THE DAY I GOT A BOBBIE'S JOB

THE DAY I GOT A BOBBIE'S JOB

I hadn't always wanted to be a policeman. In my early youth my real interest in life was messing about on a farm, milking cows, dealing with the traumas of animal husbandry and, best of all, driving tractors.

In fact, I would do practically anything to get out of going to school. Once, around harvest time, I had convinced Alan Richardson, dairy farmer and esteemed Cheshire County councillor of Bradshaw Hall Farm in Cheadle Hulme that, if he really did need my services, it would be a really smart idea to write a letter to the school; 

“To Whom it may concern: Roy Aldington will be absent from school for a short period to assist on my farm in the essential task of gathering-in the harvest...”.

It all went rapidly downhill when the School Board Inspector, complete with regulation gabardine mac, bowler hat, furled umbrella and briefcase, turned up at the five-bar gate and caught me, 'bang-to-rights' bagging wheat-seed on the back of a old combine harvester, in the middle of a cornfield. The enraged

Education Department threatened the Gentleman farmer Alan “Richo” with prosecution and the ill-considered "bonking-off" episode nearly had me placed “in care”.

But that's another story and, believe me, there are many more where that came from. In truth, it was a blessed relief for the teachers and me alike when I finally left school at the age of fifteen, the proud possessor of a Union of Lancashire & Cheshire Schools Institute Diploma in mediocre education.

It is little wonder that one of my first jobs was in a garage tinkering with motor cars as an apprentice mechanic at Central Garage in Gatley, now Greater Manchester. The tiny establishment was little more than a dingy, cave-like hole in the wall with a couple of petrol pumps, Regular and Super, plonked right in the pavement outside. Now they wouldn't allow that these days, would they? Above the garage was a ladies hairdressers, where stylish female stylists coiffured; and a small barber's shop next door, run by Costas, a rotund Greek Cypriot, who stocked a myriad of manly potions and, of course, a range of,  "Little something for the weekend, Sir"?

I had bought my first motor-bike with the proceeds of my first few weeks wages (and a small loan), an aged 125cc two-stroke BSA Bantam in 'racing green'. It was during a premature, ill-thought-through, maiden speed and road test along the old farm lane, that I first met with Police Sergeant Frank Morgan in his shiny black Morris Minor, who happened to be coming the other way. Fag securely trapped between first and second fingers, he gesticulated for me to stop. 

Yup. I know exactly what you are thinking...and you are correct. Mr Morgan kindly arranged for me a 'special' appearance at Stockport Juvenile Court. My unfortunate experience before the 'beak' was thoroughly educational. I remember after my case descending the stone steps outside the court and thinking, 'well that's taught me a flippin' lesson'.

Anyway, the point of all this is that Central Garage was the local unofficial communications hub for Cheadle police station and Cheadle Hulme Division of Cheshire Constabulary. Throughout the working day the duty police office constable at Cheadle; often the Glaswegian James Duffy, the amiable, smiling, Joe Sinclair or the rascally Gordon Higgingbottom, would telephone the garage and we would write down their instructions contemporaneously in a special book to pass on to the beat bobby, who had cycled several miles uphill from Cheadle, and had called for a fag and a brew. No radios then, remember.

I got to know most of the bobbies over the months and years and I'd like to think that our modest contribution to 'modern day' policing was genuinely welcomed and of practical assistance. I used to watch these smart young officers, resplendent in their pressed uniforms, park their bikes, put their trouser clips on the crossbar, pull on white armlets and gloves; and hurry out to carry out traffic control, school crossing duties, or on occasion, rush off to real emergencies. 

Now that's the job I want to do, I used to think to myself.

At eighteen and a half I applied to join Cheshire Constabulary, encouraged and egged-on by most of the police acquaintances. One morning soon afterwards the phone rang at the garage and it was Jim Duffy... The call was for me!. “You've got to be at Cheadle police station at eight o'clock tonight. Sergeant Clayton is going to give you some aptitude tests and measure you up for the job application”.

It turned out that the aptitude tests were written maths, spelling test and dictation.

“Can you spell Banyan?”, said Jim. “ A what??”.    “B-A-N-Y-A-N it's a feckin' trreee”, screamed the softly spoken Glaswegian Jock down the 'phone.

I made sure I was there in plenty of time and the first job at hand was the measurement of my vital statistics; taken and noted down by Sergeant Clayton, a well nourished individual who's waist measurement was roughly the same as my height. He utilised an oily, 200 feet coiled cloth tape measure, which had four and a half inches missing off the end, borrowed from the Rover patrol car parked outside.

I only just crept in on the height measurement (I was still growing) and I struggled to inflate my lungs sufficiently to satisfy the minimum inflated chest requirement. “Breath in, more, more” encouraged Henry Clayton, until I felt giddy. “That'll do”, he said, “Thirty-eight and a half...just”.

“Do you know what a Banyan is young man?” 

“Yes, said I...“A 'banyan' or sometimes a 'banian' is a kind of fig tree. It usually starts life by growing on other plants as an epiphyte...”. He gave me a look of complete and utter disbelief. And this, of course, was well BG (Before Google).

I breezed through the written dictation and it was the same for the spelling and maths exams, so I managed to pass my 'aptitude' test with flying colours. My application to join-up was favourably endorsed and forwarded to HQ. Now it was just my 'attitude' test to worry about.  Thanks Jim.

William 'Bill' Borthwick

Several weeks later, smartly suited and booted (as the invitation had strongly advised), I turned up at Cheshire police headquarters in Foregate Street, on the corner with Vicar's Lane. I was directed to the third floor of the old red-bricked building, now swish private apartments, where I was met by the late 999 Sergeant William “Bill” Borthwick later Chief Superintendent), 'Bat-Man' to the Chief Constable, Henry Watson. I was always the proud possessor of a decent fitted suit, complete with drainpipe trousers; it was a sort of 'uniform' for my evening jobs at several local coffee bars, dance-halls and bingo establishments in Stockport, Cheadle Hulme and Winsford. For older readers, The Kings Hall, Top-Ten Club and The Strand, for example.

Sergeant Borthwick stood ram-rod straight and made it clear that I should at least make some attempt at the same sort of posture. He briefed me as to how I should address the Chief Constable and when the office door opened I was to march smartly forwards across the fitted green carpet, come to a halt a short distance from the boss's desk and stand to attention, thumbs down the seams of my trousers. And wait to be spoken to.

Some ages later the big oak office door opened and I marched purposefully towards the desk at the far side of the impressive room, the chief silhouetted against the bright light from the windows. My eyes were fixed on the top of a baldy head and uniform shoulder insignia, the Chief, presumably, was still scribbling his notes about the previous candidate's interview. I snapped to attention, well sort of, close-up to the massive desk.

Without looking up or acknowledging my presence, the baldy-headed gentleman bellowed in a threatening manner, “Get back... G e t back”. 

Apparently I'd got too close to the desk for his liking. Henry's words of greeting “Get back” were the first words he uttered to me (the words, tone and effect are still etched indelibly in my mind) and I immediately thought that I'd 'flunked-it'; without even uttering a single word.

Henry Watson

This illustrious Chief Constable; who was ultimately responsible for providing Cheshire Constabulary with modern, adequate vehicular transportation, 'state-of-the-art' analogue communications such as the Lancon radio, developed by Lancashire Constabulary. Henry Watson pretty much single-handily dragged Cheshire Constabulary kicking and screaming toward the 'nineteenth century'. He grilled me, through slitty-eyes, no holds barred, for a full twenty minutes. At one point he dwelt menacingly on the tack of, 'what blinking use would you be at a fight in Foregate Street at three in the morning?'

I blustered, fabricated and bragged a fairly convincing response until he grimaced (though, on reflection, it could very well have been trapped-wind).  Oh, I thought, (well hoped, actually) he's changed his mind and I've got the job. He's sending me to the prestigious City of Chester Division.

The longest that I'd ever been away from home before was for a weeks holiday at Butlin's, Pwllheli or on a camping expedition with the Sea Scouts to Kettleshulme Cottage in mid-winter (where we slept on straw filled sacks [Kettleshume not Butlin's] until, after a short debate and democratic

vote, they were ceremoniously burned to provide vital life-saving heat) . So it was a bit of a shock a few weeks later to find myself in digs, ensconced in a tiny box-bedroom in a small semi in Kettell Avenue in Crewe, together with several young Rolls Royce apprentices, in the care of a kindly landlady, Mrs Simpkin's, who's immediate concern was to feed me up with carbohydrates and various fatty things.

Hard to believe nowadays but back in those days the routine was to report to your allotted Divisional Headquarters on your first day of duty. Having reported for 'duty', on the 23^rd March 1964, I was straight away whisked off by the charismatic and well respected Constable George Ithell in the divisional Morris Minor car to Bromborough Courts, where along with several other recruits, I was duly 'sworn-in' in. I find it incredible that I am writing this now, precisely to the very hour and day that I became a police officer, 54 long years ago.

So, after calling at the main stores in Chester to collect my uniform and accoutrements, we returned to Crewe for a 'talking-to' by the Superintendent, Clifford Woodcock, of whom more later.

I was most grateful to be assigned to the care and custody of a calm, quietly assured policeman and, incidentally, really decent bloke, Constable Ken Brown. I was now officially a Police Constable, number 1085 (on paper anyway) and had instantly become a vital part of the thrusting fight against crime in rural Cheshire.

In truth, most of the time I hadn't a clue where, why or even at times, who I was. This was the finest example of anyone being thrown in at the deep-end and I became totally exposed when a member of the public would ask a perfectly reasonable question, like 'How do I get to Joey the Swan officer?' 

I jest not. When, soon after my enrollment, the Constabulary updated its uniform from the old fashioned high 'choker' collared tunics and flat caps to the more impressive 'Roman' style helmets, it had an extraordinary effect on the publics' perception of the Force. Housewives in Crewe, unused to policemen suddenly inheriting a six inch height advantage over the indigenous population, who then averaged about five foot six, dropped their shopping bags in amazement and pointed at the new phenomenon.

A 'cocky' 19 year old at Bruche

I worked shifts in company with Ken for five weeks until Number 1 District Police Training School, Bruche, near Warrington, was finally ready to receive me and make the bravest attempt to turn me into a proper, serviceable Bobby.

The circumstance leading to my retirement more than thirty years later was an even more bizarre affair; but it was all those terrific life experiences in between that have made my time in the Constabulary so rich and satisfying. 

It is why, after some considerable time in retirement, a goodly was down the sunset boulevard of retirement, I still cherish and value highly the uniqueness of being a part of the Police Family.

One day, I may even buckle-down and write a book.