to make me realise where I was. I was now a servant of Her Majesty. A large gap had developed in the queue as the person in front of me strode on. I had to make a conscious effort to close my mouth. I was in awe of everything. I was living my dream, and it was impossible to hide the fact that this was my very first day as a policeman.
When I sat down to eat, I noticed that even the serviettes proudly displayed the force crest. I opened mine out and stared fixedly at it. I noticed that one or two others in my group were doing exactly the same. I began to eat and contemplated the forthcoming afternoon. We were due in the classroom at 1.30 p.m., but I didn’t know what to expect. It was only twelve o’clock so I wanted to take advantage of the bit of free time. I needed to unpack my suitcase, the one my mum had packed. Mum seemed miles away now. I was on my own, about to enter the real world.
Despite these intentions, I didn’t manage to do my unpacking. The free time was consumed by my stupefaction at my surroundings. I also knew that I needed to ‘bull’ my boots and press to perfection my trousers and tunic sleeves. I had already realised that impressing Sergeant Wright wasn’t going to be easy, especially at seven o’clock in the morning, which was when we were next due on the square.
I sat in my room and carefully took off my uniform. The aloof authority around the place made me feel wary of creasing it, even when I was on my own with no one looking. I opened my boot polish and put some water into the lid. I took my cloth, wrapped it around my finger, dipped it into the water and the polish so I could shine my boots. As I did so, I listened intently to every noise. I could hear distant laughter from other rooms and, at this moment, hearing it was very daunting to me. How could anyone dare laugh here?
Richard knocked at my door and came in. ‘We’re all in the telly room, Mick. Doing our boots together, mate.’ I picked up my boots and polish and walked the short distance down the corridor to join them. I was a shy nineteen-year-old and had been out of school for less than a year. The others were older than me, and just joining in with their conversation was unnerving. I would have preferred to stay in my room but that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. I had to make the effort; I wanted to fit in. I sat down. Everybody was doing exactly the same thing. Each had a cloth covering the index finger in one hand, working in a circular motion on the toecap of the boot held in the other. Occasionally, someone would raise the boot to their face, then open their mouth and breathe heavily onto it. It felt like the army to me.
‘It’s gonna take bloody hours, is this.’ Diane was a slender young lady who was clearly frustrated as her boots were still dull. She kept going. I sighed. My boots were dull, too, despite almost an hour of continual ‘bulling’.
We all began to talk, and spent the next couple of hours getting acquainted. This was interrupted only by the occasional gripe about the task in hand. I soon felt more comfortable as I learned that I was in the company of a wide range of people, from a former professional footballer to a check-out operative at a supermarket. One of the guys had been an undertaker before he joined the police and his stories about the situations he’d found himself in helped to pass the time. He’d been involved with the Valley Parade Football Ground disaster in Bradford in 1985, which I found disturbing, as some of my friends had been killed in the fire.
By about 9 p.m. there were ten pairs of pristine boots on the floor. My finger was stained black, and it appeared pruned from the damp cloth. Everybody looked tired but the atmosphere was more relaxed and the talking continued. The boots remained untouched for the next few hours. We had been driven only by the fear and anticipation of Sergeant Wright. Who would bear the brunt of his annoyance tomorrow? Not me again, I hoped.
The next few days consisted of much of the same. I soon realised that none of us would ever satisfy Sergeant Wright. One of the recruits had been told off for tying his laces using the wrong type of knot. It was his job to find fault, but I was determined to make his job as hard as possible. He was going to get the best from me. We all had to look flawless by Thursday. This would be the swearing-in ceremony to be held in front of our families and friends. Perfect appearance would be essential.
It was an early finish on Thursday and so there was no excuse not to get it right. I returned to my room at about 4 p.m. I had got used to its size and its inanimate aura. There was just three hours to go. I tried to visualise Mum and Dad watching me being formally accepted into the police service. My stomach knotted with nerves. I laid on my bed, put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably, and I felt cold. I could smell the dirty burning odour: the same smell I had noticed every evening as the heating system started. I could hear some men playing a game of football outside. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world, not like me. Somehow, I dozed off.
The distant sound of a radio and the sound of hurried footsteps on the corridor were audible as I began to wake up. My mouth was dry and my eyes felt heavy. I was irked that I’d fallen asleep. I reached onto the floor for my watch. It was ten past six. I’d been asleep for two hours! Panic-stricken, I leaped from my bed and opened the door. I looked down the corridor and saw my colleagues nervously pacing up and down in full uniform as if they were rehearsing for later. I slammed the door. ‘Shit.’ I must have said this quite loudly as I heard a few chuckles from the others. The sound of the footsteps got louder.
‘Get a move on, Mick, we’re going in twenty minutes,’ someone said.
‘No probs, I’ll be right along.’ I tried to sound convincing, but as I said this I was hopping around the room, hurriedly taking off my trousers. Loud bangs rained onto my door. The others seemed to be enjoying my predicament. I ran out completely naked, clutching only a small towel and a bar of soap. The laughter was inevitable, as were the mocking wolf whistles. Fortunately, there was no time to think of the embarrassment. I didn’t have long but I would make it. I had no choice, and by 6.30 p.m. I was standing in front of my mirror again. The work was already done on my uniform and it hung exquisitely. My boots gleamed. I placed my helmet on my head slowly and precisely. I looked at myself for one last time, took a long, deep breath and walked out onto the corridor. I felt contented but still very nervous.
The television lounge swarmed with anxious-looking new police officers. Everyone was on his or her feet and moving around, seemingly without purpose. Periodically, someone would pat themselves down with their hand bound with inverted sticky tape, in a frenzied attempt to remove the last remaining bits of fluff from their tunics. Richard looked at me and shook his head. He didn’t need to say anything. I knew how he was feeling. These silent exchanges continued for a few minutes. The awkward silences were interrupted only by the reverberation of an object being repeatedly blown by the wind onto the metal flagpole just outside.
Phil, the ex-footballer, pushed the button for the lift. Being recruits, we were on the top floor and descending by the stairs would have been both time-consuming and tiring. The bell rang and the lift doors parted. One by one, we squeezed into the tiny space. I entered last. The doors closed and everyone looked downward. It was a game of skill not to stand on anyone’s perfectly polished boots. The silence remained unbroken. I desperately wanted to speak. I didn’t know what I wanted to say but I felt oppressed by the silence. I glanced across at Phil. He was a tall, solid figure of a man and was known for his sharp wit as the class joker. He spoke with a gentle Irish accent and could have the class in hysterics with just a couple of carefully chosen words. He had done this all week. Phil’s humour was certainly needed now and he responded to my glance.
‘Tommy, what the hell is that?’ Phil thrust his finger into Tommy’s hairy nostril and pointed to something quite horrible. Everybody laughed. Tommy produced a handkerchief in an instant and wiped away the source of our amusement. This jovial moment had temporarily diverted my mind from the forthcoming reality. The bell rang and the doors opened.
The lecture theatre, which was being used for the ceremony, was a short walk away. We had to go outside. There was driving rain and a howling gale, conditions which threatened the appearance of
