It's a Start

By Margaret Baldwin

With relatively little worldly experience, this young lady yearned to be a detective, perhaps resulting, at a very young age, from listening to Dick Barton – Special Agent. In her imagination, she put together a scenario of how this would evolve and how her future could spread out before her.
In 1963, having reached the statutory age of 22 years, and passing her entrance examination, she was sent to Ryton-on-Dunsmore for three months’ training, then posted to a Home Counties Constabulary. However, she quickly learned that female officers were there to deal with women and children and ‘fill in’ when and where required. Meals and coffee breaks were to be taken in their office, so there would be no social fraternising with male officers.
Fearing the dream was beginning to slide by, she persevered, and attitudes gradually changed. Finally, she was able to become more involved in all aspects of police investigations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528975308

Margaret Baldwin

Margaret Baldwin was born in Aldershot in 1939 and educated during and just after the war years. When the family moved to the Isle of Wight, her education continued to GCE level and a course in Shorthand and Typing. At 14, she went to London and worked for a film company. At 22, she joined the police force and after serving two years’ probation, she resigned but continued working in the CID office in a civilian capacity. After 21 years, she left and worked for an electronics company. She retired at 58 and moved to France, where she has lived for 21 years.

Book preview

Copyright Information ©

Margaret Baldwin (2018)

The right of Margaret Baldwin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528901406 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528901413 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528975308 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

WPC Andrews, the DI wants to see you in his office, now!

I looked at the clock on the passage wall: one minute past nine. I don’t know why, but I still harboured some absurd notion that I could slip past old eagle-eye’s door whenever I was half a minute late – heaven knows I’d had enough practice in the past few months. Beaten again though, I went into the Charge Room, put my handbag and cap on the counter and waited. True to form, Sergeant Hudson immediately launched into his Oscar-winning performance which consisted of pulling his cuff back, studying his watch in a somewhat over-exaggerated manner and delivering a speech on why you should be at any given place five minutes before you should be there.

He was quite a rhetoric was our Sarge.

On completion of its deliverance, I gave him my most endearing smile, hoping to melt his soft old heart even more and told him that if he would book me on I would go and see the detective inspector straight away.

As I climbed the stairs, it did just cross my mind to try and interpret the mutterings of our venerable station sergeant, but considered it was more a job for the experts on Woman’s Lib.

I went to the end of the corridor and knocked on the detective inspector’s door.

Come in.

I went into the small office and stood to attention. Detective Inspector Wilkins looked up from a mountain of files.

Well?

WPC Andrews, sir. You wanted to see me.

Oh, yes. He got up from his desk and went to the window where he appeared to contemplate the view. He then turned around and continued, Do you know anything about Rugby?

Rugby, sir?

He rested his hands on the back of his chair, raised his eyebrows and said,

That’s what I said.

Well, sir, I have been to the odd match with my brothers and once to the Seven Asides at Twickenham.

Good. The local club has been having a spate of petty thefts from the ladies cloakroom and from the canteen. I want you to spend a few Saturdays up there and see if you can put a stop to it. The Secretary has been in touch with us and will be expecting you this Saturday. He doesn’t want a fuss made so you don’t have to tell all and sundry why you’re there. You can make up a story – use your imagination. Give it a couple of weeks and then let me have a report.

Well, well, well, I thought as I closed the door behind me, fancy old Sid giving me, a mere probationer, a job all to myself.

When I got back to the Charge Room, the place was in an uproar. Sergeant Hudson was attempting, and without much success it seemed, to divide his attention between Constable Rayner, who was balancing a tray with two congealed breakfasts for overnight prisoners, which looked as if they should never have happened, two prison wardens trying to off-load a couple of ‘hairies’, a weeping momma and enough telephones ringing to give the whole pantomime an air of being blessed by the combined churches of London.

I quietly collected my belongings, one weeping female and then returned to the comparative peace of the Women Police Office.

Early closing in Fenton, like most towns, was on a Wednesday and my routine patrol that day proved very quiet. I often muse to myself as to how I ever came to live here. There are those places you read and hear about, but would never dream of visiting, let alone settling down and working there. However, mine was not to reason why, because when your training period at the Police College is up, as far as the ‘higher archy’ are concerned you are just a number, and where they put that number so you go. Still, it is the sort of town, as my mother would say, that grows on you.

The next couple of days seemed to fly by and before I knew where I was, it was getting on for 2 o’clock on Saturday afternoon. I left my digs, made a routine call to the station sergeant from the telephone box on the corner, just to book on and let him know where I would be in case they missed me – we all live in hope – and made my way to the local Rugby Ground.

It was a cold February day and looked like rain, but with boots, slacks, sweater and my one luxury item, a fur lined suede coat, I thought I might be able to beat whatever the weather was about to offer. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be up against any other surprises the elements had already conjured up, but when I got to the Ground I began to wish I’d put a pair of waders on as well. This was certainly no Twickenham and from an initial survey it wasn’t hard to realise that apart from there being no covered stand, there wasn’t even a stand, not even a bench, just a number of old duck-boards – which to my mind any self-respecting duck would reject – and this was going to be the total protection I was likely to receive for my lady-like tootsies in a vast sea of soggy mud. All of a sudden, the thought of trying to balance on one of them all afternoon didn’t hold much appeal for me, even if it was in furtherance of my career.

I located a wooden pavilion of sorts and squelched my way towards the main door. As I entered, the whole assemblage turned in my direction, which I must admit I found rather flattering until it slowly got through to me that these weren’t exactly flattering stares, more a sort of ‘what’s a woman doing in our inner sanctum at this time of day’ look. One of the older men got down from his bar stool and came towards me, but surprise, surprise, instead of taking me by