Only Fraud and Horses

By David James Smith

Author David Smith’s childhood near London, England, helped pave the way for the young boy to plough his own furrow in life. In Only Fraud and Horses, Smith narrates his story which includes pieces of history, police, and horsemanship.

In this memoir, Smith offers a humorous and poetic account of his skills, training, and professional positions from cadet to London policeman and to Scotland Yard detective and specialist. Only Fraud and Horses also shares representative sports details, contrasts Smith’s Scots ancestry, and links developing European history, the long dependence upon the horse, and his inherited skills as a competitive, natural horseman.

With photographs and historical notes included, Smith reviews a lifetime collection of family records and shares his discoveries—starting from England with surnames of Smith and Brown and going back to the 1700s in the Highlands of Scotland before Mediterranean origins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483430393

Book preview

Smith

Copyright © 2015 David James Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3037-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3038-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3039-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907754

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 07/14/2015

Only Fraud and Horses.

A humorous and poetic account of the author’s applied skills from Cadet to London policeman, detective, and specialist; representative sports; contrasted Smith Scots ancestry, linked developing European history, long dependence upon the horse; and inherited skills as a competitive natural horseman. Hillsborough, The Scots Referendum, Klu Klux Klan origin, Austerity and Public Sector Cuts, and more.

Dedication

To my wife Cheryl for her forbearance during demanding times, and for three wonderful children.

Disclaimer

I have reflected recall that may have altered with years. Having signed the Official Secrets Act, I cannot disclose all. Persons that fell victim, were suspected, and those prosecuted, and/or connected to crime, despite inclusion in court hearings and therefore in a public arena, they have not been named. I have, despite these restrictions, tried to mirror my past experiences and associated research in an informative and entertaining way to capture these events.

Preface

The Author’s Childhood prepares the boy to plough his own furrow in life.

Chapters

1. Introduction

2. Early years

3. The Office of Constable

4. Career Choice CID

5. Specialist

6. The After Life

7. Return to Police

8. Retirement?

9. Continuation?

Preface

I was born in Bournemouth of Scottish parents having been conceived in Scotland, therefore I could claim English birth and Scots descent. My Mother travelled south to join my father after the Second World War he having served in the RAF in Cairo had secured an aircraft engineer’s post at Hurn Airport. They lodged with Nurse Morris and, as my mother had been a wartime nurse in Aberdeen they had the occupation in common.

My father later removed to Heathrow Airport and lodged with Mr and Mrs Cook in Ashford, Middlesex, until a new housing estate was built near the airport. This is where my sister was born and I grew up, having moved next door to a much larger garden, eventually to leave home at 16 years old.

We did visit Scotland annually by air from Heathrow when the terminal was Northside and, we all walked to the waiting aeroplane. I was usually airsick so, to divert attention, I was taken to the cockpit to see the pilot. On landing at Dyce Airport, we took the train met by my father’s sister Anne armed with comics, before continuing to my Grandparents’ homes in rural Glenbervie and the town of Laurencekirk. After a few years, we travelled north by car, a huge black saloon referred to as ‘Betsy’. We had to leave very early in the morning, and gave a cheer as we crossed into Scotland. Auntie Anne had the chips on when we arrived in Falkirk.

I had dreamed of having my own horse and dog but, the nearest I got was a stone ornament of a dog in the garden! Having a rabbit, and eventually a budgerigar called Joey, that talked, was not quite the same. Aged four I took my opportunity!

I disappeared one night to be found by my Grandfather (Father’s Father) asleep with the Clydesdale Horses where he had left me with a smile. Later that day, I was seen astride one of them riding around the field like a pea on a mountain! His Collie dog and I were great friends too!

My Grandmother always set out old clothes to change into and disappear with my cousin Sandy on adventures. Somehow, my sister followed us across our plank bridge across the ditch, she fell in! We got into trouble for not looking after her!

The farmhouse was lit by tillie lamps and a candle to bed. I was often given the whisky spoon to lick before I went! The doors were of tongue and groove with snake catches to close. I remember looking out at the horses asleep, standing up?

I remember rows of coles, of hay on triangular wood bosses, being forked onto horse-drawn flatbed carts, with wood frames fore and aft to hold the load on, with me right on the top and the collie running behind. In the stackyard, the ‘founds’ (foundations) of large stone boulders, were laid with hay, carefully built up with straight sides, then raked and thatched, to a twisted peak all held down by a rope net that was weighted with hanging stones. Corkie the cat (named after the Beano character look- a- like), would cadge a lift and sit poised for the last forkful from a cole, tail twitching. He sprung one day and caught more mice than he bargained for, as there was one in his mouth, and one under each leg. He did not know what to do next for fear of losing any!

The later harvest preparations, included getting the binder serviceable after being idle. The long series of triangular blades, attached to the slide, had to be sharpened and oiled, the flailing sail cogs greased, and the wide canvas belt adjusted. It was horse-drawn too! The field edge was first scythed, and the resulting sheaves gathered for tying with stalks from the same sheave. This allowed the binder in to cut the rest of the standing crop. Pairs of sheaves were ‘stooked the-gether’ by setting them down from under each arm at the same time, the grain uppermost to dry in the sun. Others added to either side, made a tent if we were careful! These were eventually brought to feed the thrasher from the top for grain to fill sacks from one hole lower down while straw came out another.

Potatoes, boiled in the huge pot in the shed, fed the pigs. We had bigger tatties put in a fire under it. On collecting them in a barrow and offering them to an uncle, he refused saying I don’t like burnt offerings!

Exploring the byre, on a wet day, I came across a photograph of my father with a pair of horses in full harness. His brothers and sisters were looking around corners and trees having been told to keep out of sight! I was allowed to play Scottish records of songs and music using up many needles on the wound up gramophone.

I often went fishing in the burn nearby, followed by a cat that liked to sit across my shoulders. Fresh trout was fine, fried in oatmeal with the tiddlers given to the cat.

I sat on my Granda’s knee, having been chased at school wearing the kilt on Commonwealth day, and heard all about Scots history and the kilt. No one chased me ever again!!

Sandy and I, lived in the heather. We fed ourselves from the burn and the fields. Fresh water from mountain springs, drank cold from an enamelled mug left there for the purpose, was the best water ever! Those summers in the hills were a boy’s heaven!

I wore the kilt to the local show, winning pennies in races and spending it on ice cream and crisps with salt in a mauve paper twist. There was always room for chips in a poke (paper bag).

My Mother’s parents lived in a corner house with a garden on the High Street. I would go to the Mart (Market) to see the cattle and sheep sold. Grandad worked in the implements stores. I often returned past the bridge over the railway lines being enveloped by steam as a train passed underneath. There was always a smell of rotten eggs!? The nearby chip shop sold a bag of chips for 3d. The corner shop sold ice cream but Grandad referred to ‘going for the messages’.

The various relatives were visited, and I was in my Sunday best. I was bored until the tea came out and there was always home baking. I preferred the farm, whether to my Grandfather’s in Glenbervie or to Dad’s brothers’ nearby and as far north as the loch of Skene, or even Mum’s sister’s in Fetteresso!

On the journey back to England, we stocked up on Coo (Cow trade mark) Candy (toffee), and tablet (a fudge made with carnation milk). One year, Dad brought a stags head with huge antlers, back home to England and set it above the garage door. This stag had been shot by his brother Dod when running amok in the farmyard having come over the deer fence.

Dad let me hand him the tools when working on the car from a pit underneath, so I learned how to service a car. He also let me watch while he set up my train set and demonstrated it to others! At school I made my own tools and invented a pillar stand for a handheld drill. I became the Head Prefect. Despite skills with my hands and GCE ‘O’ levels in engineering and technical drawing, I resolved to plough my own furrow by choosing another occupation in the police rather than to ever compete with him and fall out. We remained very good friends throughout his life.

There were two others of the family that I discovered had entered the police and became Inspectors. One was shot on duty in Palestine, and the other served in Aberdeen.

We had visited Nurse Morris in Bournemouth and, despite being very young at that time, as we approached the vicinity of her house I started giving directions right to her door!? I later rode my bicycle to Bournemouth staying overnight with Nurse Morris and rode back again the next day. My face was covered in dead midgies (flies). I later learned from my mother on being accepted as a Police Cadet, Nurse Morris had predicted I would be a boy, would have curly auburn hair (despite my father being blonde and my mother black and wavy), and would be a policeman! Such, was my destiny at the hands of a ‘fay wife’ (one who can see the future)!

We attended a local Scottish Society, where I learned the country dances with the steps too! In Aberdeen at local dances they tended to ‘burl’ (spin) instead. It was my job to bring the biscuits in the saddlebag of my bike to have with half time tea. The dance classes were preparation for dances particularly for St. Andrew’s day. A Clan gathering was held at a London Park where I was part of a Highland dance team. This same park was attended for the Sheep dog trials where I saw the Collies all think for themselves!

Dad taught me many practical skills that still serve me well. One day he asked me to look after the family after him as head of the family. I did eventually inherit his scots bonnet, still with my own reared ducks feathers behind the MacPherson/Chattan crest. This had replaced his Gordon Highlanders crest from when he had worn a Gordon military kilt as his father before him. The ancient Smith kilt of ancient or muted colours was one of the many family tartans in the Chattan Confederation he later wore his with pride. I proudly wear his bonnet with the modern colours of the Smith family kilt. The bonnet is worn like an army beret, but has a wool bobble on the top and a pair of ribbons hanging from the back.

Each of the family were allowed to choose from Dad’s possessions, my eldest son chose his kilt! One day he will inherit the bonnet to go with it and our family tree and history all set down and ready for his son Calum and future generations to come!

I do follow his example and I still carry out his wishes ensuring our family, now of three generations, are still looked after as he would have done.

Introduction

A wisp of smoke lazily played around the roof below. This farmhouse nestled at one with the valley floor, red tiles a contrast to a backdrop of green. The trees rustling in the breeze bowed a welcome to, the break of dawn. The sun, a crimson globe, was rising in the West making the white, cotton-wool clouds, pink, edged with gold, against a cool, blue, sky. My hilltop view encompassed more than 20 miles around – from Chertsey to the East, Admiralty Tower of Earls Court in the North, Heathrow Airport lay West, and Chobham Common lay hidden by Southerly trees, but for a near, stark, spire, piercing the skyline above. Our hill crest lay upon the ancient beacon line of sight, from London to Portsmouth. We overlooked the village.

Individual paddocks were soon prepared with hay, and the water replenished, before occupation by the ponies and horses of differing breeds and ages, for this is a stud. Bailey, the three legged Collie dog, supervised the turnout while Jack, the Jack Russell, busily checked for rats. Mares neighed a greeting as neighbours turned out. Franklyn the stallion, gave commanding snorts as he arched his neck and proudly strutted, taking in the progress of a foal mouthing in submission. Then curling his upper lip back, he stretched a long muscular neck to raise his mature head, and sniffed the air assessing the next mare for his personal services!

It was not always so. This was the preliminary to the working day in an office. Today was very different!

Early years

I took the tube from Hounslow West to Hendon and then walked, suitcase in hand, to report to The Metropolitan Police Cadet Corps training centre adjacent to RAF Hendon Aerodrome. I joined the queue at the gatehouse to check in against a list held by a constable in full neatly pressed uniform and bulled boots. The alphabetical list contained many Smith’s so full name was demanded in an impatient resigned voice. That hurdle over, I was directed to a collecting hall for briefing by Colonel Croft, (who later somehow remembered all our names) and then allocated to Fielding House, named after a former Commissioner. There were four houses coloured Yellow, Green, Blue and Red. My house turned out to be the ground floor of a two storey building on the boundary of the estate. I had passed it earlier when walking from the tube station.

My dormitory had a row of beds both sides, each with a squared off pile of blankets sheets and a pillow at the foot of the mattress. Storage was limited and, so was time! ‘Report for a haircut - needed or not, uniform allocation, remember your number 23914, make your bed, bull your boots, report to the dining hall, sport classes … ’ My new life had started, aged 16.

New boots were dull black with pimples all over and stiff. They had to be softened and the toe caps smoothed out to take a mirror finish - bulled. My father had been in the RAF as an aircraft engineer sent to Cairo in Egypt and had there bulled boots but, he had learned how by preparing his father’s harness for ploughing matches. This took weeks of ‘beadled’ polish pressed into the cleaned off smooth leather with a triangular wooden door stop and a smooth glass bottle end, layer upon layer. Apparently, at a ploughing match, a complaint was made that it was of patent leather so, my grandfather gave the judge his penknife to scrape it for polish.

We were not given weeks, so various methods were tried out on our best boots kept for parades whilst merely cleaning and polishing our second pair. One cadet tried black gloss paint, that when dry flew off on coming to attention. The best method turned out to be heat of a candle and the back of a teaspoon from the canteen to smooth the pimples before burning the toe cap from a distance above. A layer of polish was then applied in circles with a cloth and built up until finished with spittle as a shine.

Scuffs were common but nylon stockings buffed them off for quick repair and storage under a dust cloth.

First Phase

‘Squad Halt’ the drill sergeant bellowed out, and although we stopped, it was neither fast enough, nor smart enough! So we did it again, and again, until perfect, or at least we … thought so. In time, we became a well-oiled machine moving, as the sum of many parts. We then met another Instructor, with another command of ‘Squad Haaa … ’ as his voice gave out, destroying our new found precision and, resulting in chaos as those behind bumped into those in front, caps falling forward over eyes, or off altogether for retrieval in a bent outstretched position with the one behind falling over the unseen obstruction, all to infectious laughter. He, the instructor that is, was affectionately known as ‘Piggy Bishop’. I knew him, as he lived on the same Avenue as my family near Heathrow Airport. This could prove embarrassing for me, so I never mentioned it, that is, until now.

Classes were continued education, by gowned teachers, toward internal qualifications, and social studies. Sport was taken by serving officers attached to the Training School. We learned- ‘Mind over Matter’. ‘They didn’t mind and we didn’t matter!’ Gradually, we became stronger and were then capable of more and more, both in the gymnasium and on the assault course. Role models included an Olympic Wrestler, with a muscled upper body and neck that required personally tailored shirts. He did press ups with cadets sitting on his back! Why couldn’t we match him without a passenger? We did in time. ‘Another pull up, chin over the beam, yes you can do it, nearly, do it again’! He made the whole class don boxing gloves and enter a square of step up beams to bash 7 bells out of each other, as simulated training for a rough house pub. He was rumoured to have enjoyed turning out the east end (of London) pubs.

I had to line up on pay parade, march forward to the seated paymaster desk, halt, and then salute - by a sharp movement; by the shortest and direct route, from thigh to just touch my cap peak with the end of my middle finger, hand to face. I then bellowed 23914 Sir, and I received a brown pay packet containing what amounted to pocket money.

Cross country runs made me throw up, full kit walking at speed was better but, in the leading group I fell on my face - short of salt! I was given a bath and salt tablets in water. I could do both in time. Swimming, it all went yellow when it was my turn to dive in and I came round sitting on the bench. I did not eat bananas pre sport after that.

Duke of Edinburgh’s Award

I registered for the Duke of Edinburgh’s award scheme. I ended up in a hospital washing bedpans! That qualified me for public service. Outward bound involved setting a team route across North Wales, check points, and overnight camping. This was more like it! But come the day, it did not turn out quite as straight forward. We started out well, kitted out- with clean army type fatigues with navy beret and cadet corps cap badge, a rucksack full of equipment included Tom Piper Irish stew in tins for heating over camping primus, and clean boots with soles that enabled firm footholds. The weather was good. Progress along the planned route was good. ‘Constable Constable’ found an abandoned rusty pram was very useful to carry his rucksack. Then it all came to an abrupt halt as the contour marked brown on the ordinance survey map turned out to be several joined together now seen on the ground as a sheer drop to the intended camp-site below. We had been through all the check points, we only had to get down there somehow? This took initiative, a bit of daring, and another diversion from the original plan. I say another diversion as one of our group went on ahead by bus to make camp and have dinner ready. We saw him below. Dinner called. Rucksacks rolled as we zig-zagged down, tree to tree, increasing speed all the time until we rolled too, straight into camp for Tom Piper stew. We were constipated for a week!

Eventually we were allowed out, but had to dress appropriately in blazer with Cadet Corps badge, grey flannels, and a navy Cadet Corps tie bearing the house colours. It was rumoured there was bromide in the tea to dampen our ardour, the tea from an urn that tasted of a bland warm mixture that looked like tea, but could have been coffee or even hot chocolate! I could however smell perfume at a hundred yards! On making curfew and lights out, soon after, I awoke to a raid from Trenchard house, the dorm above, where John Gridley was. They attacked by shinning down sheets and via the fire escape. Although we did our best to repel boarders,’ beds were overturned. The next morning, a Mayne resident was found, fast asleep in his bed, on the parade square with snow settling. No-one woke him. We formed up, quietly, so as not to disturb his slumbers. His normal early morning alarm clock was exchanged, to that of the drill Sergeant, who could be heard over a mile away as he called the four houses of cadets to attention, met by an enthusiastic loud response of boots meeting tarmac! He was then told by the Sergeant in a very gentle voice to ‘Take up thy bed and walk’.

Home Leave

On home leave I had the courage to ask out local girls, both from across the road. This took some juggling until one moved away to Windsor. Her father directed a plastics factory, obviously successful as he bought a large detached house in walled grounds. She was shy. I moved on. The other went to our local church and I had known her for years. We got on well on our first date but that was it. Her brother and cousin later joined the Force.

Scotland

On our family annual trip to Aberdeen, I still had to keep fit or, would regret it on return to non - compromising instructors. I therefore packed my running gear and track suit. At the Muir (Moor) of Balvack, my grandparents’ (mother’s side) retirement croft north of Aberdeen, I ran out along the old Forestry Commission Roads and tracks. The air was clean and fresh. The views fantastic! In the other direction I had to negotiate a huge boulder set into the ground. It easily filled the whole width of the old road that ran past the croft built of the same stone to one metre thick walls. Once negotiated this grassed - over road gave access to the new tarmac road further up the hill, so I struck out over the fields by jumping over the post and barbed wire fences dodging the cowpats both fresh and dried. The herd of ‘stots’ (scots for cows) were curious at the sight of this mad person from London running across their field. No doubt eyes from nearby crofts followed my progress and their owners had the same thoughts.

At the scots pine covered valley floor, there was an opening to a sheltered field gated off and grass saved for bad weather. I looked back up the hill and took in the croft and attached byre where the working horse would have been tethered for the night. A stone dyke wrapped around the garden of flowers with sweet peas climbing the stick frame. To the left was the walled vegetable plot. Walled to keep the rabbits from eating the crop of ‘neeps’ (swede), tatties (potatoes), carrots, cabbage, kale, and onions. This is where my Grandfather buried his money in a biscuit tin, for he did not trust the banks! He had told my uncle, his son, and my Mother’s brother, where to find it after he had gone.

We also went to my other grandparent’s mixed cattle, sheep and crops farm in Glenbervie, the fatherland of Robert Burns the national poet of Scotland. The Burness ancestors were buried in the old churchyard. My uncle, Dad’s youngest brother, took on a Burnesss farm. A memorial was set up on the Stonehaven Road that marked Robert’s parental home from where his father William Burns, a former gardener supplying vegetables to the town, walked to Ayr and settled as a farmer marrying Agnes Brown. Brown is the same maiden name as my father’s mother. Nearby, was where Lewis Grassic Gibbon, or James Leslie Mitchell to give him his real name, the author of ‘Sunset Song’, was brought up at Bloomfield farm and described the farming life of his neighbours thinly veiled. He also wrote of the weavers in near Drumlithie in ‘Cloud Howe’. Men o’ mony pairts (men of many parts often used to describe scots dexterity).

The Heritage Waltz

Chorus:

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of my father’s

and forefathers bold.

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of such beauty

more precious than gold.

The natural colours

from the green of the glens

to heather purple hillsides

yellow whins in the dens.

A stag on the skyline

stands proudly at bay.

The hunter moves in

And it’s off, no delay!

Deerhounds in pursuit

the stag crashes on

and reaches a clearing

in the pines, then has gone.

Chorus:

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of my father’s

and forefathers bold.

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of such beauty

more precious than gold.

The cry of the peewit(swallow)

caw caw of the craw (crow).

The lowing of kye (cattle)

and the eagle doth soar.

The salmons a leaping

From rivers so clear

to reach their ain burns

via falls that are sheer.

A boy on the bank

of the Bervie in spate (fast water).

Guddling (tickling) for trouties (trout)*

the school it will wait.

Chorus:

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of my father’s

and forefathers bold.

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of such beauty

more precious than gold.

There’s a grand place in Scotland

That I love the best.

It’s a place where my Grandfather

was laid to rest

Near the land where he toiled

As tenant farmer you see.

Of a farm that was called

The Burn of Guinea.

These burns they all joined,

the wider Bervie.

That winds through the glen

that is called Glenbervie.

Chorus:

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of my father’s

and forefathers bold.

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of such beauty

more precious than gold.

It’s the land that Rab’s (Robert Burns) father

for the south he forsook.

As he climbed the Knock Hill

where he had a last look.

There he saw the sma’ kirkyard

where his forefathers lay,

and the farm near Stonehaven

where he used to stay (live).

But he still went to Ayr

where he settled to farm,

and fathered a poet

to his great alarm!

Chorus:

Land of my heritage

A land to behold.

The land of my father’s

and their forefathers bold.

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of such beauty

much more precious than gold.

But Rab’ Burns had a talent

This talent went far.

It travelled the world

and further than Da..(Dad)

Our, Scottish heritage

Rab put it to Rhyme,

and then made his mark

and will for lang syne …

Chorus:

Land of my heritage

A land to behold.

The land of my father’s

and forefathers bold.

Land of my heritage

a land to behold.

The land of such beauty

more precious than gold.

*guddling for trouties was a method of catching trout from the undercut banks. By using both hands with arms outstretched to enter the water gently, the hands when brought together, felt the fish and stroked it, and then when mesmerised and still, grabbed and thrown over the head onto the bank as landed.

Written and performed at a Burns Supper at New Scotland Yard by the author as a member of the Burns club that met in the Commissioners Dining Room.

Historical note:

Scottish Special Branch Officers petitioned the Commissioner to use his facilities as of right. The right of heritage as the Metropolitan Police headquarters name implied. Scotland Yard had been the Inn where King James the 1st of England and 6th of Scotland arranged for visitors from Scotland to refresh themselves. Agreement was reached in 1978 to continue this at the New Scotland Yard at St James. Where better to celebrate all that is Scottish?

The New Scotland Yard is to be replaced by a smaller, no doubt because of the downsizing caused by the latest recession, purpose built building on the South Bank and the tricorn revolving steel sign is planned to move with it for 2015. Source: Founders,Wullie Davey.

Social

John Gridley and I met sisters from Windsor. This lasted longer than previous dates. I still have a boot or shoe buffer she made of black velvet left over from a dress. We all went on a charity walk where I being competitive as always strode on. John was the considerate gentleman who looked after his girl.

Camp

At Lippetts Hill, we had team problem solving camp. Accommodated in wooden huts and in fatigues, it took on a ‘second world war’ atmosphere. Problem solving was physical. An example was the whole team crossing a ditch using only poles and ropes. This was timed. The Italian chef made sure we were well fed and I remember a combination of pork chops with tinned peaches. Delicious!

Passing Out

Our passing out parade was full of pomp and ceremony with the Commissioner, full band, and parents, all to witness our mastered drill followed by a light tea.

Second Phase

The next phase of training was at Ashford in Kent. After a long drive in my green Austin Van conversion completed with my father’s help, he was the engineer, John Gridley and I motored along the long tree-lined drive to report. This driveway was rumoured to host a ghost, ‘the grey lady’, who was only seen at night and, then after a visit to the pub.

Accommodation improved. I was allocated a shared ground floor room with French windows opening onto a terrace overlooking the sports field. A result!

Classes continued for GCE’s and Part 2 Internal Certificate. Typing was added. The teacher was a genial, pear shaped, scots woman who reminded us to ‘Keep your fingers on the home keys’ when touch typing. We thought her shape evolved from seated typing, and a love of sticky buns. Touch typing was to be useful later, as many policemen used one finger, in a stabbing motion as the keys were driven down causing the hammer typeface to rebound off the roller!

Weight Lifting

We there, met another drill sergeant, Chalky White, a Scotsman, who also took weight lifting, the Olympic lifts of Clean and Jerk, Snatch, and Clean and Press. I took this up and later, on leave at my uncle’s farm near Aberdeen, had a contest lifting weights. He won easily by lifting the heaviest weight using its ring with his little finger, ‘his pinkie’. Chalky had a favourite saying, ‘Climb those stairs, jump off, and shout – Here comes f**** all’. We had a grudging respect for him. This was tested, on a weight lifting outing diversion to my home address for tea and cakes, when my Mother said You must be Chalky We froze, and he smiled. He became human after that.

Race Walking, Cross Country, Judo

I developed Race Walking and improved at cross country. Judo was taken by a black belt instructor with a sarcastic sense of humour. He ignored submissive double taps of the hand saying ‘not yet’. When, I came round, he said ‘you can take more now!’ Judo became a reflex. When in the local cinema a local youth grabbed me from behind and ended up several seats in front of me. He did not do it again!

Ropes in the gymnasium had to be climbed to the very top, with a slap on the beam before coming down. A shouting instructor spurred you on, there was no choice, and I had to make it. Rope burns and blisters were overcome. ‘Character building?’

Another character building challenge took the form of climbing a telegraph pole climbing head first onto a wire hawser that stretched in a 45 degree angle to the ground. With arms outstretched and one leg hanging, the other tucked up with boot over hawser, we flew to ground as ‘Angels of death’. We flew and did not die, but some put the brake boot on too soon and dropped off near the end.

Prefect

I became a prefect and bore a yellow ribbon on both shoulders.

Hammer, High Jump

In the summer athletics, I threw the English hammer on a wire (Scots has a wooden shaft) and did the high jump (practice for later life they said)

Social

I met a local girl with a protective father. He ‘entertained’ us by a visit to his workplace- a perfume factory! Sticks were dipped into a perfume and given to savour the scent. Soon, I had a collection, with nowhere to put them. They ended up in the top pocket, of my Harris Tweed jacket. You guessed it, the tweed absorbed the scents and then was subject of many jibes from cadets on my return. The relationship was short.

The van was very popular to visit the beach at weekends. Graham Constable – he had become Constable Constable - and Jim Ferguson often joined John Gridley and I on our excursions. We went to Yarmouth once.

Education

Having achieved more GCE’s and the Part Two certificate I was ready for the next Phase.

Third Phase

Most of my friends were posted to Sunbury Cadet Centre and were bussed to our divisions in London where we were to go on patrol with Constables. This lay next to the Thames and I took up canoeing. Long distance canoeing. The Instructor was ex Special Boat Service (SBS) and had a sense of humour?

I was posted to B Division that included Notting Hill, Kensington, and Chelsea. No-one wanted to be lumbered with a cadet. At Notting Hill I was given the interesting task of washing white gloves, and making tea! I went on patrol with an Inspector driving a general purpose vehicle. He had a POLAC. A Police Accident with a wall. He reversed into it. Fortunately, it was minor paint disturbance soon covered in mud splashes from a near building site inspection. I was sworn to secrecy as forms would have to be filled and a load of grief. Things improved as I became accepted and had a ‘friend’ in the Inspector.

I was surprised at living conditions of the rental sector of the community. With damp coming through green stained walls and running down black mould, a family with children existed in an unheated room. I appreciated my upbringing all the more. Apparently a regular drunk plagued the night duty sergeant wanting a room for the night. He was not incapable, so was told yet again to go away. After repeat visits something snapped. He was arrested, tried, and sentenced to death by hanging in the station yard. Sentence to be carried out immediately! It was, and as he stepped up, the dustbin fell with a bang. He fainted. When he came round he decided to leave. He never bothered the front desk ever again! A new respect came over him as he gave up the demon drink that he blamed for the worse nightmare of his entire life! Was this a leg pull? Patrols encountered lost property, directions, observing known criminals, ‘shouts’ for police attendance, and camaraderie.

I learned another use for a cape and helmet. On the way in to the police canteen we walked via the market and collected breakfast that kept us warm. A dog handler was playing cards with a losing hand. He turned to his Alsatian, lying at his feet, and said If my dog wants a walk I’ll throw this hand in. The dog went to the window, pulled down his lead, and went directly to the handler to lay it over his arm, and sit to attention eyes fixed in expectation. They went back on patrol.

Canoeing

Canoe training involved running, exercises, and paddling a two man Accord. This was a moulded fibreglass round bottom craft with a coloured upper and white base. There were two float chambers. Each carried an offset two bladed wooden paddle and wore a lifejacket. The aim was to compete in the annual Devises to Westminster Junior section. This took in 125 miles of dead water canal and flowing Thames before tidal from Teddington. Inspections involved checking essentials carried in water sealed see-through plastic bags stowed in the float chambers. We could not take on any other supplies than listed and carried. Unseen canal obstructions damaged hulls and Mars bars proved to be a useful bung! We reinforced the bows with more fibreglass, rubbed down scratches, and polished for a smooth surface to glide unharmed through the water.

A homebuilt canoe of wood was heavy and cumbersome, but it had a section of its own. We treated it as the supply ship coming up the rear. All overnight repair kits were stowed in its cavernous bowels.

Strategies developed as we trained on the various sections. Sitting on the slipstream of the competitor ahead saved energy and sapped theirs. Beating them to a portage where the craft was lifted from the water to overhead and carried past the lock to put in the other side at the run, was improved by a jump-slip. This involved a put in with one holding the painter (rope attached to the canoe front end) the other jumped from the bank to land in the seated position in one movement without putting feet through the hull! Practice, practice, practice. Then from a higher bank. Laying out on the sculling paddle the front man jumped in with the painter in hand plus paddle, and we dug in and off. During the race some adapted this by portaging at the back of a queue, running to the front, then across the canoes in the water put in and away as the air became blue behind us. We shot under low footbridges by timing the stroke to lay forward over the bows with paddles parallel to the water line and completing a stroke on emerging together. This had risk from the snags above with little clearance.

Reading had a gusher from the right as channelled water joined the mainstream. This created a whirlpool and we, that is Peter Luckett and I, capsized in mid-winter with snagged and holed lifejackets but, we held onto the paddles and secured the boat as it threatened to take our heads off! We were like drowned rats! Our instructor came to the rescue and led us with a holed craft as we walked through Reading to the Land Rover jeep and canoe trailer. Here he demonstrated his sense of humour by telling us it was our lucky day. He had a spare canoe and, we could do it all again properly! We learned not to put the paddle in the middle of the whirlpool and flip, and soon warmed up paddling on.

We nursed the blisters until they hardened. I developed a recess in my thumb that served as a paddle guide. We became a matched pair in a team.

The race was a timed, staggered, start. Our developed intelligence identified our opposition to beat and strategies were adopted accordingly. All went well until tragedy struck at the final tidal stretch. Peter had developed Tina-Sinavitus in his wrists (a drying of the lubricating fluid). With a long swim to either bank, there was no choice but for us to carry on regardless, but he did not want to go on. So I hit him! On the back of his head with my paddle, and on every stroke ‘till he lost his temper. He made an instant good recovery plus taking up a faster stroke. On reaching the South steps at Westminster bridge, we could not turn safely so, we took the direct route. There he was hauled out and promptly hit me with the last of his pent up fury. I deserved it, but we had finished with a credible time.

On return to Sunbury, there was a sit down dinner for competitors and supporters. In the showers a scream was heard over the banter. The homebuilt powerhouse in the back had worn a string vest throughout the race which he sat on paddling. This had become part of him and on removing it revealed a trellis of reddened flesh now assaulted by hot water. He was the only one standing at the Dinner that followed! Overnight I dream’t I was capsizing.

Dog School

On attachment to the Dog Handling School we became dog bait. With a padded sleeve taking the part of a suspect I held my arm outstretched and the Alsatian took me off my feet and held on. On the run the dog soon caught me again. The next time I climbed a tree but, instead of circling the tree and barking up at me, it followed until I found the top with weaker twigs would not hold my weight but, this did hold up the dog! What a dog! What a scare!

Moray Sea School

As if there was not enough exposure to water, there on the notice board was an Outward Bound Moray Sea School adventure with only two places subject to parents’ permission. The notice removed gave time to obtain permission in writing from both sets of parents living nearby and John Gridley and I made personal application and were first to do so.

Arriving in Corpach, on the west coast of the Scottish Highlands, the three-masted, 160 ton schooner, awaited us with adventure in mind. She was the Prince Louis, built in Denmark as a cattle ship in 1944 and refitted in 1955 as a school ship for training with The Outward Bound Trust. Beached seals sunning themselves between swimming in the harbour gave free entertainment until checked in and organised. Source: The Outward Bound Trust & notes.

We dined on board. Soup moved with the swell. In rough weather, a frame was put over the table to keep all upon it. Not that much was eaten, as many rushed aloft to spew with the wind to feed the fish rather than see it return again and wear it! We awoke to run aloft for a hose down with sea water, during November! After a quick rub down, aloft again in bare feet to climb the rigging and clean the decks before breakfast. Sea training followed. Duties included a night watch, where the BBC shipping forecast was taken down in a log for the Captain. Eventually we put into Stornoway, and were briefed to be friendly with the locals.

John was seen to obey by taking up with a local girl. One of our number was in earnest discussion with American tourists. We next saw them hurry along as we sailed away. He had negotiated the sale of the ship for completion that day!

We were put ashore to complete a walking route that turned out to be a climb. This was organised by a former Instructor at Gordonstoun, where Prince Charles was a pupil. One of our watch was unfit, had fallen arches (feet), and struggled with his pack, so we shared it out and continued. That is, until that became too much for him too. I had an idea from recent past. He went by bus as we completed the course. I however, suffered a knee injury involving a pinched cartilage.

During the evening we sang sea shanties, to take our minds off sea sickness. We had clambered along the safety net slung under the bow spit and there laughed at the spray as we held on for dear life as the Prince Louis rose up and up, before slapping straight down through a curtain of water. The expanse of wind whipped water toward the skyline where the orange sun dipped and extinguished its light.

A force 5 storm engulfed us, with white horses on a foaming sea far below and then far above. We rode at anchor as the dingy was eventually launched with a crew for stores. Somehow, they completed their mission!

We anchored and rowed ashore to tie up at a jetty and were met by a broad Scot who shouted Are there any Campbells’ aboard? To the answer No. He called back All are welcome. This referred to an act of historical treachery by the Campbells’ welcomed by their host.

Patrols

On return to Sunbury, I returned to work but, to me it wasn’t. Every early, late, or night shift, was different, with more to see absorb and learn. I was posted to the Area Car, as extra observer. This car patrolled as a uniform response car for emergencies, but that did not prevent us from making arrests for crime committed, or in progress. This held a fascination for me and I learned to interpret body language to select a worthy stop.

A stop was power given by statute. S4 of The Vagrancy Act 1824 was for persons loitering with intent to commit crime. This Parliamentary enactment was intended to deal with soldiers returning from war who would steal to live and sleep rough. They were described as thieves and vagabonds. I learned at training school 3 overt acts were needed in 3 separate places to provide sufficient evidence for arrest and conviction. This was difficult in a Black Rover with 2 uniformed police officers and a similar uniformed cadet.

If we parked the car and got out, there were shiny silver buttons and cap badges to draw attention. Most ran. Back tracking to where they had been, we often discovered an attempt on the car or house to break in, and tools of crime were discovered such as a crow bar or ‘loyd’, a plastic square to slip the Yale type lock on front doors. Advice to householders was to fit mortice locks, where the solid piece of square metal thrown by the key into the keeper on the doorframe could not be slipped. I was the fit runner to bring them down, and then await ‘a puffing policeman’ to make the arrest and caution them that they did not have to say anything? To me, that hindered true justice but, many did admit their crime when caught red handed that was carefully written down as evidence in an issued pocket book, later claimed to be ‘a verbal’ pinned on them by the arresting officer. Others fought to get away and said nothing at all. The latter meant we had to up our game to win by holding back until a crime had been committed, or a stop before it happened with a search to find the tools of crime and then arrest for going equipped to steal or damage.

Perception

One night when driving my van off duty and in plain clothes, I called into Kensington Police Station for directions and was rebuffed by the Station Officer. I to him was a time waster, and he to me was a public relations disaster area. Notions of policing by consent were a thing for the future. Enforcing the law in the war against crime was the notion for that time.

The Office of Constable

I reported to Peel House in Victoria, not far from the recruitment office where I had been ‘medically examined’ by dropping the towel, turning round, and bending over? I answered the question- ‘Why do you want to be a policeman?’ With the answer ‘Because having read a forensic scientist’s account of how forensics assist policing, I would like the opportunity to put it into practice.’ I gave an account of the stops I had witnessed where ‘mechanical fits’ would join a crow bar to a doorframe where used by a runaway burglar to prove the crowbar he had tried to throw away, had his fingerprints on, therefore he had committed an attempted burglary or, damage at the very least. I remember the warden, an ex-copper, whispering in my ear ‘You’re through’ and then ‘Stop smiling, the others don’t know’!

A familiar routine followed my arrival, at this Victorian town house, of a checked list for my name, a briefing, allocation of a shared room overlooking the street, and ‘get a haircut’ needed or not! The difference was now I recognised other ex-cadets that somehow stood out from other recruits with their presence and confidence as all milled about on the tarmac square until called.

We were bussed to the uniform stores where, experienced tailors sized you up and threw kit at you. The helmet was a new experience from that of my cadet cap with light blue band. The helmet was made of cork, lined with green leather, and had a pull corded tan leather adjustment so it would not look like an upturned coal - skuttle. It was covered on the outside with a dark navy/black material, pierced by the studs with split ring retainers of a black painted badge of the Metropolitan police, crested by the crown under which we served Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. The flare of the helmet skirt was waisted, by a belt of embossed black painted brass, and the top protected by a black metal rose. A chin strap was to ‘adjust to fit the chin, not the neck!’ Some were drowned in their upturned buckets, others had a pimple on their head, but in time with cord adjustment the helmets fitted and we then looked the part. I received the same grandfather uniform blue shirts with separate collars for collar stud fastening. I treasured a reissued police whistle that had a distinctive low tone and had no pea as in referee whistles. Reissue boots were to be bulled, but I knew the process and had had the practice. The epaulets were issued with studded numbers and letters to fit ourselves with rounded screw threads. I was PC 239 B, posted to Kensington! My warrant number was 157564.

Together we were sworn in - taking the oath of allegiance – and then receiving our warrant cards signed by the Commissioner himself. I now had the autograph of the Chief of Police who I met pre the Devises to Westminster Canoe Race. This was my warrant to act as a Constable, even in plain clothes, on and off duty. On duty, was indicated by a blue and white striped buckled belt worn on the sleeve through belt loops.

The classroom subjects were law and procedure, with outdoor simulations where instructors played the part of members of the public including awkward suspects. For a summons, a verified name and address was needed to send the paperwork. Recruit What is your name sir? Instructor Dickie Bird Your address? Up a tree Now how do you get out of that? We learned how. ‘Know it all cadets’, were brought down to size by wily instructors who had long memories.

I met Norwell Gumbs, the first coloured policeman in London. He was on one of the intakes above us. I asked him how he got on in the public house skit. This involved a coloured rowdy customer and a landlord who had called police. Our training was to stand by to prevent a breach of the peace and allow the landlord to escort the customer to the public footpath and there release him as we were no more than a member of the public in that situation. Norwell said I threw him out on his ear, and told him he should know his place. Norwell was very popular.

We had to learn a different style of marching. Instead of raising the outstretched arm to shoulder height, a forty five degree angle was sufficient. When coming to attention with the thigh parallel with the ground a reduced height now sufficed. It took less effort, took a little while to adjust but, was not as smart.

Basic training took in traffic, disputes, crime, the court system, and exams.

Probationer

I reported to Fulham Police Station Section house, where I drew the short straw and was allocated the room with the fire exit window. It only had room for a single bed, a curtain single wardrobe, and a door. Lucky me! I had to travel by tube from Fulham Broadway to High Street Kensington and walk, or to Earls Court and walk, or by my trusty van subject to safe parking. There were no yellow lines or meters then. At Fulham, the nearby streets served and at Kensington, a car park at a cleared building site opposite, when there was room. If not, right outside the ‘nick’.

On reporting at the front desk, I looked for the grumpy sergeant and breathed a sigh of relief. Sergeant Dunbar was my reporting Sergeant and he was amiable and very helpful. On pairing with a Constable, I was then let loose on the streets under supervision and now advertising my ‘brand new’ look with my bulled duty boots, neatly pressed uniform, and shortest of haircuts! Having looked at the divisional map before as a cadet, I was aware of the general geography, but now I had to take in the Kensington beat boundaries for patrols, and the whereabouts of police boxes or posts, to report in by telephone at assigned intervals. Radios came later.

My guide and mentor, showed me round and introduced me to friendly locals as we went. He guarded his ‘tea holes’ telling me to find my own. We used the police box for checking in by signing the book and calling the PC manned switchboard. I had a short - lived turn, having to pull all the connections out to sort out the mess when eyelid flaps were activated to get my attention all at once. The police box had a single high stool, high windows, and a shelf to write up reports, a door, and a cupboard for the landline phone made of black Bakelite, which could be accessed from a small door on the outside by the public to call police. This did not have the room of the 1963 TV ‘Doctor Who’ featured ‘Tardis’, but did have the same blue light on the top to alert the patrolling policeman to a phone message for action. I had to stand while my senior took the stool.

The section sergeant visited the beats, and checked pocket books for reports. Our check - in times narrowed down where and when to find us. I heard tales of Night Duty PC’s found asleep by the early turn, and of frilly nickers hanging inside!

The Divisional Inspector had a car and driver, a (Black Maria) van cruised the rowdy area around Earls Court, and the Area car with crew answered the ‘shouts’.

Shifts were 6am to 2pm, 2pm to 10pm followed by the pub, and 10 to 6am followed by breakfast at a Covent Garden market pub where you could get steak sandwiches with horseradish sauce. Hence, study was in the afternoons. Every month, there was centre training all day with tests to make sure you kept up, towards the final exam after two years. Then, you could specialise and/or continue studies for promotion exams for sergeant, then for inspector.

First Arrest

On a first posting to the night shift van, Charlie Dark, the driver, stopped suddenly in the Earls court Road, the back doors opened, and in flew a drunk for me to catch as my ‘first body’. This was colloquial for ‘first arrest’. I had to take him into the Custody Sergeant and give the brief facts of arrest seen through the windscreen of the van Drunk and incapable in the Earls Court Road Sergeant, breath smelt of intoxicating liquor, staggering, and a danger to himself and others. He was charged, cautioned, and taken to the drunk tank to sober up for the morning magistrates’ court. Half hourly checks by the PC gaoler made sure he was still alive ‘to plead’ in the morning. I went off to write up my notes using the pocket book rules using the memory aid taught at Peel House of ‘NO ELBOWS’. No erasures, leaves left blank, blank spaces, overwriting, writing between the lines, or spelling errors. All in pencil and, in best handwriting legible by others. Rough notes could be made first. Consultation was permitted with other witnesses but it had to be your own recollection and in your own words. Charlie was back on patrol nicking thieves.

At court off nights, not having visited Convent Garden, I was advised by the court gaoler to learn my notes, as Mr Guest was on the bench. He expected officers to know their evidence not read it. This magistrate was a Stipendiary Magistrate. He received a stipend or salary and was a former Barrister at law, whereas Justices of the Peace consisted of local businessmen who sat in threes and were volunteers unpaid. They were fondly referred to as ‘the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker’. I was to find out if the drunk was pleading guilty? So down I went to the cells to find him and ask. On my return the gaoler said Well? "Guilty I said, and we went on first with no time to get worried.

I took the witness stand, pocket book in hand unopened and there waited for the clerk of the court to ask his name, address, and read the charge before asking if he pleaded guilty or not guilty? He replied guilty. I swore on oath to tell the truth, gave the evidence as given to the custody sergeant, but this time from the memorised notes and the prisoner interrupted claiming- ‘but I was arrested on the embankment next to the Thames’. Mr Guest immediately pronounced his finding of guilt by retorting "obviously drunk, £50 or 1 day! He paid his fine, I got my overtime card signed and was off to the section house to sleep.

The gaoler said to go into court and learn from the others. It was good advice. I heard the crack of pencils prefaced his wrath at read notes, his irritation at mistakes made in reciting the caution, and his discounted fines where old lags made him laugh. When Mr Guest left the bench on a break in the proceedings I was ushered up to his seat once the court was vacated. There the gaoler pointed to the carpet under the magistrate’s seat. There was the debris from the first session, consisting of the broken pencils, and rolled