Bobby on the Beat

by Pamela Rhodes

  I had learnt to dance in Scarborough, where I’d had lessons above an old shop with Miss Trent, a teacher from a dance school. I was quite confident with the military two-step, the waltz and the foxtrot and was looking forward to the evening. I wondered who I’d end up dancing with.

  As we all walked in, Ted, Allan and Neville were hanging around by the bar. We wandered over. My hair had turned out such a shock of tight curls that night, the lads all christened me Bubbles.

  Sergeant Thompson had his gramophone at the front. First he played a waltz, and Allan whisked me onto the floor. Ted and Sally glided past us, and Marion and Neville followed. Allan was a bit of a clumsy dancer – he kept treading on my feet and scraping my ankles – but we had a laugh anyway, capering about the floor together. Inspector Merriweather kept a beady eye on proceedings from the side.

  Next was a military two-step, which is a bit like a Scottish country dance. I paired up with Neville for this one, which involved us holding hands and turning, stepping with one foot forward then the other, walking with held hands back and forth, all followed by a boisterous polka around the room. Neville turned out to be quite a good dancer and he knew this dance well. At the end of the evening, Neville offered to walk me back to my hut. We just escaped the eye of Inspector Merriweather, who was questioning another pair about their ‘intentions’ as they left.

  I hardly knew anything about Neville. We’d only chatted once or twice, passing the time of day, but he seemed a nice lad. And I now knew he was a good dancer. He had a lovely, well-defined nose, with thick black hair.

  ‘What’s it like in Liverpool, then?’ I asked, filling the silence as we strolled across the parade ground.

  ‘Oh, it’s grand. Especially the docks. That’s where me da works. I go down there and help him out most weekends. I love all the ropes and chains, and the hustle and bustle. The noise can be tremendous.’

  It sounded wonderfully exciting.

  ‘So you didn’t want to work the docks, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Me da didn’t want me to. He said he wanted more for me. You know.’

  Just then, Sally and Ted came running up after us, laughing.

  ‘Allan’s gone off with a nurse!’ Ted said.

  ‘He hasn’t “gone off” with her,’ said Sally. ‘He’s being a proper gent and seeing her to the bus stop.’

  ‘Yeah, and I bet that’s all he’s doing,’ Ted teased.

  ‘Ted!’ gasped Sally. ‘You little …’ and she punched him affectionately in the stomach as they walked off, arm in arm, giggling. ‘’Night, you two,’ she called back at us.

  ‘Yeah, ’night both.’

  I was just about to say goodbye to Neville when I saw Inspector Merriweather coming over. We hadn’t escaped his all-seeing eye after all.

  ‘And where do you think you’re off ?’ he shouted across the grounds.

  ‘Nowhere, sir. Only to our very separate quarters,’ said Neville, flashing his most innocent smile. ‘I was just warning the lady, Miss Rhodes, here, about keeping her wits about her, with all these young men about. You know, keep her guard up at all times, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well, I couldn’t have put it better myself, lad. You’re a man who speaks after my own heart. Well, as you were. Good night.’

  I almost thought he was going to doff his cap at that point. But he turned away and barked at another passing couple.

  ‘We got out of that one!’ I giggled.

  ‘Good night, then,’ said Neville softly, and then he was gone.

  That night my heart was all aflutter. I imagined strolling somewhere, up a country lane in midsummer. Perhaps it was with Neville, but I couldn’t quite see his face. We’ve packed a hamper, and are going down to a little river, stepping onto a boat. He takes my hand, the music playing … it’s a waltz. But then Inspector Merriweather’s big face comes into view, barking about the sanctity of youth …

  As I drifted into sleep, strange visions forming in my mind, I wondered what the next ten weeks would really hold.

  3

  ‘Have any of you ever seen a dead body?’ asked Sergeant Wooding, right out of the blue, after first-aid practice. ‘Because when you’re out there, on the streets, it’s going to happen. And you need to be prepared.’

  A few people put up their hands, and Marion announced grandly that she’d seen no less than three.

  ‘My grandmother. I found her actually. Her tongue was quite blue and her eyes were sort of, well, squinting, and she kind of breathed, even though she was definitely dead …’ She paused for further recollection. ‘And one of my mother’s friends from pottery class, Mrs Evans, she’d been dead for about two weeks before anyone knew. We found her, just sitting in front of the wireless. Cat on her lap, licking its paws. And there was such a stench, you wouldn’t believe. Maggots crawling in and out of her ears and all over …’

  ‘OK, Marion.’ He didn’t wait to hear the third item in her ghoulish repertoire. ‘Thanks for that … fulsome account. Anyone else?’

  Ted said that one of his old school chums had died suddenly in a maths class, of a heart attack, which was quite a shock. We all looked grave for a moment at the thought of the young lad.

  A few other people had seen grandparents, or elderly relatives, in coffins at their wakes. But neither I, Sally, Marge nor Allan had ever seen a dead body, so Sergeant Wooding said he’d arrange a trip for us to the local morgue. It was to be the strangest outing I had ever been on, that’s for sure. I wondered whether it would be appropriate to pack a lunch.

  ‘Do you think it’ll be very gruesome?’ said Sally, over dinner. It was the day before what we were calling the Death Trip and we were all a bit apprehensive. ‘I mean, they will have cleaned him or her up, sort of thing, won’t they?’

  ‘I should think so. I suppose it depends on how he died,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, if this … whoever it is … if their neck is cut, or something, that would be quite hard to clean, wouldn’t it? Or would it?’ pondered Sally, before Marion joined in a little too gleefully.

  ‘Maybe the person isn’t actually dead yet!’

  I got the feeling she was actually a little envious that she wasn’t allowed to come on the trip with us.

  ‘Maybe it’s a poor man, dying right now!’ she said. ‘In a horrific car accident, or the victim of a crime of passion!’

  ‘In any event, we need to be respectful. It’s not a joke,’ said Allan.

  I had to admit I was somewhat losing my appetite already at the thought of it.

  The next day, we took the local bus into town with Sergeant Wooding. Any initial enthusiasm was wearing off by the second, as we became increasingly apprehensive at the prospect of an actual real-live dead body.

  ‘Do you think it’ll be cold in there? Like a larder? So the body doesn’t rot so quickly?’ Sally asked.

  ‘We don’t have to … touch it, do we? Or cut it up?’

  ‘It’s not a post mortem!’ said Allan. ‘We’re just looking round the morgue and seeing a dead body, that’s all. Calm down, will you?’

  He sat back and stared out of the window but I could tell he was quite anxious too.

  When we arrived at the morgue we were met by a breezy young woman in a kind of reception area. It was surprisingly pleasant, with a potted plant and a rather posh red leather sofa in the corner, all set against a backdrop of William Morris-like flowery wallpaper. The only thing to remind you it was a morgue was a frail-looking elderly woman sitting on the sofa, clutching a handkerchief. I wondered if she had come to visit the body of someone she’d loved. The sofa looked as though it might swallow her up at any minute.

  ‘So. Is this your first time then, is it? You get used to it,’ chirruped the receptionist as she led us down a narrow staircase and into the basement.

  ‘You’re from the police, aren’t you?’ she continued, despite the somewhat obvious clue that we were all wearing our uniforms. ‘I always feel a bit nervous when I see the police. I don’t know why. You know, l
ike I’ve done something wrong or something. I haven’t though!’ she quickly assured us.

  ‘So. Here we are. This is the store where we keep them before the funeral. The gentleman you’re to see is just this way, if you’ll all follow me.’ She clacked down the corridor.

  By that point we were all completely silent as the smell of death seemed to rise up in the air. It wasn’t a smell as such, more a lack of smell. A lack of air or any kind of vitality.

  As we approached the body, the first thing I saw was a foot. Then another foot and the legs.

  ‘This gentleman,’ continued the woman, ‘has been very carefully presented for you personally, by our excellent director, Mr Pringle.’

  I was quite relieved to see that the gentleman in question wasn’t covered in blood after all. In fact there wasn’t a hint of the injury that had killed him. I thought for a moment he had a sort of odd half smile across his greying face. But when I looked back, there wasn’t a trace of it. He was lying next to three other covered bodies; I could just see a foot sticking out from one of them. The room we were in was like a cross between a hospital ward and a church crypt, quite cold and damp, with a red tiled floor and thick echoey walls.

  ‘This gentleman,’ she went on, ‘was, in life, a window cleaner.’ She took on the air of a slightly supercilious vicar as she stood near the head of the body. ‘We know that he fell, tragically, through a glass conservatory roof, whilst engaged in that most dangerous of jobs.’

  She paused and clasped her hands. ‘And he was only fifty-three years of age. Such a waste.’

  We all stood at the foot of the little bed, or slab, or whatever it is most appropriate to call it, for a good ten minutes. We didn’t say a word. It was hard to stop looking at his face, maybe for a clue as to the person he once was, or for a last vestige of life.

  But there was nothing and, as we walked away, I realized it hadn’t been that strange at all really. It was just a body.

  When we got back on site, Marion was hovering about by the canteen, keen to know all the gory details.

  We all kept quiet, though, pensive with our own thoughts. The experience had been both liberating and a little sad, as though we had been given an extra glimpse of reality but lost something of our innocence too. It would be the first of many such moments in my police career.

  In those first few weeks at Bruche, I learnt more legal terms than I ever thought it would be possible to squeeze into one human brain. But I was shocked to learn one afternoon that Sally had failed two of her exams. She had kept quiet about it until now, but Baines had taken her to one side, and told her she was on borrowed time.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ I asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. I was embarrassed, I suppose. You’re all so good at remembering it all and it just goes in one ear and falls out the other with me. What should I do?’ she asked me and Marion, as we were making our way onto the parade ground one morning.

  There was an ominous-looking cloud on the horizon, as if a gigantic black inkwell had spilled its contents across the sky, and it was heading straight for us.

  ‘If I don’t get through my da will kill me. I can’t go back to working in that laundry. I can’t.’

  ‘Why don’t we all work together on it?’ I suggested. ‘We could meet in my room and help each other memorize the stuff.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said sadly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to stop all those late-night escapades then, won’t you?’ said Marion slyly. ‘You and Ted.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’ Sally quickly turned on her.

  ‘Oh, everyone knows. Even Inspector Merriweather, I think. And certainly Baines.’

  Whether or not it was true that Merriweather and Baines were watching her, which I somehow doubted, Sally would have to keep her head down for a few weeks.

  As we took our formation, ready for inspection, it started to rain. I was so hungry my stomach was clawing back at me. Sergeant Thompson came stalking over, his arms clasped behind his back.

  ‘Right, you lot. The party’s over. This is where the real show begins. We’ve got six weeks ’til Passing Out, and I want to see proper marching from now on. Not this mothers’ meeting stuff.’

  By now the rain was so heavy we could barely see each other, let alone Sergeant Thompson, and the ground was filling up with muddy water at our feet. Seemingly oblivious to the inclement conditions, Thompson surveyed the line, up and down, and we all tried to keep perfectly still, squinting as water poured down our faces and backs.

  ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘Carson, isn’t it? Ted Carson.’

  Ted stood up as straight as possible.

  ‘Your shoes are an absolute disgrace.’ Thompson continued along the line. ‘And you, Miss … ?’

  ‘Rhodes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Have you never heard of polish? Or is it just too … difficult?’

  I didn’t dare point out that we were standing in a near monsoon, and that any effort we had put into polishing had gone right out the window the minute we stepped across the parade ground. He seemed to hear my thoughts.

  ‘You think a bit of rain ever stopped me turning out properly? In my day it was nothing BUT mud and rain. And we never had a stitch out of place. Stand at EASE. Parade, parade. ATTEN … SHUN. Quick-MARCH!’

  And we were off. Amazingly, we girls all managed to keep in step in spite of the downpour, and in a strange way it was actually quite exhilarating, even with mad Sergeant Thompson at the helm.

  We made our way right out of the gates, past the old ladies with their dogs again, who seemed to stop and stare in wonderment this time as they peered out through their headscarves. I think I even saw a flicker of a proud smile on Thompson’s face as he watched us march up the lane that day.

  Since she’d confessed to failing her exams, Sally had been avoiding Ted in order to concentrate on revising. Marion seemed to be taking every available opportunity to fill her place in Ted’s thoughts, and Sergeant Wooding’s Life-saving and First Aid class was a prime opportunity.

  We had finished our swimming lessons for the day, during which time I had managed to swim two whole lengths, when Wooding announced that we would be doing artificial resuscitation and first aid.

  ‘If someone collapses, passes out and stops breathing, we use what’s called the Holger Nielsen method to revive them,’ he said, passing round a small pamphlet with diagrams of two men demonstrating the technique, one wearing swimming trunks and the other somewhat incongruously dressed in a pinstriped suit.

  Referred to as a ‘back pressure arm lift,’ the Holger Nielsen method involved putting the victim on his or her stomach to stimulate breathing, instead of lying them on their back like we do with CPR today. The technique was invented by a Danish army officer and used well into the 1950s.

  ‘Right everyone, pair up,’ shouted Wooding as we lined up awkwardly alongside the pool in our swimsuits. ‘I want one of the pair to lie down, as though you’ve collapsed or passed out and stopped breathing.’

  Marion darted to Ted, quick as a kingfisher, and paired up. Sally had paired up with Marge and I was just looking around for someone when Wooding shouted my name.

  ‘Rhodes, you’ll do. I need someone to demonstrate on. Just lie here on this towel.’

  So I had to lie down in front of everyone as he pulled my limbs this way and that to show the technique.

  ‘Now if the victim is lying face up, put him or her in the prone position, that is on the front, as soon as possible. Remember every second counts. But before placing the victim on the stomach, remember to check to make sure there is nothing blocking the airways of the nose and mouth in this manner.’

  He indicated something around my face and nose and then turned me onto my stomach like a piece of meat on a slab. The floor felt wet and cold through the towel and I began to shiver.

  ‘Place the victim face down, bending the elbows and putting the hands, one under the other, like this, underneath the head.’


  I could see Sally and Marge stifling giggles as Wooding yanked me this way and that.

  ‘Turn the victim’s head to one side, on his or her hands. Try to extend the victim’s head out as far as possible, with the chin jutting out.’

  I honestly thought he was about to pull my head off.

  ‘Then, kneeling at the victim’s side, place your hands in the middle of the back just below an imaginary line here, above the waist. Lean forward, with your bodyweight on the middle of the victim’s back, and then release.’

  I breathed in deeply, expecting the worst, but Wooding showed mercy and only indicated the remainder of the technique.

  How anyone would show signs of life after this I couldn’t imagine. Fortunately I never had to employ the Holger Nielsen method in real life; it didn’t look much fun for either party.

  As I stood up and brushed myself down, the others were already practising on one another. Marion was giggling with Ted as she lifted his arms and knelt down by his head. I could see Sally distractedly keeping an eye on the pair, pulling roughly at Marge’s elbows.

  ‘Careful!’ said Marge. ‘You’ll break something.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sally said, but she was in a world of her own.

  After that we learnt other first-aid basics, such as the recovery position, tying a sling and bandaging up wounds. I saw Marion chattering away and making a joke to Ted as she wound a bandage round his head. He laughed loudly, and Sally, who was watching from the other side, jabbed Marge with a safety pin in the ear.

  ‘Watch it!’ said Marge. ‘You’ll have my eye out in a minute. Really, Sally, I don’t know what’s wrong with you today.’