rel="nofollow" href="#u99608fd7-0468-528d-9f45-4b3387413253">Chapter 1 Early Days
Chapter 6 Carried by Six or Tried by Twelve?
29th March 1993 (six years earlier)
’Take that smile off your face, Bunting!’
It was, I have to say, not as I had expected. I had waited all my life for this moment and I was finally here, standing motionless in my brand new uniform on a freezing cold and wet drill square with ten other recruits. I certainly wasn’t smiling. My first day at West Yorkshire Police training school had started.
He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his smart appearance was dominating. The crease in his trousers appeared to be razor sharp and his boots shone like glass. His flat cap was placed so far down his forehead that you couldn’t see his eyes. Every step he took echoed around the square. I knew that I would have to look like this one day, and soon. I still dared not move. I was intimidated by his presence, but this feeling temporarily subsided to relief, as occasionally Sergeant Wright would allow his emotionless face to show a smile. He walked behind the line in which I was standing and as he went out of sight, I closed my eyes tight. I felt his pace stick thud down onto the top of my helmet. The noise was deafening. ‘Stop smiling!’ he bellowed as he came nose to nose with me. I couldn’t understand this; I wasn’t smiling. I tried not to move, but I felt my helmet falling from my head and so I instinctively tried to catch it. ‘Bunting, stand still!’ His voice was penetrating and I immediately rose to attention as my helmet bounced off into a puddle. I had only had it about an hour and already it was filthy. It would be spotless again by the following day; it would have to be.
The initial training period was to be residential. One bed, one wardrobe, one sink and one metal bin were all that filled my tiny, lifeless room. I noticed a Bible purposefully placed on the pillow. I sat on the bed. My suitcase filled the only remaining floor space. I stood up and I saw myself in the full-length mirror. I could hardly believe what I saw. I was only nineteen years old and the uniform seemed to highlight my tender years.
One of the other recruits walked into my room. Richard was older than me but we’d queued for our uniform together and we were already relying on each other for support. ‘Do we go to lunch in full uniform?’
‘I think we’d better,’ I replied cautiously. I had one final look at myself and then looked down to each button on my tunic. I had to make sure that the Queen’s crown was perfectly upright on them all. It was the very first thing that Sergeant Wright had told us and I wasn’t going to forget.
Richard approached me and pinched my back. ‘Hair,’ he muttered, as he held his index finger and thumb up to the window for a closer inspection of a stray hair.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I replied, knowing that he had just saved me from another reprimand from Sergeant Wright.
We all congregated in the television lounge on the landing. There was an uncomfortable silence, but that was only to be expected. We didn’t know each other and we had all just spent four hours on a cold and wet drill square. This had come as a shock. After all, we had been on ‘civvy street’ at breakfast time. I had felt the effects of this massive change the moment I put on the uniform. I can’t describe the feeling; it was just surreal.
The silence continued as we walked across the yard to the canteen. I thought we all looked immaculate. Before today, I had only seen groups of police officers like this on the television; now I was part of one. I smiled. My dream was coming true. This was all I’d ever wanted since seeing my dad in his uniform for the first time when I was about four. I remember he’d come home for a few minutes on Christmas Day to see my sister and I open our presents. Letting the neighbours see that you were a police officer wasn’t as much of a problem in the seventies.
As we walked into the canteen, I immediately noticed the noise of the clanging cutlery. I joined the back of the long queue. No one else was wearing a tunic or a helmet. I noticed several groups of officers looking over and laughing. I realised that tunics and hats were not required in the canteen, yet I dared not remove mine. I looked into the eating area. It was full. I noticed a raised platform with tables on it. There were neatly arranged flowers, jugs of fresh orange and baskets of bread on these tables. A dominant picture of the force crest hung precariously on the wall. I figured that this was the area for senior officers, as the other tables simply had a jug of water on them. With extraordinary curiosity, my eyes wandered around the room. I saw a large portrait of the Queen. This was strikingly significant. She seemed to be staring
