jump round his grip, get behind him and pull him down onto the floor by the back of his collar, pinning his arm as Wooding had shown us earlier.

  Ted tapped loudly and I released him.

  ‘Very good! You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?’ Wooding said.

  I was sort of starting to enjoy myself now. It was certainly a far cry from folding clothes. After that, he put us into pairs, so we could practise. At the end of the class, Wooding sat us all down, saying we’d done well and shown good spirit.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of you lot making an arrest, any road. I’ll never forget one of my old instructors. He once disciplined a student severely for talking back.’

  There was a gasp.

  ‘And you’ll never guess who that student was.’ He paused and smiled as we realized he meant himself. ‘I never answered back again. But I don’t employ those methods. At least not yet.’

  We were never sure whether he was joking or not, but either way, Wooding’s classes turned out to be the most disciplined of the lot after that.

  With all that exercise and excitement, I was ready for dinner. Allan and I walked over to the canteen with Sally and Ted, who were chatting together. They had found out that they shared a passion for road cycling. Ted wanted to ride from John O’Groats all the way to Penzance on his new racer one day, and Sally agreed it was a grand idea.

  ‘Oh, Pam, you should have seen your face when Wooding picked on you!’ Sally laughed, punching me on the arm lightly. ‘But you showed a bit of spark with old Ted here, I should say.’

  ‘What about Old Broomstick earlier? Did you see his “hair”!’ Allan joked. ‘It’s not a wig, though. Really. I don’t think it can be …’

  ‘I swear he nearly caught me with that picture you drew …’ But I stopped short as Sally gesticulated madly for me to shush. I turned round, and there was Old Broomstick, standing right behind me.

  He nodded curtly and bowed towards us girls. We tried our hardest to suppress a giggle.

  ‘Remember what I said.’ He looked at Ted and Allan. ‘I’ve got my eye on you and don’t ever forget it.’

  He pointed at Ted and Allan and tapped the side of his head. We looked at each other in silence.

  A good deal of our classes involved learning legal definitions with another instructor, Sergeant Baines, for the weekly exams which tested us for our knowledge.

  Baines, a pleasant-looking chap with blond hair, took his role very seriously. The first thing he did, once we were all sat down, was to throw the two big textbooks we had all brought with us to one side.

  ‘In my humble opinion,’ he began, ‘after fifteen years on the beat, the best method for successful policing is knowledge. But not legal knowledge. No. I’m talking about people. Understand people and they will respect you. Never set yourselves up as their enemy and they’ll help you do the job. Remember, when you walk out on the street in your uniform, you’re not endowed with some special gift. A constable is a citizen. Just a capable one, with some extra powers of arrest.’

  We all chuckled.

  ‘You can learn all this legal mumbo jumbo,’ he continued. ‘And don’t worry, you will. We’ll get you through those exams. But essentially, to be a good bobby, you talk, and you talk to the people, you’re turned out smart, you hold your head up high. And you get to know your beats like the veins in your own hand.’

  All that said, we had no choice but to get our heads stuck into the two thick books of law and learn them by rote.

  Life at Bruche was tough, and at times it felt like I’d signed up for the army. There was inspection every morning and we had to keep our uniforms in tip-top condition. There would be more marching practice before breakfast, and we were encouraged by Merriweather to march wherever we walked on site, as he said a good confident march made for excellent character and morals. You could, on occasion, be punished with extra inspections in the evening if you weren’t turned out correctly.

  The days were made up of a mix of lecture and practical sessions. Practicals were often outside in the grounds, where we would enact a variety of offences: larceny, drunk and disorderly. Despite awkward laughter all round at first, it wasn’t long before we all started to enjoy the role-playing aspect of training.

  Marge surprised everyone the most when she turned out to be a brilliant actress. Usually quiet as a mouse, Baines would give her a prop and a scene to enact and she would morph into dozens of different characters. Her face would contort like an old music hall star, and her voice took on a vast array of accents and styles.

  One day, when he asked us to create an imaginary scene in the street, Marge pulled off a particularly good drunken tramp accosting passers-by. Marge put on an old coat and pretended to brandish a whisky bottle, while Baines played the policeman and tried to calm her down.

  We all pretended to be witnesses as she came staggering by, shouting and leering with unnerving accuracy, before rolling about on the floor and waving her arms and legs in the air. Some of us then had to become police officers and take her to the station without causing injury or making the situation worse. We then had to imagine it was some hours later, and take a statement from her and the other witnesses.

  When she started singing ‘Don’t Put Your Daughter on the Stage, Mrs Worthington’, in her best Dublin slur, we all collapsed with laughter. After we had finished, Marge stood up, transformed miraculously back to her old shy self, brushed herself down, and did a little curtsy.

  Some nights we went off site in the evening and on those days we literally counted the hours before we could skip up the lane and into town. On the first occasion, Marge, Sally and I caught up with Ted, Allan and another lad from the course called Neville, who I had just noticed had a very handsome smile. Excited at being let out for the first time, we formed a long line, arm in arm as we made our way up the lane, putting one leg and then the other forward, trying to keep in step with each other and singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ at the tops of our voices.

  We found our way into town as the sun hung in the midsummer sky. Swifts flew overhead and the trees were in full leaf. We stopped off at a little pub on the High Street called The Bell. The landlord, Mr Jones, had a bizarre collection of naval memorabilia adorning the bar, including what he introduced proudly as ‘a piece of Nelson’s bloody stocking from the Battle of Waterloo’. I doubted the provenance of the article, but in any case kept as far away as possible from where it hung.

  I’d never actually even been in a pub before or drunk any alcohol. Sally seemed to know what to do, though, as she marched up and ordered half a pint each of what she referred to confidently as ‘milk stout’ for me and herself. Mr Jones seemed to know what she meant as well, and started pouring the drinks from glass bottles. The lads ordered a pint each, and then Marge decided she wanted a stout too.

  ‘That’s my gal,’ said Mr Barnet as he poured out the thick black liquid. ‘I admire a lass who can hold her stout. My mother always swears by a pint of the black stuff, to keep the physician away. And she’s got so many yea
rs to her name now she’s lost track.’

  I took a sip. ‘Ooh, it’s so bitter!’ I scrunched up my face. ‘What did you say was in it?’

  ‘Roasted barley and malt,’ said Sally. ‘We drink it all the time in our house. And Da lets me have a whole glass on Saturday sometimes,’ she said proudly.

  Marge had already drunk half of hers by the time I ordered an orange juice. I vowed at that point never to take up a career in stout.

  In those days, women rarely went into pubs, and hardly ever into the bar, where we imagined men got up to all sorts. We left the lads in the bar playing darts and found a wood-panelled snug with green leather seats where we sat down to sip our drinks.

  ‘So. What do you think of Ted then?’ Sally asked.

  ‘He’s very … tall?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, I mean what do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s nice,’ I replied. ‘But hasn’t Neville got lovely eyes? Have you noticed?’

  But we didn’t spend the whole time talking about the boys. Sally told me about her life in Durham where she had worked in the local laundry.

  ‘It was absolute drudgery, you can’t imagine. I came home every day exhausted, in a trance, seeing visions of froth and foam, even in my sleep. My dad, who’s a policeman in Durham, he got so tired of me moping he suggested maybe I should give the police a go instead. And here I am.’

  We tried to coax something out of Marge about her mysterious life but she revealed little, except that her mam had once been an actress in York, before she got ill. Then she went quiet at the memory of it and slurped back the last of her stout.

  Later, on the way home, I told Marge about my life back in Scarborough: about Jane, the fashion show at the department store, and how, if it wasn’t for the police, I may well have ended up in New Zealand. She was impressed by how adventurous it all sounded. As we walked, the sun gradually set, with streaks of orange and red across the skyline. Sally and Ted hung back a little, laughing lightly together.

  We had to be back by ten p.m. sharp, and the clock in town was just chiming the hour, so we all legged it for the gates. As we approached, I caught sight of a dark figure lurking in the dusk. It was Merriweather, out on his evening stroll.

  ‘Ah ha!’ he said, leaping out into the light of the gas lamp, blocking our path. ‘So you think you can get away with it, do you? Well, the Lord and I alone know what you’re up to.’

  ‘Evening, sir,’ said Allan continuing as if to walk right past him.

  ‘Don’t you “evening, sir” me. I know your game.’ He blocked Allan’s path then swung round. ‘You two.’ He pointed at Ted and Sally, who were standing very close to one another at the back.‘What exactly are your intentions? I fear for your souls. I genuinely do.’ He looked as though he might burst into tears at any moment. ‘All I want is some peace of mind.’

  He went quiet and thoughtful for a moment, as though called on by a higher being, then shooed us away distractedly.

  ‘Move, move, move! You two, back to your quarters. You girls, to your beds. Not a peep. Lights out. Lights OUT!’

  We slunk away and left Merriweather to accost the next group back from their night out, and collapsed into laughter as soon as we rounded the corner. Sally, Marge and I went one way and the lads the other. As we left, I noticed Sally and Ted brush hands for a fleeting second and smile at one other.

  One of the lessons I dreaded most was life-saving class. We were driven out to the nearby swimming baths at a local school. Sergeant Wooding taught life-saving and swimming with the same relentless energy as he did ju-jitsu, and he took no prisoners.

  A few of our class were excellent swimmers, including Ted and Sally, who went immediately into the top group, splashing about and diving in like dolphins, even swimming proper front crawl, with their heads under and everything.

  I was put in the beginners’ corner, along with a few lads and a girl called Marion, where we sploshed about in the shallow end and tried for dear life to stay above water. Wooding would come past and shout instructions from the side at regular intervals as we tried our best to swim a width of the pool.

  ‘Left arm forward, straight, kick and right arm, now keep it straight, full strokes. Pamela, keep your head under. It won’t kill you.’

  Just at that moment I swallowed a huge mouthful of the tepid water and nearly choked.

  ‘Well, it might, but …’

  This swimming lark was going to take a while.

  Just then, from nearby, there was splashing and a shout, then a few bubbles as Marion disappeared under the water. Ted, who was limbering up for a dive, caught sight of her, jumped straight in like a giant heron and swam an arc under water, lifting her up to the surface of the pool.

  When they got to the side, Marion was choking and spluttering, with her eyes streaming and hair flat against her head. But she looked quite dreamily at Ted as he patted her on the back and put her in the recovery position.

  It turned out Marion’s leg had cramped up and she hadn’t been able to keep afloat. Wooding came running over and called it a day. We all agreed later that Ted should have got his life-saving certificate there and then for his heroic actions.

  Later that night, I was learning my definitions for the first of our weekly exams. We had a written exam every week, and if we failed too many we were in danger of being kicked off the course. Some of the more diligent students would wander around in a zombie-like state all week, mumbling to themselves in preparation, trying to memorize the difference between felonies and misdemeanours, or the Road Traffic Act.

  I was trying to remember a particular definition when I heard a scratching and scraping from Sally’s room next door. I thought nothing of it. Then, a couple of hours later, as I was about to turn my light out, I heard another commotion, some giggling, and then a loud thud and heavy footsteps outside, running towards the lads’ block. A moment later there was a soft knock on my door.

  ‘Pam. Pam! It’s me. Can I come in?’

  It was nearly lights out, but I opened the door and Sally stood there in a pink blouse, her hair all curled, with lipstick on. I had no idea where she had got hold of haircurlers.

  ‘We snuck out! To town. Ted and I! I had a snowball! Oh, you should have been there. It was so exciting. At one point Old Broomstick nearly caught us. Ted was walking me back to the hut. But we slipped behind a bush, and I swear I’m sure Old Broomstick could almost hear us breathing. He stopped and actually sniffed the air. Can you believe it? I think he’s got a super sixth sense for misdemeanors. Anyway …’ She paused for breath. ‘I had to tell someone!’

  I had to admit it did sound quite exciting.

  ‘How did you get back in?’

  ‘Through the window! Ted gave me a bunk-up. Oh life!’ she said, sighing. ‘It can’t get much better than this.’

  With that she said good night. Before sleep took its weary hold, the page of my book fell open at the definition of breaking and entering, and I dreamt that I caught a burglar climbing in through through the kitchen window of our house in Scarborough. When I pulled off the burglar’s mask it was Inspector Merriweather. I had an unsettled night.

  After morning parade we recited definitions to one another over breakfast, winding each other up about how many we could remember. Marion, who had a photographic memory, it turned out, said she could already recite most of them off by heart. She looked at Ted for approval; he was watching Sally, who was peeling an apple.

  Later that afternoon we were taken to one of the rooms on the site, which had been made into a mock courtroom, where we had court practice with Sergeant Baines. We had to take an oath.

  ‘I swear by Almighty God …’ We each took our turn, nervously, at the front. And we learnt about how different religions and cultures swear an oath.

  Some of the class would then act out being defendants and we would cross-examine them. Then there would be a turn giving evidence, or acting out all the other characters in court, to get used to it. Baines would advise about w
hat to say and what not to say.

  ‘So …’ Baines stalked up and down the mock courtroom, cross-examining me. ‘Can you explain how the twenty cans of Spam made their way into your bag, Miss … Lilliput, if you didn’t put them there? Did they fly in of their own accord?’

  ‘Well,’ I stumbled, trying to get into character. ‘I did put them there. But if I hadn’t put them there my ten children would starve to death.’

  ‘Ten children!’ barked Baines. ‘Are you a woman of loose morals? Why doesn’t your husband provide for you?’

  ‘I …’ I tried to think on my feet. ‘My husbands, all five of them, umm … died. Of the smallpox. Most unfortunate.’

  ‘OR!’ Baines paused for effect. ‘Did you murder them?’

  Baines stopped the act at that point, saying we were going a little off point. He explained what else would happen and how we’d have to go and give evidence as police officers, if we’d found the defendant shoplifting.

  ‘PC Rhodes,’ said Baines, beginning again. ‘You say the woman in question,’ he pretended to look at his notes, ‘had ten cans of Spam in her handbag, but how can you be sure she didn’t come into the shop with them, having purchased them at another shop?’

  ‘Well, I … I suppose … I did see her putting the cans into her bag.’

  ‘You suppose you saw her? Well, did you see her or did you not see her put the ten cans of Spam into her bag?’

  ‘I did see her.’

  ‘Yes, you see. You must be sure about what you say,’ Baines said. ‘Nothing vague or uncertain. These people are trained to seize on any hesitation, as I did.’

  Court role-play could be quite fun, and involved a lot of thinking on your feet. At times, I almost felt like we were in a real court, and it certainly did prepare me for later in my police career.

  Every week, on a Friday, there was a dance at the training centre. Nurses from a local hospital were invited to make up the numbers because we had so many men on the course and hardly any women.

  We all got dressed up, as far as we could with the small suitcase of clothes we’d been able to bring with us. The boys put on smart suits and ties, and I had a lovely blue silk blouse and a cotton skirt to match. Sally, it transpired, also had this neat trick of putting pipe-cleaners in your hair to curl them, in place of haircurlers; we all sat there, crammed into her little room, tying up each other’s hair into tight curls. We scrabbled together the bits of make-up we could find – Sally had a bit of lipstick and Marge had some blusher and an eye pencil – and we made our way out, as glamorous we could manage under the circumstances, to the hall.