returned to the faces of the Specials, just as Crombie’s visage reverted to its normally dour form. ‘Comedians is what I get!’
Redwood had laughed along with the others, and that hadn’t been the first time. He fondly recalled a few other occasions when a wisecrack during one of the humourless training sessions, at an awkwardly inopportune moment, had nearly brought tears of laughter to his eyes. Whenever was the first time with this group, though, it had probably been the first time he had laughed aloud since Anthea was alive. Of course, he didn’t tell them about that. They didn’t know him, really.
But in a very real way, he was beginning to see that they did know each other. They were all in this together, all in the same boat, and each of them, man and woman, held an oar to pull. Despite the disbelieving scorn of Sergeant Crombie, there was something all these people cared about, in addition to each other. Yet it was the addendum that was affecting him and surprising him most. After a long, self-imposed solitude, he was, little by little, finding friends.
It wasn’t just a shared laugh or cup of coffee, all play and no work. There were serious and solemn occasions that brought them closer together as well.
Like the day of the final ceremony at the parade ground. Redwood’s own iron constitution harbored a secret weakness for pomp and circumstance (as, apparently, did Sergeant Crombie). He loved the proud music blazing forth, the synchronized rows of smart uniforms marching in precision to the pulse of the police band, filing past the highest-ranking officers, the dignitaries, and the Chief Constable, his uniform encrusted in braid …
… And finally coming to a halt in front of Sergeant Crombie. In spite of the stern demeanour the short-haired goat was trying to maintain, Redwood noticed (twice in a lifetime) a smile tugging at the corner of Crombie’s mouth.
‘Right, you lot,’ he stated, looking over the lot of them, one at a time, before going on. ‘Here endeth the lesson. Just remember … We live in iffy times.’ He was surely no good at sentimentality, which, naturally, Redwood regarded as one of Crombie’s most appealing qualities.
‘Good luck … You’ll need it.’
A loftier speech would have had less of an effect on his audience, but the Specials felt the full weight and burden of what he didn’t say. Now they understood how it felt to be police.
In the magistrate’s court as the day’s business was about to begin, lined up before the bench was a neat row of Special police constables in new, knife-creased uniforms. Facing them, in front of the bench, was Sandra Gibson, Mother of all Midland Specials. On the bench, the magistrate read the ‘swearing-in’ from a card, the Specials echoing each phrase of their pledge.
‘I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm …’
‘I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm …’
‘… that I will well and truly serve …’
‘… that I will well and truly serve …’
‘… our Sovereign Lady the Queen …’
‘… our Sovereign Lady the Queen …’
‘… in the office of Special Constable …’
Mumbling the words, John Redwood looked down at the warrant card in his hands, the magistrate’s resounding tones becoming indistinct.
‘… faithfully according to law.’
It was over as suddenly as it began. For a few moments, there was an awkward silence, a time for introspection and personal reflection perhaps. No one had really been given permission to move as yet.
The magistrate broke the tension unceremoniously. ‘Well, that’s it, ladies and gentlemen. I have a court to run.’
Officially acknowledged, authorized, warranted and sanctioned, as well as dismissed, the Specials breathed a sigh of relief, warmly congratulated one another and walked from the courtroom with shiny new haloes over their heads.
In the meantime, the magistrate leaned over the bench to detain one of the Specials. ‘Oh, Mr Redwood?’
‘Sir?’ Redwood replied, turning from his departing friends to the looming magistrate.
‘I see you’ve put yourself in the curious position of being sworn in as upholder and defender of the law on the same day.’ Redwood was about to change hats and present a case before the magistrate’s court that morning. ‘This may cause you some difficulty in the days to come. Policemen need to know the law in order to act upon it. Whereas it is a well-known fact that lawyers are the only people whose ignorance of the law goes totally unnoticed.’ His wit, alas, was apparently unappreciated.
‘However, I’d be obliged if you would slip into something more appropriate for a defending counsel … since I believe your case comes before me in thirty seconds.’
At Police Administration Headquarters, the office of Sandra Gibson, Administrative Secretary for the Specials, occupied a large, airy square with two walls of cupboards and filing cabinets and two desks, the smaller one for her assistant, who was absent, as usual. At her larger desk, Sandra sat watching and helping Section Officer Bob Loach fill out the official report of his grievous injury.
‘“Occupation?”’ he read from the document. ‘I suppose I put down managing director like?’
Poor Loach. All grease and few graces, she mused. ‘Well, let’s think about that,’ she reasoned with him rather as she would with an older child. ‘They could say that the injury you suffered in the line of duty didn’t hinder you in your capacity as a managing director. Let’s face it: managing directors mainly sit on their bottoms all day. And it was your thumb and not your bum the lady bit, wasn’t it?’ Loach didn’t seem to take her attempt at comic relief too kindly. ‘Why don’t you put bus mechanic to be on the safe side.’
He shrugged. Some people just never understood, so you had to treat them like children. ‘Managing directors have to be able to sign things, Sandra. And if you’ve got a dodgy thumb, it doesn’t make much odds if you’re using a Bic pen or a number six box spanner.’ She didn’t seem to understand that either.
‘It’s up to you,’ she yielded to his obstinate whims. ‘By the way, how did the woman … what’s-her-name?’
‘Big Jess.’
‘Uh-huh. How did she manage to bite your thumb?’
‘With her teeth … What else?’
A stout heart, strong muscles, an exemplary Special, but not much power upstairs, she concluded. ‘No, I meant …’ Never mind. ‘Oh well, it’ll be in the police report.’
‘That’s it then. Where do I sign?’
She leaned across the desk to show him exactly where. ‘There … and at the foot of the page.’ As he was signing the form, the telephone rang and she picked up the receiver.
‘Good morning! Sandra Gibson of the infectious smile speaking.’ It was an unfamiliar
