This small cloud : a personal memoir 9780297789994, 0297789996

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
list of ILLUSTRATIONS
FOREWORD
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
AFTERWORD
NOTES
illustrations

Citation preview

:-;·

•'• •JI' ••• ,.._._

• •••• • • • ••• • •• • •••••• • • • • • •• • •••••••••• •• ••••••• •••• ..................... ••• •••••••• •• • ••••••••••••• •• ,,-

..-~:················· .......... ... • • ••••••••••••••• ······ ...... . , _ ••·•·•· ..... ~r,1_ •

.

. _._. • •

___,,

• • •••••••

•.· ........ •••• •············ • .•.•• • .•. ..•.•...

••••••••••••••••• •·-y,_ • • ••• • •••• • • •• ••••••••••••• ,,-_•.• • • • • • • • • • • •••• ••••••••••••••• •••••••••••••••••• ••••••••• ,,~.•-············ •• •••••••••••• •• • • •• ••• •••••• •••• •••••••• •••••• ••••••••••••••• ••• •••• • •••••••• •• ....• • • • • • • • • • • • • • ························· •••• • • •..••..•• ..•.. .... .. ••••••••••••••••••• • ..•..• •.. • • • • • •

. .•.••... ······•···. ····-········ .

.

.-.,.•.············· •.••.. ... ...... . ~........ . . . . . . . . . .,, ......·.·•·••·••·•··•••··· .· .•···...·•..······.. ...... ·.•············ . .................... . . ... . ·.•,,·.·.............. •·•·· ...•.•······· .. ...... • • •. ~

•

.......-~~....... ........... ••••••••••••••• •••• ············ ··················· •.· • •• • • • • •

••••••••

•• • ••

•

•

THIS SMALL CLOUD A Personal Memoir

Harry Daley·

\X'c1dcnfrld ;111d Nicolson London

1

Text Copynght© 1986 David Daley Foreword Copyright© 19 8 6 P. N. Furbank Afterword Copyright© r 9 8 6 Clive Emsley 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 copyright owner. First published in Great Britain by George Weidenfeld & Nicolson Ltd 91 Clapham High Street London sw4 7TA Printed in Great Britain by The Bath Press Ltd

CONTENTS

List of illustrations Foreword by P.N.Furba11k A recollection Part One: LO\vestoft 1901-16 Part Two: Dorking 1916-25 Part Three: l\1etropolitan Police 19 2 5-50

Afterword by Clive Emsley

lX

I

3 51

79 232

ILLUSTRATIONS

Daley's grandfather Daley's father Lowestoft harbour (Suffolk Record Office, Central Library,

Lowestoft) Daley's mother as a parlour maid Daley's mother in Dorking Harry with Joey and Janet Harry aged fifteen in Dorking Daley on point duty in Hammersmith Broadway Friends of Daley's, mostly out of work Daley with a friend at the swimming pool Arrested friends of Daley's Daley off duty with two friends Daley in sergeant's uniform Vine Street police station (Metropolitan Police Historical Museum) Wandsworth police station (Metropolitan Police Historical Museum) Portrait of Daley by Duncan Grant

Vll

FOREWORD

Harry Daley's memoirs This Small Cloud were begun as an act of contrition or self-rehabilitation. Daley had served for twenty-five years in the Metropolitan Police, after which he had joined the Merchant Navy as a Master-at-Arms; but after a few years in his new career he fell ill with diabetes. It is a disease which can cause acute depression, and under its influence he began to brood on his past life and to tell himself he had met with great injustice. 'It was becoming an obsession', he wrote later, 'so, to prevent this, I decided to write out exactly what happened to me'. The therapy was successful, and as he wrote on, he found, or convinced himself, that the truth was quite otherwise: he had in fact had a very fortunate life and, for the most part, had been treated with great kindness and much tolerance. This became the theme of his memoirs; and there was, no doubt, an element of self-°persuasion in it, nor was Hany Daley quite the sunny, easy-going and benevolent figure that he depicts. E.M.Forster, who had a brief and chequered friendship with Daley, remarked: 'He places too many models before himself'. It was meant censoriously, but it touches on an essential point. Harry Daley was a born self-improver; and this, as Yeats would have agreed, can be a thoroughly creative habit of mind. Self-persuasion, that is to say, is by no means the same as insincerity, and Daley was unquestionably sincere in what he wrote, as well as scrupulously careful over factual accuracy. What is more to the point, he turned out to be a really gifted writer. He was quite genuinely surprised when he found he had produced 'a sort of book', but all the same he knew that it was a good one. The name of E.~1. Forster comes in aptly, for Daley's feelings of injustice in a sense centred upon Forster; and it was important to him, as a symbol of his recovered self-respect, that he should not discuss Forster in his memoirs, nor the fact that he had been friendly with various other 'Bloomsbury' figures. This episode in his life began in 1925 when, as a young police IX

FOREWORD

constable in Hammersmith, he became acquainted withJ.R.Ackcrley. They met casually in the street early one Sunday morning, and by a pleasant chance it turned out in conversation that Daley, who was an indefatigable theatre-goer, had seen a production of Ackerley's play The Prisoners of War at the Lyric, Hammersmith. It initiated a long, indeed a lifelong, friendship, and quite soon, through Ackerley, Harry had become friendly with quite a number of Ackerley's literary and artistic acquaintances, among them Raymond Mortimer, Duncan Grant, Gerald Heard, Leo Charlton and E.M. Forster. (Forster was by now a very close intimate of Ackerley's, seeing him most days that he was in town.) For Daley, being a dedicated self-educator, it was a delightful enlargement of his life. There would be lunches at cheap Soho restaurants, visits to concerts and the latest Russian films, and parties at Ackerley's flat in Hammersmith Terrace. In a sense, 'enlargement' is the right word also to describe his effect on his new friends, for he was immensely knowledgeable about Hammersmith working-class life, a largely unknown subject to them. Moreover he was a wonderful raconteur, knowing exactly the right story to interest any company. The next few years he remembered later as a time of sunshine and happiness. The keynote was a cheerful homosexual camaraderie. He recalled a night-time visit to the zoo: 'Animals are liveliest in the dark, so the zoo decided to open at night every summer Thursday. There was a band, a good restaurant, fairy lights in the trees, and lots of laughter. Everyone went in their gayest clothes - it was very camp .... Chiefly I remember Raymond arm in arm with his friends, Francis Birrell and Eddie Sackville-West, and all so happy.' Harry was also invited to Ackerley's family home (he is the 'intellectual policeman' mentioned as dining at Richmond, in My Father a11d Myself), and before long Ackerley's entree into the police began to arouse rivalry. 'Soon almost everyone had their policeman friend', wrote Daley, ·and other friends too in all sorts of uniforms right down to bus conductors. Lionel Fielden, who wasn't even in the competition, went far afield, and outside the Mansion House spotted a lovely \Vestminster Council road sweeper in a natty Australian bush hat turned up at the side. This shook Joe.' The sergeant-in-charge at the Hammersmith police Section House encouraged Daley to entertain his friends there (both the boxers and the intellectuals) and he once threw a large party for his Bloomsbury friends, giving them a ham-and-egg supper before raking them off X

FOREWORD

to the circus. Their loud chatter, and Raymond Mortimer's fur coat, caused some restiveness amongst the other policemen. Politically, Harry's friends were very much of the left, and Ackerley and Gerald Heard, with Harry's help, did a good deal of unadvertised philanthropy among the local unemployed. Among these unemployed was a friend of Daley's, who had taken part in a strike at Lyons' factory. Ackerley persuaded his father, who was a managing director of Fyffes Bananas, to offer him a job; but when Ackerley senior found he had been a striker, he would have nothing more to do with him. Daley recalled discussing the disappointment with Ackerley: 'Joe shook his doormat angrily over the Thames, then, puffed and dusty, his hair blowing in the wind, he said "You see, Harry - he is a different sort of person from you and me."' Daley admitted once to Gerald Heard that, as he has described in his memoirs, he and his fellow-policemen accepted a regular weekly half-crown of hush-money from street bookmakers (often, in fact, passing it on to down-and-ours in the park). Heard was shocked, telling him that a corrupt police could lead to fascism, and offered to give him 5 shillings for every illicit half-crown he refused. As a result, though of course he refused Heard's offer, Daley took no more of these bribes. . In I 928 Ackerley became a Talks Producer at the BBC, and he arranged for Daley to give a series of talks (sometimes under his own name and sometimes as 'Joe Daley' or 'Harry Firman') about his life in the police and the work of Lowestoft fishermen. Round about this time he had his portrait painted by Duncan Grant and had his photograph taken by Cecil Beaton. Early on in this period of his life, there developed an affair between him and E.~1.Forster. From a sexual point of view it was more important to Forster than to Daley, who, though homosexual, was only physically attracted to heterosexuals. On the other hand, as a writer and thinker, Forster meant an enormous amount to Daley. Much later he said: 'That I am now often considered to be a nice old chap may be due to the influence his main work has had on me'. Forster, as was his habit, took great pains over the relationship, suiting his arrangements to Harry's timetable and taking the trouble to get to know his mother and younger brother in Darking. Occasionally he spent an evening walking with Daley along his beat. 'You must picture', wrote Daley, 'deserted streets except for a few casters' barrows, and a friendly police protecting the public'. The people about were Xl

FOREWORD

often Daley's personal friends. There might be Arthur G--, the leader of the 'coffee-stall gang', who rather alarmed Forster, or the handsome Fred J-- the boxer. 'I liked Fred best', Forster told Daley. 'He speaks my language.' They would go swimming in the local baths and to the theatre in very cheap seats, paying alternately. Daley had an up-todate E.M.G. gramophone and a large library of records in his dormitory cubicle, and he and Forster liked to keep up with each other's musical tastes. When the first recording of Cesar Franck's D minor Symphony appeared, Forster was enraptured by it and imposed a taste for it on all his circle - so that when Ackerley asked, 'Did you hear the symphony last night?', nobody had to ask which symphony. (Daley noticed that, when everyone else turned against 'the symphony', Forster calmly remained loyal.) It was all a mutual education for the two, and for a while they were very happy in each other's company. Forster was attentive and charming, and Daley, who was a voluble talker, chatted unguardedly, not realising till later that judgements were silently being made on him. As it turned out, the two were ill-matched. Daley began to feel Forster too much inclined to 'mother' him, always worrying that Daley should not spend too much of his meagre wages on him, also suspecting (what was actually not the case) that Daley was feckless over money. They could never get the issue of money right between them. Forster was intensely generous with it, but upon his own very carefully thought-out principles: gifts of money might be large, but loans should be very small and must be punctiliously repaid. His carefulness irritated Harry, who once during a quarrel exclaimed sardonically, 'Well at least you once gave my mother some beetroot!' - a remark which made him blush later, when Forster paid for an expensive operation which possibly saved his mother's life. Daley also formed the impression, probably correctly, that Forster used Ackerley to pump him on various topics and report what he said. He once burst out to them, 'It isn't a friendship, it's a conspiracy!' Forster merely smiled and wagged his head. Forster, for his part, thought Harry brash and too self-obsessed, as well as madly indiscreet. He wrote to his friend Sprott in November r927: 'I will certainly report faithfully on Harry, though it is as easy to report on the position of a windmill sail. He is tragically unhappy, he has a cold, and speaking parentally he is spoilt.' More serious was the fact that Harry could easily fly off into a rage, not necessarily very lasting, and this was something that Forster disliked XII

FOREWORD

and was not good at coping with. The affair petered out, and in 19 3 2 Forster became deeply attached to a policeman friend of Daley's, Bob Buckingham, not without causing some jealousy on Harry's part. Before long a definite coolness sprang up between them, and Harry began to sense or imagine hostility on the part of Forster's friends. His relationship with Forster's and Ackerley's circle had, of course, always involved some social tensions. He would complain that they were allowed to introduce him to people as 'a policeman', but he was told not to introduce them as 'writers'. Then, he might be at a party, or lunching at Gennaro's restaurant, with some of these friends, and next day be on duty at some fashionable reception where they were guests, being greeted by them with no more than an embarrassed wink. With his touchiness, he sometimes imagined slights on their part, and there was much fuss when, according to Daley, Leo Charlton 'cut' him in a restaurant. (Charlton hotly denied it, and offered to take him out to lunch every day for a week to prove the contrary.) The growing rift with Forster intensified these tensions; and before long it led to the collapse of his whole connection with this circle. He even, for a few years, ceased to see Ackerley, though later they became close again. He had, of course, many other friends and interests, but the friendship with Forster had, symbolically, meant a very great deal to him, moreover he remained in his heart very fond of him; and for some years their break rankled. During the later 1930s he would occasionally write Forster an angry letter out of the blue. When Forster said in the Daily Mail that Britons must defend themselves and their families against Hitler, Daley wrote to him complaining he was letting down his uneducated friends, to whom he had always preached pacifism and disarmament. Later Forster, hearing a rumour (actually untrue) that a young policeman friend of Daley's was talking against the Jews, wrote the young man a letter of rebuke, spelling out the evils of anti-Semitism. The young man was hurt, and Harry wrote Forster a ferocious letter, condemning his interfering ways, and asking him how, amid so much social deprivation, he could justify possessing three homes. Forster took it in very bad part and warned his friends against Harry. They did not make contact again for many years, though they had a last meeting in 1960, when Ackerley won the \XI.H.Smith award and invited Harry to the celebratory dinner at the Savoy. The encounter went very amicably. Daley told Forster Xlll

FOREWORD

that he was writing his memoirs but Forster was not to worry, for he had become discreet in his old age. Forster replied genially that he had become indiscreet in his own old age, so Harry could write what he pleased. Harry, despite this, stuck to his vow; and by the time I got to know him in 1968, three years before his death, the whole episode lay deep in the past and he could contemplate it quite without rancour. Indeed he liked being questioned on the subject and wrote me long and wonderfully entertaining letters about it all, almost enough for another memoir. His line, which I would rather confirm, was that there was something in him that brought out protectiveness in people. 'It may have something to do with having a truthful attitude to life (though capable of small fibs); and people and groups, though hostile at first, have often changed their attitude to me quite suddenly and treated me as they would an invalid or (quite worrying sometimes) a dotty person.' Harry Daley was certainly a remarkable man, and in my own contacts with him an engaging and endearing one. As for his book, it has, I think, extraordinary qualities which it should be left to the reader to discover.

P.N.Furbank

XIV

A RECOLLECTION

Most of my happiness in life has come from my romantic nature. English villages to me conjure up pictures of simple village weddings, and farm boys with downy moustaches courting in the woods and picking primroses for their sweethearts on Sunday afternoons; pictures of sailor-boys and red-coated soldiers coming home unexpectedly on Christmas Eve from foreign countries; the love and kisses showered on them; their gaiety next day in the village pub. Real memories add substance to my imagined pictures. I remember H.M.S. Hearty, a gunboat, a sloop with bowsprit and figurehead, painted white with a yellow funnel, manned by sailors in widebrimmed straw hats with elastic under their chins. Vividly remembered is Eugene Ansell, tightly fitted in a red, blue and yellow uniform with a yeomanry cap, courting a neighbour's daughter and pausing en route to give m~ cigarette cards. Then there was the Breton onion seller, young and brown, whom we boys teased so much that he at last started to cry and walked away wiping his eyes, with me following, longing to kiss him and say I was sorry. Dark-eyed gypsies and fairground people, who visited Lowestoft in the herring season, also aroused within me feelings of love and affection; while they in their turn patted and stroked the face of the chubby little boy who was myself. The Italian hokey-pokey man, mispronouncing my name 'Haddy', also made a special fuss of me. On Lowestoft's stormy North Beach, forbidden by all loving mothers, were a number of tarred black sheds, decorated with gilded and brightly coloured carvings and figureheads from wrecked ships, collected over the years by men who lived in the sheds. These were tramps of a seafaring aspect, beachcombers I suppose they were called, though the most frightening was named 'Soldier' Barnard. They mooched about picking up bits and pieces from the wrecks, of which there were a great number. Each winter three or four large sailing ships would fail to reach the safety of the Yarmouth Roads and were cast up on the beach by the easterly gales, to be left surprisingly high and fairly dry when the storm died down. I

THIS SMALL CLOUD

When smacked or scolded, which was not very often, I would threaten to run away and live in these sheds, which were most attractive to me. It became a family joke, but not to me, though I knew in my eight-year-old heart that I could never really leave my mother. Later on we were warned that these men interfered with children, whatever that meant; but although we hung about the sheds as often as we could, we only got shouted at and ran for our lives. Our coalman had a curiously throaty voice and called 'coals' long drawn out in a manner both mournful and musical. This unsettled me to such an extent that I had dreams over a long period. He bundled me into a sack and carried me off on his coal-cart. Neither of us wore a stitch of clothing and his hands were very warm. It is possibly not everyone's idea of romantic happiness to be kidnapped by a naked coalman and taken away on a coal-cart, and in this case I may have inadvertently crossed the narrow dividing line between romanticism and something else. Later, in a village, I saw a khaki-dad soldier, just home on leave from the trenches, surrounded by his mother and sisters, who stood adoring him with hands and eyes lifted towards his beautiful face. Still later in life I couldn't take my eyes off the lively London costermongers - but by then I knew what it was all about. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

2

PART ONE

Lowestoft

1901-16

CHAPTER 1

In the first decade of the century deep-sea fishermen on the East Coast made a practice of taking their schoolboy sons to sea with them in the summertime. When I was about seven years old, perhaps even younger, for I first went to school on my third birthday and all schoolboys were eligible, I started to spend each summer holiday on the Dogger Bank accompanied by my brother Joey, who was two years older. My father was skipper of the 'Genesta', L. T.22 r, a fishing smack with a crew of five. It was a small vessel and the whole middle part was taken up by an ice-hold for storing fish. In the bows was a hold for ropes and sails: a secret, dark place where boys could drop softly and silently on the sails below - and find it so difficult to climb out again without help. Along the whole of one side of the deck lay the trawl, an enormous tree trunk weighted with iron and fitted with ropes and great nets of the same width. On the other side of the deck stood a rowing boat in case of emergency. Round the stern of the smack ran a carved and gilded seat. Gilt also covered the carved knob of the tiller which stood on the open deck. The tiller was sometimes lashed into position, but mostly was manned, the man looking down on a compass set in a small raised skylight which was the only light and ventilation for the small cabin below. Here the crew lived and ate, and they slept in the bug-infested bunks which surrounded it. Outside the cabin door was a small boiler room which served the rickety capstan, the only piece of machinery on the ship. Coming up from here to the deck by a short companion-way, you found yourself in the galley - little more than a watchman's hut with a stove in it, set on the open deck. Not much of a place to spend one's life, but most boys looked upon it as a holiday paradise, especially when the ship, with billowing sails and creaking ropes, pitched and tossed among the lively North Sea waves. One of the attractions was that \Ve cast off most of our clothes, and washed only the night before getting home again a vveek

5

THIS SMALL CLOUD

later. The mate's son was usually with us, and our normal shore games were made more interesting by the unusual setting. Indians, made red by tan from the sails, often got a wave over their tent; cowboys got soaked; and well-aimed arrows were carried away by the wind. Cowboys and Indians corn bincd to shoot peas from the cover of coiled ropes at the bare behinds of men sitting on the 'tub'. My father would fill the rowing boat with water and persuade us we had a fine swimming bath - eight feet long with two seats across it. 'Safety First', that contemptible slogan, had not then been invented. The sea itself gave us plenty of interest. There were lightships, and buoys that tossed about on the waves and rang bells, buoys that flashed lights and buoys in the shape of baskets, all with their names painted boldly across them and known to us as old friends. Sometimes in fog we heard distant warnings, and the stronger boys were allowed to work our own foghorn. One night a large liner went past, brightly lit by electricity, the first my father had seen. He woke us from our sleep to share his pleasure. Another time we climbed a little way up the mast to sec land faintly in the distance. 'Now you can say you've seen the Continent', said father, playfully pronouncing it 'Continong' to air his French, he said. A clear, simple picture comes to mind of the day we ran out of lard. Just as everyone was wondering whether life was possible without lard, along came Mr Garner, father's friend, bearing down on us at a spanking pace on a social call. As he dashed past covered with spray, news of the lard was shouted across with the greetings. He turned and as he swept past again threw a great lump of lard, which stuck all over the tiller and had to be scraped off. This sort of thing delighted my father and it is his happy laughter I remember most clearly. Another time for several weeks we saw naval vessels and divers searching for a submarine which had failed to surface on the Doggcr Bank. The outcome of the search was of great interest to the fishermen, who circled the area sadly as hope faded. About six times over the years a most enjoyable event took place. The sails of a large ship would be seen in the distance - presumably homeward bound for Hamburg after a long voyage, perhaps for years, and therefore short of fresh food. My father hurriedly launched the rowing hoat, first emptying it of water, and with a couple of men and several boxes of fish rowed into the path of the beautiful vessel, 6

LOWESTOFT I

90 I - I 6

now seen close in its full glory. The fishermen would hold up the fish by their tails, faces would look down on us from an immense cliff, which sometimes went rushing past leaving us disappointed and bouncing about in the wash. Bur sometimes the ship would heave-to and we boarded her. There was great space and tidiness, and snow-white decks with a few men sitting silently about. The fish were exchanged for tobacco and brandy which my father, not having been to a foreign port, could smuggle ashore with a clear conscience. On one such occasion, however, a man with a beard had angry words with him, others joining in. No fish were exchanged and we soon found ourselves back in the rowing boat. Fists were shaken on both sides. From the angry conversation of the fishermen I gathered he had wanted something. 'What did he want, Daddy?' I asked. 'He wanted you', he replied angrily. Sensibly too, I think, to have told me the truth. It meant nothing to me and, no longer curious, I was merely thankful my beloved father had not given me away. These were rare events. More commonly, on Sundays, slowly heaving on the summer sea, the Mission Ship would lazily approach and put out a rowing boat to collect boys for Sunday-school on their deck. All the fishermen liked the Mission Ship, the crew of which was kind and gen.tie, but we would hide and my father would shout he had no boys on board. My mother's brother, Uncle Willie, skipper of the Coriander, enjoyed going over to the Mission Ship to sing hymns with other men, accompanied by a harmonium. But he was a countryman with boyhood memories of choir singing at harvest festivals, as well as of bird-nesting, rabbiting, hay making and all the other things of which my father knew nothing. My father was an orphanage boy from Poplar. We know nothing of him before that. When still a child he was apprenticed to the fishing smack Shepherd, of which my mother's father was skipper. Fishing boats in those days stayed on the Dogger Bank for three months before returning to port, the fish being ferried to market by swifter vessels. At the end of this long voyage, if voyage it can be called, grandfather got into the habit of taking the apprentice-boy to his home at Blundeston, a village a few miles out of Lowestoft. His six little daughters looked forward to the periodical return of their father, and of their brother Willie, who was also at sea in another ship. 7

THIS SMALL CLOUD

The London boy was soon looked on as a member of the family and his return from sea was also eagerly awaited, especially by Emily, my mother, who eventually married him. She was by then a parlour maid in Great Yarmouth. The only glimpse we get of their courtship is of my father hiring a pony and trap and driving over to Yarmouth to give her an unexpected treat. The pony, being really the one in charge, cut across the lawn straight to the front door - but father was forgiven by both mistress and gardener directly they saw his face. Many fishermen lived in these outlying villages. Their arrival home was governed by wind and tide, and many lonely, strange-looking seamen must have walked at night through the oak trees and bluebells of these scented Suffolk roads. Soon after my father had left the Shepherd at the end of his apprenticeship, it was run down by a German schooner and lost with all hands. My father's Cockney voice set him apart from his shipmates, but I expect he was more intelligent than most. He played cards and made rugs from old rags as they did, but he also read the Wide World and other magazines given by the Mission Ship to those who asked for them. I remember his exasperation and some of their stolid faces as, in that awful cabin, they argued about Crippen, Lloyd George, elephants' burial grounds, and the likelihood of Englishmen being caught and sent to work in the Siberian salt mines - a muddled echo from the Dogger Bank incident a few years earlier when Russian battleships fired on the Hull fishing fleet in the belief that they were Japanese warships. Luckily the crew was constantly changing. During the arguments and discussions in the cabin, the younger members would sit silently listening, adding to their knowledge of the great big world, their innocent eyes resting on each speaker in turn. My father hated the sea and was often seasick. But there were brighter moments for him. He was fond of music, and some of the crew played concertinas or the small accordions of those days. He also at one time had a dog and cat at sea with him, quite happy chasing the rats which infested all fishing boats. When he docked they would jump ashore and run home a mile away, warning my mother of the time of arrival. The specially prepared dinner would get cold and poor father, having stopped for a drink on his way home, would have to explain the delay.

8

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

The cook of the smack was usually a boy just left school; the deck hand a bit older. Sometimes these ratings were held by poor old men, with wives ashore as simple and lonely as themselves. They were unable to understand the compass, and thus could rise no higher. Naturally, their cooking was better than that of a playful boy from school, though neither had much scope. Apart from fresh fish, usually whiting, which is deliciously crisp when just out of the sea, the main food was salt beef from the brine tub, potatoes first gnawed by rats, white-looking cabbage with caterpillars, and suet pudding and treacle - all served up with a generous sprinkling of fish scales. My brother and I also ate the cooked liver of conger-eels; my father, who had noticed the oiliness, thought it would be good for us. In fine weather the boys would usually be on deck discussing their own problems. Lying on the warm planks full stretch on their stomachs, with parted lips and chins in hands, they listened spellbound to the oldest boy, whispering, laughing and looking round guiltily. But the deck would be deserted and silent, except for the gentle creak of rope and timber as the ship rolled lazily along. 'Don't let him hear what we're talking about', cried the cook on one occasion. 'He'll only tell his father.' This was unfair. It was true I had told my father when the cook had thrown a big purple jelly-fish in my face, but more to gain sympathy for the horror than to get him into trouble. To tell the truth I was not wanted. I was younger than the others, some of whom had the beginnings of fair moustaches glinting in the sunlight, made more noticeable on faces which were often grimy. But so far as I remember we all had the same clear innocent eyes, and I was hurt and strangely unsettled to be excluded from their whispered secrets. But in a year or so I was to learn the facts of life on shore, in the most heart-warming circumstances, from Bob Bolton, the first boy in our street to have hair on his balls. The conversation pieces I have described usually took place when the trawl was down, or when having been hauled it was found empty and we were sailing off to try our luck in another part of the North Sea. A smack was a trawler. It dragged a heavy net along the bottom of the sea to scoop up the type of fish living there. The other kind of fishing boat operating off the British coast was the drifter, which floated a fine net on corks to catch in its meshes the herrings which swam in shoals near the surface. The trawl was cast and hauled about every twelve hours, both 9

THIS SMALL CLOUD

operations, especially at night, entailing frightful hard work and danger. The cumbersome wooden trawl, ironclad, was hoisted a few feet, then swung out and pushed over the side. It sank swiftly, dragging nets and ropes hissing and burning over the bulwarks. Ropes all over the deck would suddenly come alive, uncoil themselves and rush over the side, dragging with them anything carelessly left in the way. This turbulent scene, so frightening to me in the summer calm, must have been dreadful in the winter storms, when fingers were sometimes caught and severed, and more rarely a fisherman, carelessly misplacing a foot, would be caught in the swirling ropes and dragged to the bottom of the sea. After some hours the capstan would be started and a slow hauling begin ; ropes and nets were carefully coiled or folded as they came from the sea. It was tricky to get the awkward trawl back on the deck, for a 'hove-to' sailing ship rolls violently even in calm weather. The object of the tree-trunk - soon to be replaced by a simple new invention - was to hold open the wide mouth of the net, which gradually narrowed until it came to the cod-end in which the fish were finally trapped. Thus no fish were seen until the final minutes of the long hauling. This was the great moment, the gamble, one of the few bright spots in the fisherman's life. The cod-end was suspended over the deck, the bottom untied, and the catch poured out. The catch scattered over the deck was a strange, interesting sight, although to me it was also disgusting. I liked the fish, but the smell of the slime and the ankle-deep jelly-fish made me feel sick. The fishermen would wade about in the mess to pick out the soles, halibut, brill, turbot, conger-eels and other valuable fish. Then the more plentiful plaice and whiting were put into separate baskets. Crabs and lobsters, not plentiful on the Dogger Bank, were put aside. There were many less well-known fish which had a market value, but dogfish, caught by the thousand, were always thrown back into the sea, being first killed as they were destructive to nets. Nowadays, renamed Rock Salmon by some genius, they are a valuable part of the catch. When all was sorted, over the side by the shovel-full would go the seaweeds, starfish, inedible shellfish (to English tastes) and jelly-fish, all in great variety and beauty. The men would at last sit on upturned baskets to clean and gut the fish, which were put neatly into boxes and stored in the ice-hold. Then everyone would sit down to a feed of whiting, which the cook had been busy frying. He also had a tin boot pushed into the fire, 10

LO\VESTOFT 190 I-I 6

always on the boil, to which a handful of tea or coffee would be added as needed. After about a week at sea, when the trawl was hauled and the wind favourable, my father would shout 'homeward bound' and off we would fly, laughing and shouting and bustling about tidying up. Next morning the Norfolk coast would come into sight and we would start working down towards Lowestoft. Now there were sandbanks, tides, currents and often a less obliging wind to contend with, and at times we seemed to lose ground. Towards evening, distantly, the lights of the bandstand on South Pier would be seen; then the faint sound of music would reach us, suggesting holiday-making girls - a sad sound for the young fishermen, for they knew from experience that these girls would have nothing to do with them. During the night or next morning we would at last tie up. The men would have work to do, preparing for the sale of the fish and departure next day. But my brother and I would jump on to a strangely rocking shore and with unsteady legs hurry home to tell mother the good news that 'Daddy will soon be home.' ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

I I

CHAPTER 2

We expected our arrival to be an important event and were not disappointed. There were five children: two girls, Annie and Janet, and three boys, Joey, myself and David, in that order. Except that the girls were treated more impatiently than the boys, we all had love and care in abundance and knew nothing of the insecurity I now know many children felt. After school we never played until we had first run home to make sure mother was there, anxiously calling up the stairs if we did not see her immediately. On my father's day home from sea she warned us she might be out with him; we then met them on their way home, nosing about in the bags of fruit and biscuits they bought for us, perhaps being carried a bit, as we returned happily together. My mother was not sloppy, quite the reverse. She had an alarming quick temper and hit to hurt. But we had only to dodge round the table a few times for it all to end in laughter. Her sister, Aunt Millie, was the same. At her most frightening outbursts my cousins could calmly say, 'Off she goes again' - and dear old Aunt Millie would laugh and look rather ashamed of herself. My mother was very proud and felt she was better than her neighbours, though she never actually said so. This was partly inherited from my grandmother, a strict and proud old countywoman, but mother had also once been a parlour-maid, whilst many of our neighbours had been factory girls. The pride was not really a bad thing; though we often let her down, she merely wanted us to be cleaner and better-behaved than other children, particularly the Harts next door. Actually our home was much less grand than those of many of our neighbours. Under the window of our living room stood a couch literally on its last legs, and by the fireside, in place of an armchair which had fallen to pieces through excessive romping, stood a canvas deck-chair my father had found floating at sea, and of which we were very proud. Mrs Hart no doubt pitied my mother. She was very houseproud, brought up her family in the scullery, and wouldn't tread through 12

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

her middle and front rooms even to answer the front door. She had a houseful of treasures won on the fairground or exchanged for Trading Stamps. There were strange china children and animals, biscuit tins like churches, windmills and thatched cottages, and pictures of Grace Darling rowing about in a storm, and Boer War horses saying 'Goodbye Old Pal' as they kissed dying soldiers on the battlefield. Everything was highly coloured or glittered or shone; some things tinkled if you blew them ; and though nothing was used and her children were swiftly smacked if they touched, it all gave great visual pleasure. Mrs Hart herself glittered and shone, with a fresh face both scrubbed-looking and birdlike. She wore gold ear-rings and a Mizpah brooch, and had an easily-started laugh which rattled like a tropical bird and ended with a whoop. This in particular roused my mother's scorn, though it sounded very jolly through the walls of our quiet home. Strangely, I still recall one of her hats, though I never saw it. Women had the delightful habit of gathering pretty bits and pieces to be made up by the local milliner. Mrs Hart's beaming face looked over our fence one day to say that her new hat, not yet delivered, was to be of grey velvet with 'a h'orange with silver leaves on the side and little green h'apples round the verge'. But she was always pleasant to us chilqren, never took offence, and for various reasons I think of her kindly. Nearby lived the Burwoods, who fought like cat and dog, and had a family of daring, adventurous boys who would now be called delinquents. He worked in the herring fishing industry and came home only in the autumn. The neighbours pretended to dread it, but the quarrelling was loud and vivid and really gave a fearsome pleasure. During one of their rows she threw a lighted lamp at him. 'We might have all been burnt in our beds', everyone said, though knowing very well it had been thrown across the tea-table. There was Mrs Catchpole, a very nice woman- my mother's friend. For some reason unknown to us children she received sympathy because of her husband, a fisherman we liked because when he was drunk, as they all were at times, he threw up handfuls of pennies for the children to scramble after. They had a family of daughters, older than my sisters, but rivals all the same in the eyes of my proud mother. Kathy was being courted by Eugene, the yeomanry soldier who delighted me so much by his handsome appearance and gifts of cigarette cards. She worked in a shop in Tonning Street, and her fond mother said she was known as 'the sunshine of T onning Street'.

13

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Her mother once said, emphasising each word to heighten the drama, 'Mrs Daley! You - should - have - heard - our - Kathy. Oh dear! She came rushing in the front door - flew through to the scullery without saying a word - put one hand on the sink the other on the mangle - and - farted - you - never - heard - anything - like - it!' Poor mother, looking on everything as a challenge, but taken off her guard, could only murmur half-heartedly, 'But you should have heard my Annie last Sunday morning'. Our playmates included the Boltons, Bob and his fat cousin Willie, who always carried a whip, and lashed our behinds if he caught us in position. So painfully, in fact, that only part attention could be given to the game, it being necessary to watch Willie and keep him always in front. There was also Charlie Graves, who joined the Navy just as we were learning about sex, and was sorely missed; and the Harts with their runny noses, and the Burwoods, who developed quicker than the rest of us and soon sought adventures further afield. Every Saturday morning my sister Annie, the eldest of the family, went to the office of the owner of the Genesta on the fishmarket, where she was given a sovereign which was entered into a little book. This was my father's wages. Now and again there was a settling up. Sometimes he got a small extra lump sum and a few days ashore while his boat was refitted; at others he came empty-handed and said he was in debt to his owner. But we never noticed any lowering of spirits. His wage, I believe, averaged about twenty-five shillings a week and on this, without apparent effort, my mother ran our happy home. While mother sewed, we sat round a lamp-lit table and stuck pictures into scrap books, or played Ludo and Snakes and Ladders, or read books. This was also the scene in the homes of our neighbours; only in our voracious reading were we different from our friends. On Tuesdays we went to the Band of Hope, signed the pledge, and with other toddlers sang 'We're all teetotallers here - we drink no wine nor beer'. On Sundays it was considered a sin to play on the beach. So we went to Sunday-school in the morning and to church in the afternoon and the day seemed endless. Being unable to sing a note, I stood silent and unhappy through all the hymns at church, certain numbers on the hymn-board making my heart sink - number 391, for instance, meant the five long verses of 'Onward, Christian Soldiers', slowly droned out and much dreaded.

LOWES TOFT 1901-1 6

From all the unbearably long hours I spent in church I retain only a hatred of mustiness and a memory that the church was always hard up, begging money even from the children. But the vicar was not a hypocrite. When I delivered a telegram to the vicarage a few years later, I was received with cheerful kindness; but I noticed the poorness of the drawing-room, which had little covering on the floor and basket chairs all falling to pieces. My mother was Church of England, an establishment so poor it could not afford a proper Sunday-school treat for the children. We took a tram ride to the end of the town, then marched for miles to a field with a few stalls, where we were turned loose to play. The Baptists and Congregationalists, on the other hand, drove stylishly in horse-brakes to distant unknown villages where, in private parks, they sat down to a bumper tea. But nothing would induce my mother to turn Baptist, and we continued Church of England, resentful but not too downhearted, until old enough to drift away from the Church altogether. But not from the teachings of Jesus Christ I am thankful to say, as I now look round at friends and animals and the loving kindness that surrounds me. At home the girls helped with the housework; the boys cleaned knives, forks and spoons, and for this on Saturday morning we all got a halfpenny spending money. But the really enjoyable event was the regular Saturday afternoon visit to the Carnegie Free Library. Before changing our books we looked through the illustrated magazines. An outstanding memory, when I was seven, is the Messina earthquake of 1908. We read that bandits cut off the fingers of injured ladies to steal their rings more easily. Then turning the page we found it actually shown in a full page drawing - fierce, dark ladies, half squashed by masonry, looking up appealingly to fiercer, darker men who \Vere cutting off their fingers. Then with Deerslayer, Midshipman Easy, Coral Island or Black Beauty under our arms we would hurry home for a kipper tea and a good read before our Saturday bath and bed. Mee's Children's Encyclopedia gave us great pleasure. I remember the glow that spread over me when, thinking I knew the contents of all the volumes by heart, I opened one idly to see an unfamiliar picture, and gradually realised here was a volume I had somehow overlooked, and had hours of unexpected delight before me. Quite soon we were reading Dickens. We had a proprietary interest in David Copperfield. Blundeston was my mother's village; 'The I

5

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Rookery' was the parsonage and my Aunt Ethel had worked there. Our granny still did 'The Rookery' washing, which could be seen billowing on the line or spread drying over the sticky-stemmed moss rose bushes in the garden. Across the road at The Plough we played with the publican's niece in the stable where Barkis, the carrier, was supposed to have kept his horse. We also read the Magnet, Gem and the comic papers, which were bartered rather than bought, and we knew all about Bob Cherry, Billy Bunter, Weary Willie and Tired Tim, Casey's Court and Portland Bill the burglar. The Philistine cry of 'always got your head stuck in a book' was not unheard in our house, bur was never said to the boys. Mother sometimes said it to my sisters when the table should have been laid or cleared and was not. Janet, particularly, would rise very slowly from her chair and creep towards the pantry, her eyes still fixed on the book lying on the table. Mother, exasperated, would push her along to make her move faster, but thank heaven never succeeded. To this day Janet's lovable character is firmly based on the fact that with all the pushing she has experienced in life, more than her fair share, she has never hurried and hardly ever been angry. It was worth my mother's while to send us shopping distantly to save a few coppers. We went grumbling to Devereux's, whose blackberry and apple jam was a halfpenny cheaper than that of nearer shops. When sent to the Co-op for the sake of the 'dividend', we had real cause to grumble. The route lay through an area of huge, stinking fishyards, deserted and rat-ridden most of the year, with a nasty sour-smelling yellow weed growing everywhere. In the autumn it was busy and slimy, alive with fierce-looking Scots, the men spitting, the girls gutting fish, all speaking in an uncouth language we couldn't understand. There were fishcarts everywhere, the drivers shouting and whipping at children as well as at their horses. At all times of the year we had to pass the gate of Tilly Scarfe, a mad girl who was also deaf and dumb. If the gate was unlocked she rushed out after us, holding our her arms and making strange animal noises, her long untidy hair blowing out behind her. We would fly away, sometimes screaming in real terror, with Tilly close behind. At the first sound of screaming, which must have been so familiar to the poor woman, Tilly's mother would run out and catch her by the arm. Shaking her angrily, she would lead her back to the yard. I now see that poor deaf and dumb Tilly was not mad at all, but merely wished to play with us and in trying to say so made 16

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

such frightening sounds. Silly Jimmy was another figure of terror whom we sometimes encountered on the way to Lee's Ham. This marsh, sinister and lonely, abounded in small fish, frogs, newts, tadpoles and similar things attractive to children. But Silly Jimmy would come towards us through a hedge, grinning, mumbling and dribbling, and the only thing to do was to run like mad, panting and terrified, and give up all idea of visiting the Ham that day. There were other terrors, even in the busy streets. There was a woman with a black veil and no face underneath. It had been eaten away, my mother said, by an insect which got up her nose when she was smelling a rose. There were Mormons, handsome young men with big black hats, who appeared periodically as missionaries from Salt Lake City. They took a house, as church or office, near the Carnegie Free Library. The mothers of Lowestoft connected them with the White Slave Traffic, which they knew all about from the melodramas being performed at the Marina Theatre. Although a few years later I might have volunteered, we always ran past their house for fear of being snatched in. There was also a man who 'looked at' my older brother Joey for a day or two and finally spoke to him. Mrs Coleman, the midwife, said he was a wicked man and we must not speak to him. She overplayed her hand, however, and we were so afraid he would break in to get Joey that my mother had to wedge a table against the front door before she could get us up to bed. During autumn evenings the natural mists were thickened by smoke from the kipper-curing sheds. Flames lit up mysteriously the various activities connected with herring-curing; strange-speaking people were about; the newsboys' cry of 'another murder' seemed exceptionally mournful. We hardly felt safe even in bed with our heads under the bedclothes. But our mother was always sitting downstairs, which was more than some children could say, and when we were asleep she would gently pull our legs out straight to make us grow tall and upright. Naturally the event of the week was my father's return from sea. This could happen at any time. One night, just as mother said, 'Daddy should be home any time now', there was a crash and he came in through the window. He had lost his balance when sitting on the window-sill to take off his big sea boots. But the best thing was to wake in the night and hear a deep, rumbling voice downstairs;

THIS SMALL CLOUD

scuttle down in your nightshirt to be made a fuss of, kissed by a warm, bristly face smelling deliciously of tan, tar and pipe tobacco; given tea laced with brandy or rum (after formal protest from mother - overruled); and bundled back to bed on promise of seeing him again in the morning. But when we woke in the morning he would already have gone to the fishmarket, and we had to wait for school dinner-break to see him again. Mother was a good cook and father, rather sleepy after dinner, would lie on the old sofa. Although anxious to play with us, he was just as inclined to sleep, so at last invented a game requiring the least effort on his part. 'Come on Daddy - play with us', we begged. He would be lying down. 'All right then,' he would reply, sleepily, 'let's play at dogs - you smell my behind and I'll growl.' He was strong enough to climb about on, and we crawled sniffing over his lovely, warm, drowsy body whilst he growled deeply now and again. We would put our heads between his open thighs and quickly withdraw before he suddenly clapped them together and trapped us. We yelled with delight at a narrow escape, but to get your head trapped was both frightening and delicious. Sometimes my mother, pretending to be shocked or perhaps genuinely so, would try to give him a smack, only to be grabbed in his strong arms and pulled down to be lovingly hugged and kissed. Fishermen were not allowed to drink at sea, and one pint ashore could make them merry. I never saw my father drunk, but we liked him best when he'd had a drink. He was full of fun. Sometimes he would cry 'Oh! Oh! I've got the cramp - pull my leg'. We would pull with all our might and be delighted to produce a loud tearing fart. One of his jokes was above our heads. 'I can fart when I want to', he said. 'Go on then, Daddy-fart now', our baby voices demanded. 'I don't want to', was his puzzling reply, for it was not like him to refuse us anything. From these scenes of delight I hurried back to school, a bit late, to tell Miss French, my teacher, all about my wonderful father. She would bend over me with a look of horror, and question me closely lest I had forgotten any of the details. We learnt from him endless rude songs, poems and riddles. To this day I haven't sorted parodies from originals. Was the organist who staggered down the aisle and played heavenly music on the

18

LOWESTOFT I 90 l-16

church organ really blind, or blind drunk? I don't know. I now know the Men of Harlech didn't really shoot peas at nanny-goats, and that they didn't stand waiting for more; but did the beautiful society lady really remove her glass eye and wooden leg after the ball? Then there was the old lady on London Bridge. The tunes were usually pretty and to us the words were funny and never dirty. He taught us it was wrong to save money for a rainy day, and told a story which we believed at the time. The orphanage band, which included himself, played before Queen Victoria and were each given a new shilling. The sensible boys bought sweets on the way back; the others had their shillings seized by the Master on returning to the orphanage. In a park called the Sparrows Nest was a kangaroo in a cage. I was at first disappointed at its size, having imagined them to be as big as horses at least. An outing here with mother and father would usually be during his quarterly 'settling up', when he had two or three days at home and dressed in his best, of which I remember only a bowler hat and a silver watch chain. Here with him I heard my first classical music. We stood a few minutes on the outskirts of a small seated audience in the open air, whilst a pianist, who for some reason I believe was Mark Hambourg, played, to my ears, some meaningless jumbled-up notes. Equally clear, but I now see as impossible, is another episode of father and the Sparrows Nest. With snow on the ground we had been to see the kangaroo, when my sister Janet shit herself. We therefore had to return home sooner than intended. We were nearly home when a lady with a little girl asked the way to the kangaroo. 'Just follow the brown line', said my father. I could swear I saw the brown line stretching away in the distance, and the lady thanking my father and trudging off through the snow with her little girl. But I now realise the kangaroo would not be on show in the snow; we were at least a mile from the Sparrows Nest and Janet was only about ten and not very robust. So I suppose it was only another of father's jokes, vividly told and remembered as real. We didn't really see much of him. We often slept through his arrival at night, and had to wait until midday, when for the short time we were away from school we had our arms around him one way or another. On his day home we always had a special tea; he then took my mother to the Hippodrome; when we awoke in the morning he had gone.

19

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Although starting regular school when I was three years old, I had attended even earlier. Girls were so often absent on Monday washing day to look after the baby, that they were allowed to take the babies to school instead. Once or twice I went like this, though I am not sure whether I remember it or not. But I remember my first day as a regular pupil, for on the evening before, my third birthday, I came out of petticoats and stood on our table in my first trousers for all the neighbours to come and admire. It is a sea superstition that ladies on ships bring bad luck, and my father had made this the excuse so far for not taking me to sea with my brother Joey. 'Petticoats are unlucky,' he said, artfully twisting the saying. As I stood on the table in my new trousers, I remember the laugh as I said, 'Now can I go to sea with Daddy?' I did not learn much at school. I am grateful they taught me to read and write, and I was always treated with kindness, even affection. But apart from the headmaster, who in any case did not actually teach us, I don't think they were very clever themselves. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers; even now I can rattle off the books of the Bible in their correct order, though I must start at Genesis, I cannot start in the middle. During scripture lessons we chanted through the names rhythmically, traditionally raising our voices shrilly at the word Esther, calling down on our heads the unchristian wrath of the teacher. He made us start again. Would we dare repeat the offence? Of course - we were now incapable of doing otherwise. Excitement mounted as we neared the offending name, our speed increased and out it came again - like an angry woman calling her daughter from across the fields. If only somebody had been equally thorough in teaching me English grammar. I also learnt, enjoyed and remembered romantic items about people like Canute, Rufus and King Alfred; and about burnt cakes, arrows through eyes, spiders going up and down, and Black Princes and Kings who never smiled again. I was too nervous to play team games and, traditionally for my kind, never succeeded in getting near the ball in my one game of football. Later in life I realised how kind the master was in never again forcing me to play. Examinations, perhaps tests is a better word for such simple performances, were held each year to see who should move up. I always worried and always passed, although it was a narrow shave in my first test. It was simplicity itself, and gave me my first glimpse of injustice, quite inexcusable. The visiting inspector was a person of 20

LOWESTOFT r9or-r6

importance; Miss Brown, our teacher, was afraid of him. Among other things, equally simple, he asked us each to spell a word. If we spelt correctly we walked at once to the next classroom; if not, we stayed in the babies' class. The inspector asked me to spell rain, which I did correctly. But he failed me and then spelt out 'reign', which he had meant and which I might have been able to spell had he given a clue. Miss Brown looked upset but said nothing. When I realised what had happened and saw my friends disappearing one by one into the next room, I set up such a howling that something had to be done about it. After a hurried conference I was given another chance and passed easily, thus coming under the care of Miss French, who was just as nice as Miss Brown. Later examinations, of course, were more comprehensive, but my schooling was not good enough for an intelligent child. It is true the opportunity to sit for the Secondary School Examination came when I was twelve years old, and I would probably have passed. But my mother could not afford to lose me as a wage earner until I was sixteen. Even so, she hesitated, and stopped doing so only when told she must buy my school-books - which was impossible. About this time violin lessons were started at school. Sixpence a week covered both the lesson and the instalment on the violin. To my regret this small sum could not be found. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

1 I

CHAPTER 3

My life, centred on our home with my brothers and sisters, gradually gave way to a different life when I wandered further afield with boys of my own age or a bit older. I have no clear recollection of the dividing line. As I look back, I seem at one moment afraid of bedtime because of crocodiles - sending my sister Janet to look under the bed to see if all was safe. The next moment I seem to be as bold as brass, wanking myself off with other boys in a deserted bathing machine or in the secret dimness under the South Pier. Of course, the different periods overlapped, and it was during the overlapping that I made my accidental discovery of masturbation. Twice I had the misfortune to go to the Isolation Hospital. One Christmas I had diphtheria, was the only patient, and had my bed moved into the nurses' private sitting room. Unlike the clever, natural darlings of today, nurses then were very grand. They aped their superiors and patronised the poor, and built themselves a false world full of pitfalls. They walked warily round the edges and hardly moved a finger without saying 'excuse me'. They bobbed about near doors, for it was considered bad manners for anyone to go through first. Boys like me, brought up to be natural, fell into the traps, and sister often called me a naughty little boy. But I felt very big and ashamed when mother, having been told to take me home in a cab which she couldn't afford, turned up with a pram instead and pushed me through the streets in that. A year or two later I was back with scarlet fever - peeling, itching and scratching. I scratched my thigh so enthusiastically that at last an unbelievably delicious sensation came over me. This was a great discovery. For the rest of my stay in hospital I scratched away purposively - sometimes getting results but often drawing blank. When I left hospital I lost no time in telling my brother Joey of the discovery. He seemed neither surprised nor interested. But when I told Bob Bolton, he laughed and said he knew a much better way. He took out his large cock, the first I'd seen with hair round it, spat in his hand, and started to masturbate in the proper manner. After a minute 22

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

or two he said he was tired and asked me to do it for him, which I did with pleasure. Thus began one of the happiest periods of my life; the real beginning of my happy life; the first awakening to knowledge of the pleasure and warmth in other people's bodies and affection; the realisation that physical contact consolidates and increases the pleasure and happiness to be got from mutual affection. It seemed to me that this knowledge came all at once to the boys, but of course it was already known to them, and I was newly admitted. It was all open and uncomplicated. We were not shy amongst ourselves. Whenever in our wanderings we came to a secret place, a wood, a shed or a deserted building, we would merrily wank away. Some boys were independent; others gave, or expected to receive, mild affection. Nowadays, for some reason or other, this traditional experience is thought to be undesirable. How sordid to learn such things from an embarrassed school-teacher! Though probably more accurate than Bob proved to be, at least on the conventional points, school-teachers, in nine cases out of ten, would be unlikely to give the exciting practical demonstrations that Bob staged for our delight. My affection for Bob lasts to this day, though he had no time for me later in life when he became the town's Football Captain and everyone's hero. He must have been one of the first English boys to be influenced by films. He spoke secretly out of the corner of his mouth, like a cowboy we had seen in a film. Speaking like this he said we could always tell if we had given a girl a baby because we would be sick next morning. He also said we would go blind if we touched our eyes after having a wank. His aunt kept a fish and chip shop, and gave him the free tickets she got for displaying the Hippodrome posters. 'One good turn deserves another', he said, and gave a ticket each week to his favourites. The visits to the Hippodrome added to my ecstatic, floating happiness at this period. We continued happily and unworried for a long time, until the sort of people one finds on the fringes of church life, noticing the dark rings under our eyes, warned us that boys who played with themselves went mad and had to be locked away. This was a typical mean, dirty-minded trick, for they had been boys themselves and knew it was not true. In any case it didn't stop us. Henceforth we wanked and worried, whereas formerly we had experienced nothing but satisfaction and contentment. 23

THIS SMALL CLOUD

We built tents and played games on nearby spare ground. Here we often saw two young fishermen brothers who, on their night ashore, smartly dressed, scented and powdered, crossed our playing ground on their way to the Esplanade. Without knowing why, we ran jeering beside them, but they waved us off with good-humour and hurried on with dainty steps. One evening their mother rushed out to defend them and angrily struck out at me with her folded apron. The most beautiful and historic part of Lowestoft was called The Beach. It was rather rough, as historic parts of towns are apt to be the world over. From the pretty houses, with their warm red roofs, emerged children of exceptional beauty and ferocity. They had their own school and we never met them except by accident, when we ran like hell to avoid attack. But our school did cover The Brickfields, a rather rough district with a character of its own. My parents lived in The Brickfields when they first married, and I was born there. So we knew many Brickfield children who were schoolmates but not playmates. After school they went to their own rougher streets and looked on us as weaker rivals. Therefore in one direction we could not play for fear of attack from the Brickfields Mob, the leader of which was the fierce and adorable Ally Jordan. He became my hero when he played truant from school on breaking-up day one Christmas. With our parents we had all assembled for the afternoon concert in the big school hall and sat facing the platform. On the platform, facing us, sat rv1r Tillett, our dignified and first-rate headmaster, and a few local bigwigs. Behind them were the big windows, and behind the windows was the school wall. On this wall suddenly appeared Ally, just as Mr Tillett was beginning a speech of welcome to the parents. Poor Mr Tillett must have wondered why his audience suddenly looked horrified, as Ally jumped up and down, thumbed his nose, blew unheard raspberries with finger and thumb round his mouth, and finally whacked a couple of old herrings through the open window. He disappeared as quickly as he came. It was all over in a flash. Some people felt such a dreadful thing hadn't really happened. Others, more realistic, said he had spoilt his Christmas and it served him right. He would have to return to school after the holiday and it would hang over him until then. But Ally, apparently disregarding the world of tell-tales and mischiefmakers, perhaps unaware of its existence, felt he was safe if Mr Tillett hadn't spotted him, and seemed surprised when he got a caning on

LO\VESTOFT I 901-16

the first day of the new term. Unaccountably, I once spent an afternoon with Ally. We went to the Church Fields at Oulton and sat about in the grass. He was very strong, with a brown face and a deep husky voice, so I asked to be allowed to feel his cock - which to my surprise he refused, though quite good-naturedly. We then pinched some turnips from a field and spent the rest of the afternoon sitting peacefully on a railway bridge trying to drop them into the funnels of passing trains. Trains were infrequent. We sat there long enough for drivers to complain, and a man came out from Lowestoft to take our names. Ally said it was nothing to worry about. But next day a policeman came to the school and warned us to be of good behaviour. What would my mother think? I wept bitterly for the rest of the afternoon. Mr Tillett told me that's what comes of keeping bad company. When Ally heard him say this he looked across at me and burst out laughing. As a child I was excessively self-conscious. It was misery to stand in line at school with patches in the scat of my trousers for other boys to see, though I knew many of them had holes instead of patches. To avoid people seeing my new Sunday suit, I went to Sunday-school entirely through back alleys. I was bigger than normal and was jeered at by children from other streets. 'King of the kids' and 'When are you going in long'uns ?' were two constant cries that made me unhappy. How embarrassed I was one day on the beach, when I pushed Janet into a sand-hole we had dug, and a little boy, a baby like me, with his mamma looking on approvingly, said I had insulted a lady and offered to fight me. It was misery on King George's Coronation Day to march through the town carrying a small union-jack on a stick; and worse marching back with an orange and a Coronation mug. But there was happiness in this Coronation march after all. Marching miserably over the swing bridge, I looked towards the sea and saw a smack slowly entering the harbour mouth, L. T.221 clearly visible on its sails. It was my father, not really due for three or four days. What went on in his head before he decided to risk the anger of the smack owner to spend Coronation day with us? That night I was not self-conscious as, nestling between his warm legs, I watched the firework display from the jetty. But I was a little afraid of falling through the cracks in the jetty planks. Only once do I remember my father home for Christmas, and then my parents, surprisingly, did a minor social round. It was unusual

THIS SMALL CLOUD

for them to visit other houses, and having to share our father with other people was a disappointment to us all. On Boxing Day we all went to tea at Mrs Gamer's, whose husband had thrown the lard on the Doggcr Bank, and here we children suffered great indignities. Mr Garner had been in the orphanage with my father; his wife was a big woman, stern and humourless, with one eye, and she was very strict indeed. She separated us from our parents and put us in a back room to amuse ourselves as best we could with her children, who were rougher than us. I could hardly believe my father would allow us to be parted from him, but I expect he was as frightened of Mrs Garner as we were. We could hear the grown-ups laughing and talking in the front room, whilst we had for tea tinned pink salmon, which my mother wouldn't have in the house because it was really dog-fish, and hard stewed prunes without custard. Mrs Garner didn't allow any nonsense in her house. But a year or two later everyone was surprised and sympathetic when her eldest son, little more than a lad, went with the herring fleet to Lerwick in the Shetlands, fell in love with a Scottish whore, and stayed there. The fishing fleet came back without him. Mrs Garner caught the next train to Scotland to bring him back. A week later she returned without him. A group of women assembled to hear all about it. Mrs Garner towered above them, looking down at me now and again with her one eye to make sure I wasn't listening. My mother assured her I was too young to know what they were talking about. It was quite true. But I now see clearly that they didn't understand everything she was talking about either. She said the room was filthy, and her son was lying on the bed with the girl, who was only half-dressed. 'He stood up when he spoke to me - she didn't - she didn't even get off the bed.' This seemed to upset Mrs Garner, and she stood silent for some time. So did the other women, probably not knowing what to say. Then there was a lot I didn't understand and have now forgotten. The boy had said, 'It's no good mother - you'll never get me home again'. Silence again and embarrassment, I suppose. 'She was covered with brown spots', continued Mrs Garner, 'as if they were just wearing off'. 'Ah!' said the other women, drawing in their breath and nodding wisely to each other. Now everything was quite clear. They looked at each other meaningfully. Yet what does it mean ? Brown spots? Just wearing off? So far 26

LOWESTOFT 190 J - l 6

as I know it means nothing. None of them knew, yet none would admit it. They could all have said truthfully, the darlings, 'We love our husbands and long for them to come home from sea; but we know nothing about disease or the dark byways of sex'. I believe nearly everyone in our circle was innocent- like characters in an early Victorian book. I believe all the rude jokes so openly bandied about were the jokes of innocent and clean-minded people. Vulgarity is defined in the dictionary as 'being coarse and low'. My father couldn't be described as coarse and low; he was too open and simple; too fresh and kind; too direct and harmless; too innocent. He wouldn't understand the present wireless jokes about ladies' stockings and 'undies'. He called things by their proper names and didn't know anything different. Had he wished to talk about fat tits and arses he would have used these wholesome words and never would have understood the present sniggering references to 'vital statistics'. I believe the playful, rude character he revealed to his children was the lot- and feel sure nothing was concealed. Apart from enjoying and laughing at the jokes, my mother, who had been a parlour-maid, restricted her contribution to the general rude scene to rolling out dough cocks, of various sizes, from bits left over on her pastry board and baking them for us to eat. Perhaps the reason why photographs of soldiers in the First World War arc so moving, is that they, too, look and probably were innocent in the same way. Our neighbours nearly all enjoyed our sort of jokes; so did people further afield, as we could tell at school. Too excited to do lessons at Christmas time in the babies' class, we held a little concert instead, each child standing up at his desk to sing or recite. Most children used quite naturally words like shit, bum and doodle, in such ditties as 'little man run with a pancake tied to his bum'; 'don't pee in the garden, a duck will get your doodle'; 'polish it up in the corner', and so on. When marching us about between lessons, Miss Brown taught us to stretch our limbs to make us big and strong. 'Animals are big and strong - they are always stretching themselves - we have a lot to learn from them', she said. But when she asked, 'What does your cat do when he wakes up?' two baby voices piped up, 'Lick his bum'. 'Oh you are naughty children', said dear Miss Brown at last, looking at us all through her spectacles with a most loving smile on her face. The small bombshell Uncle Willie once dropped at Aunt Milly's

THIS SMALL CLOUD

tea table, though rather rude, could only have been dropped by an innocent clean-minded man. Uncle Willie knew all there was to know about the sea - winds, tides, fishing, ships, sails and storms. From his boyhood he knew about rabbiting, harvesting, poaching and other aspects of village life. He made no pretence of knowing anything else. He was a lovable, modest man with a sense of fun. One day my mother and I were staying for a holiday with Aunt Milly. Two other Aunties had called specially to see us, and there was a crowd of cousins. As we were about to sit down to tea round Aunt Milly's enormous table, Uncle Willie arrived unexpectedly. He had just come into port and, knowing we were there, with typical good-nature, had made a detour on foot several miles from his own village to bring us a bag of fish. Naturally he stayed to tea. Round the table, therefore, were four of his sisters, numerous nephews and nieces, and the conversation buzzed along merrily. Suddenly Uncle Willie said, 'The police met our boat when we came in and took one of our poor young chaps away.' 'Oh!' said Aunt Milly. 'What had he been up to?' 'He got a nasty disease about him and put it up his young brother', replied Uncle Willie with great simplicity. Dead silence, of course, and red faces. Uncle Willie and all the Aunties were religious, in the sense that they went to church, sang hymns, loved the parson and tried to be good. They all enjoyed a rude joke if it was open and straightforwardly told on a subject within their experience. But this was different. Uncle Willie apparently took the silence as a token of sympathy, for at last he said sadly, 'Poor young chap'. He had probably been thinking 'How sad to be young - at sea with a feared, painful and shameful disease - nobody to help, advise or console - then to hurt someone you love and fall into the hands of the police'. If Uncle Willie thought this, he was quite right. The reports on the case later showed the fisherman and his brother to have been victims of superstition and ignorance. Many people in those days believed, perhaps not until desperate circumstances forced them to do so, that venereal disease would vanish if passed on to a completely innocent person. The local magistrates who condemned the fisherman from the bench were the very people, with their combined influence and narrow-mindedness, who prevented more enlightened people from bringing these subjects into the open. At that tea-table the deepest blushes, I am sure, were on the face

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

of Aunt Martha, the oldest and only unmarried Auntie. Not that anyone would have seen the blushes. Mousey and sweet by nature, she had been in service all her life at a lonely house in Norfolk, and her object in life was to stay unnoticed. I was grown up at the time of the scene I have just described, but when I was a little boy Aunt Martha occasionally filled an empty oval date box with snowdrops, pansies and a few leaves, prettily arranged and pressed down tight, and sent it to me through the post. This simple kindness brought me lasting delight that would have startled my sweet, modest Auntie had I been able to express it. She also, in her gentle voice, described how a vixen, watchful and alert, played with her pretty cubs each evening on the lawn of the house where she worked. The thought of this gave me pleasure for years, and I longed to see such a thing for myself. She died at ninety-four and during her long life had never knowingly hurt in the slightest any living thing. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 4

Winter gales and icy east winds were commonplace things in Lowestoft, and tiles, slates and chimney pots often blew about. One day a piece of the roof of Thurtle's big shop m;ar the Marina Theatre blew down on to the head of my baby brother David, who was being pushed past in his pram. We were all upset as mother washed the blood from his head and sent for the doctor. Next day the two Miss Thurtles, religious and known to be devoted to good works, actually came in person to our house and gave David a gollywog, earning undying admiration from my mother and all the neighbours. Two days later they offered to pay the doctor's bill, were looked on as glorious angels from heaven or something, and probably themselves felt this was a reasonable description. Ordinary people in those days were too nice to think of police and compensation, or even of ambulances and hospitals - their children were their own responsibility. Solicitors were something rich people had. It is surprising what they believed and put up with. They took it for granted that expensive oranges were large because the greengrocer had boiled them, and were glad of an excuse to buy the cheap ones, small and sour. They bought, without protest, tinned pineapple and certain cheap brands of jam, believing both were made from turnips. In September 191 r, when I was nearly ten years old, a strong gale blew up, earlier and more violent than the usual autumn storms. The second night of the storm was so bad that most people, including ourselves, got out of bed and sat downstairs. We listened to the howling wind outside, the sound of falling objects from housetops, the rending off of shed-tops, and the rattling of dustbin lids and other loose objects. Ev·erybody thought of husbands, fathers and brothers at sea. We sat up for four nights. Then, although still rough, the gale died down. Now everyone waited to sec who would and who would not come home again. The wait for my father was expected to be longer than that for others. He had followed a common practice for late summer and 30

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

had sold his catch at Ymuiden in Holland. He intended spending a week fishing on his way home. The return from Holland was always eagerly looked forward to by fishermen's children. Fathers usually brought back pretty presents, such as Dutch wooden clogs and blue porcelain windmills filled with Eau-de-Cologne, and also round Dutch cheeses. But during the gale a letter had come from my father saying his fish had fetched a poor price and there would be 'no Dutch cheeses this time'. We never saw him again. More ships were missing than had ever been known before, and H.M.S. Halcyon, fishery protection gunboat, went out to search for survivors. When the returning Halcyon's well-known siren was heard, I and several other boys were allowed to leave class and run home to hear the news. Most of the seafaring population stood about on the fishmarkets, where there was a good view of the sea and shelter from the still piercing wind. My brother Joey and I stood with the crowd when we were not at school. Each day several overdue and damaged smacks appeared, just away to the North in the Yarmouth Roads, slowly beating their way into harbour. The crowd on the fishmarket watched silently, though the sight itself was stirring something completed against great odds, like Marathon runners after a crippling race appearing at the stadium entrance one by one, once beautiful but now in shocking condition, painfully completing the race against all reasonable expectations. But the Genesta was not among them. Boys like Dicky Burwood and Ally Jordan could recognise ships at a great distance. To run and give warning of the seamen's approach to their wives and mothers, who would then start preparing a meal, was a traditional way of earning a penny. Long after most people had given up hope for my father, a battered-looking smack, with a mast and several sails missing, appeared in the distance, slowly making its way towards harbour though tossed about ruthlessly by the heavy seas. It carried a flag showing it had been abroad, and was recognised unanimously by the rough boys as the Genesta. They never made mistakes. A man came and said to Joey, 'It's your father at last, sonny. Run home and tell your mother' - which we both did joyfully. But when it came closer it was seen not to be the Genesta after all, and this hardly bears thinking about. Nothing survived the storm undamaged and unaltered and the boys had made a mistake at last. I don't remember seeing my mother cry, although we always rushed home from school shouting 'Has he come yet?' One afternoon the 3I

THIS SMALL CLOUD

room was full of his tobacco smoke. Laughing and excited we searched the house from top to bottom, thinking he was hiding for a joke, in spite of mother's denials. 'Mr Garner has been to see me', said poor mother, sitting quietly downstairs all the time, and at last we were obliged to believe her. One day Mrs Catchpole, Kathy's mother, waited for me to come home from school and told me I would never see my Daddy again. My mother was in the room, weeping at last. Then Mrs Catchpole said, 'You'll be a good boy now, won't you? You mustn't worry your mother any more.' What did she mean? Had I been a bad boy? Had I worried my mother? Did they know what we did in the deserted bathing machines on the beach? Life had suddenly become very worrymg. For a change I was sent to stay with Aunt Aggie at Blundeston. She was very dark and liked sitting silently in a corner; you couldn't tell what she was thinking about, but we were very fond of her. Just as darkness was falling, my little cousin Hilda looked at me curiously and said, 'Your mother is a widow, isn't she?' Then I wept so loudly and long that everyone became frightened, and poor Aunt Aggie would have sent me home on the spot if she could have borrowed a horse and cart. The September Gale, as it was now called, had drowned so many British seamen that a national collection, the Prince of Wales' Fund, was started for the dependants. There was an appeal by the Lord Mayor of London and, I believe, a matinee at one of the London theatres. When it came to my mother's turn to share, the good idea was had of training her as a midwife. She was pleased and grateful - until told her children must go into an orphanage. 'Oh no!' she cried. 'I couldn't allow that.' Other children, whose mothers had been factory girls, could go into orphanages, but she couldn't allow us to go. Poor mother! Years later her pride was an embarrassment and annoyance to me, and I cruelly often told her so. But during this period, when busybodies and nosy-parkers of all sects - church-people, naturally, every one of them - were trying to part us from her, we always felt quite secure in her love and loyalty. We knew she would never part with us and were never in the least worried. At last the charity people said to her, 'In that case, we cannot help you'. Mother then told them to go and get stuffed - politely, of course, as befitted a proud woman. She was not the only ungrateful widow, though the local Christians

LOWES TOFT I 90 I-I 6

administering the fund were not likely to be moved by thoughts of unhappy children. Ingratitude was all part of the Cross They Had to Bear. Also they knew and said that good money passed into working class hands would quickly be squandered on Strong Drink. So they Stood Steadfast, and that, so far as my mother was concerned, was the end of the Prince of Wales' Fund. The Shipwrecked Mariners Society then came forward and kindly gave my mother some money unconditionally, about £20 I believe; and every year for some years gave her a useful sum - enough to buy us all a pair of boots - after politely first writing to ask if she still needed it. Soon after the disaster the Fishermen's Bethel on The Beach held a memorial service and invited all the bereaved. My mother declined, but was persuaded by the neighbours that the children should attend, which we did in our new black clothes. Crying bitterly near me, both hands held over her face, was the sister to the young painted and powdered fishermen we used to jeer at, one of whom had been drowned in the storm. So there we all stood and sobbed our hearts out, looking round at each other helplessly through our tears, whilst the preacher sang •Pull for the Shore Sailor' and 'For Those in Peril on the Sea' at the top of his voice and tried, with his waving hand, to get us to join in. Not long after this our Sunday-school teacher, having herself probably forgotten the storm but with half her class fatherless, told us that at the end of the world we would all fly happily to heaven. 'Will the people who are dead go too?' I asked anxiously, having clearly in my mind a picture of my beautiful father lying on the bottom of the sea. 'Oh no!' she replied. 'How can they?' But she smiled at me sweetly for, after all, I was only an ignorant little boy and couldn't be blamed for asking silly questions. A simple period piece took place at this time. During the waiting for my father's return, Janet, with the little book, went to the fishmarket for his wages. She was refused because, as the smack-owner truthfully said, 'How do I know he is working for me now?' A stranger, an 'ordinary man', seeing my sister crying in the fishmarket, asked what was the matter and, on being told, gave her a sovereign from his own pocket. I call it a period piece because, in these suspicious, dirty-minded days no stranger could give a sovereign to a little girl in a fishmarket and get away with it. 33

THIS SMALL CLOUD

My mother was pleased with the sovereign. It proved there were kind people about and gave us something to talk about. Such simple kindnesses brought happiness and even laughter. Mrs Burwood, typically, to save the barber's fee of twopence, brought round her scissors to cut our hair. She had always cut her own son's hair but was not very good at it, and my mother laughed heartily at our appearance when she had finished with us. It would be silly to pretend that one's childhood comes back to the memory in anything like chronological order. Immediately after my father's death I am particularly muddled as to sequence, though the events themselves are clear. There was no crying or complaining. Though there was obviously a shortage of food and money, it was never mentioned to the children. Uncle Willie and my father's friends kept us supplied with fish. When we grumbled 'What! fish again!' my mother easily persuaded me, at least, that an Oxo cube dissolved in a basin of bread and water was my favourite dinner. This was true in fact, for Oxo cubes were a novelty in our house. Even in my father's lifetime we had occasionally taken summer visitors into our two front rooms. The muddle and inconvenience had been enjoyable to Joey and me, especially having to sleep on the floor in the corner of my mother's bedroom. These visitors were Midland school-teachers and their families, who recommended our clean house to each other and asked to stay for a week or two each August. They were genteel in spite of their Birmingham voices; dreadfully afraid of catching something; and when the poor things said, as they did repeatedly, 'We believe in always leaving things exactly as we find them', I suspect they were saying their lot. My mother could now no longer afford to wait for people to beg accommodation. She let it be known that she wanted summer visitors and, somehow or other, it was arranged that Madame Schumann, with her two children and a nursemaid, were coming from London to stay with us for a month. Though financially Madame Schumann's visit proved a disaster to my mother, it cheered us all up just when we needed cheering up. In fact it is no exaggeration to say it cheered up the whole neighbourhood. On the day of her arrival it became so dark we had to light the gas, and had just sat down to tea when we heard a cab drive up and a knock on the front door. At that moment there was a dreadful crash and the light went out. Our house had been struck by lightning. The horse ran away and various things, including a pram, fell from 34

LO\VESTOFT 1901-16

the cab-top and were scattered down the street. I forget now who was run away with in the cab and who left standing drenched on the pavement. The Lowestoft Journal published a most inaccurate account of the incident. It hailed Annie as a heroine for saving my life at risk to her own by pulling me away from a falling chimney-pot. Our cat, it said, had saved its own life by jumping through the same chimney-pot as it was about to crash on its head. This was not true. All that happened at the back of the house was - a loud bang and the gas went out; when we lit it again we were smothered with soot from head to foot. Mother blamed ~1rs Hart, who had just bought one of the new wire linen lines, but I don't see why our house should have been struck because of that. Madame Schumann brought with her a little boy, Rudolph, with lovely golden curls and a snotty nose, and a baby in the same condition, which was soon diagnosed as 'snuffles' by my mother. There was also the maid, Polly, an old-type Cockney, repellent-looking but anxious to please, with a black straw boater pinned to her hair and, I believe, a black shawl. Madame was very upset by the lightning and sat with us for a while to sip a drop of brandy. But she soon cheered up, dressed herself in a bright pink dress with a lace covering, a big ostrich feather hat, and sailed incongruously down our dismal street towards the Royal Hotel, whence she later returned a bit drunk and very chummy and likeable. She was a big, handsome, smiling woman and told us she was an opera singer. \Vhen my mother asked her to 'give us a tune', she looked up doubtfully to our ceiling and said it was too low - putting her hand on her stomach and making a loud, low rumbling noise to demonstrate what she meant. But she said we could hear her if we visited the more spacious saloon bar of the Royal Hotel-which was very unlikely. Rudolph soon ran wild and dirty, but my mother and our neighbours instinctively loved the neglected baby and soon cured it of its snuffles. Therefore when Polly had a love affair with the Punch and Judy man on the beach and eventually came home with a black eye, Madame could safely play the grand lady and send her back to London in disgrace, knowing that the care of the baby would not fall on her. She now said she didn't feel safe sleeping in a house liable to be struck by lightning, and had her bed moved down to our front room. 35

THIS SMALL CLOUD

One night mother heard a noise and came down to find Mr Barnett, who lived opposite, had walked into our front room in mistake for his own. ·Thank God you are a light sleeper', cried Madame from under the bedclothes. ·what would have happened if you hadn't woke up?' She then suggested that her sister, Mrs Merton, should come down for a week or two and occupy the bedroom. No sooner said than done. A smart young woman arrived and the pair of them tripped off every evening to the Royal Hotel, where apparently they were the life and soul of the party. By a coincidence - which sounded plausible at the time - it was discovered that Mrs Merton's husband was an officer on H.M.S. Halcyon. He stayed at our house once or twice, paying separately for his bed and breakfast and giving my mother five shillings extra for herself. At last N1rs Merton paid her bill and departed. But at the end of the month, what with mother being a light sleeper and one thing and another, poor Madame Schumann couldn't pay her bill. She said she was too honest to leave a house owing money, so stayed on and hoped for the best. Her husband, she said, had promised to send her some money and she wished he would hurry up. Everyone in our street hated her cruel husband, so obviously she was a lovable dear in spite of everything - and she wasn't the type to get downhearted. At the end of August she made a large, handsome bouquet of artificial flowers, tied it up with pretty ribbons, wiped little Rudolph's nose and washed his golden curls, and got him to present it to the bandmaster at the Bandmaster's Benefit on the South Pier. This was sensational and became the talk of the town. She enjoyed being a local celebrity, but allowed herself to get untidy and weatherbeaten and often borrowed a shilling from my mother for a drink. She kept us laughing with her high spirits and, giving up all pretence of being an opera singer, told us instead of her bawdy adventures as a chorus girl in plays like The Waltz Dream. One day to everyone's surprise her husband turned up. He was a fat little German with a big moustache, a commercial traveller just returned from abroad. There were two days of quarrelling in our front room; he knocked her about a bit and then went away. But he gave her some money, which she passed to my mother as part of her debt. Now the neighbours persuaded my mother to cut her losses and pay Madame's fare back to London to get rid of her.

LOWESTOFT I

90 I - I 6

So mother gave her a sovereign and off she went, surely feeling a bit ashamed of herself. But she had brought us pleasure; given us something to talk about; even stirring poor mother to frequent interest and liveliness. Up to a point it could be said 'a good time was had by all'. We heard from Madame once more. At Christmas she sent a box containing one roller skate, some fused electric bulbs to amuse the boys (which they did), several musical instruments called ocarinas, bits and pieces of furs, feathers and silks, and a white sailor suit which, thank heavens, did not fit me. What did mother really think of all this? I myself pieced it together by adding memory to later experience. When she was getting old I joked about it and found she hadn't been the least suspicious. A few weeks later, referring to a Somerset Maugham novel she was reading, she said, 'I wish I had known years ago that people carried on like this - I would have had a happier life'. In the early days of her widowhood our pork butcher had taken a liking to her. He might have married her; certainly he would have made love. But hanging over her always was the spectre of neighbours - all with nice warm husbands - saying it wouldn't be fair to the children. Here again, though, there may have been talk of getting rid of us. So she had no more love-making throughout her long life, and we all suffered for it in the end. She had it in her character to enjoy a good sexy life, which I am sure is essential to happiness. I don't mean moping about and falling in love, which often has nothing whatever to do with love, but a high-spirited romp with someone you like - if you love them, all the better. But mother lived in the wrong period and place. By now she must have been desperately in need of money, for she decided to lodge some Scottish fisher-girls, an unheard of venture for women like her. These girls followed the herrings in their migration down the east coast of Britain, starting at the Shetlands in the spring and ending in an autumn climax off Yarmouth and Lowestoft. Each autumn they could be seen walking about in their shawls, knitting as they walked and greeting each other with cries of' MaggieAnn'. They were liked and respected but often had difficulty in getting rooms. Few people were willing to suffer the discomfort of lodging them. It was the custom to remove everything except the table from the room they were to occupy; floor coverings were taken up, leaving the bare boards. They then moved in with their huge wooden trunks, which were put round the room and used as seats. 37

THIS SMALL CLOUD

They stood in fishyards and gutted the herrings at lightning speed, with fingers thickly bandaged to prevent cuts from the sharp knives; they wore clogs and oilskins and were covered by blood and slime by the end of the day. They often worked far into the night by the light of naptha flares. Then they came home, removed their loathsome clothes in the yard, washed themselves thoroughly and stepped spotless, but not quite free from the smell of fish, into their bare clean room. It wasn't very nice. But they paid five shillings each for their bare accommodation and fended for themselves. They always went in half-dozens and mother couldn't afford to turn up her nose at thirty shillings a week almost clear profit for seven or eight weeks. The six Scotch-girls lived in our middle rooms, whilst we moved into the scullery like the Harts next door. We got to like each other, and after a time it wasn't too bad. The Scots were too strict to fish on Sundays, and were powerful enough to enforce a similar restriction on their English rivals. Sunday was a day of peace - perfectly caught for me by Benjamin Britten in Peter Grimes - the silence broken only by church bells ringing at varying distances. It was a day for the exiled Scots to visit each other. Each Sunday evening six Scots fisherboys in blue woollen jerseys called on our fishergirls. They were so quiet together my mother wondered what on earth they could be up to. One Sunday night they left a gap in their curtains. We crept to the back yard and peeped through into their room - and saw a scene of great peace and simplicity. On each box sat a boy and a girl, quite silent, hands folded in their own laps, and a smile of contentment on their faces. In the summer following my father's death, Mr Thorpe, a neighbour who was religious, from compassion invited me to spend my holiday at sea with him. It now seems strange that my mother allowed me to go, but at the time we were grateful for his kindness. In the event I went only for a week, almost a disastrous one, not at all what I had been used to. I was seasick, which I had never been before, and, also something new to me, I was not allowed to do exactly as I liked. On Sunday, though the Mission Ship didn't put in an appearance, there was a very religious atmosphere on the smack, with hymn-singing, long faces, prayers and everything. At the end of the first week I was neither anxious nor encouraged to sail again, poor Mr Thorpe saying he was 'right glad' to see the back of me. But during the trip a simple thing happened, the memory of which has given me pleasure throughout my life. As I lay awake one night,

LOWESTOFT I

90 I - I 6

sick and lonely on the cabin seat, a young fisherman on watch at the tiller came quietly down to the cabin to get some sweets. There was a rustle of paper as he leaned over me to reach his bunk, then he put a chocolate caramel into my mouth, rested his warm face for a little while on mine, gave me a kiss, and quietly returned to the deck.

•••• ••

39

CHAPTER 5

About this time my brother Joey started to grow up - he was the pride of the family. He and I always slept together on terms of affection with our arms round one another, but his interests now drifted away from mine. He joined the Boys Brigade and then he started work. The captain of the Boys Brigade often tried to persuade me to join, but unfortunately I didn't have the courage to march about in a pill-box hat, and feared I might be asked to blow a bugle. 'I have known it to be a good thing for boys like you', said Captain Loose persuasively. What did he mean, 'boys like you'? How worrying. As a tempter he invited me to spend a weekend at their annual camp at Wroxham Broad. On Sunday visitors were allowed, and a girl in a boat made fun of me to amuse her boy-friends. She pretended to misunderstand what I said, mimicked my voice, and my efforts to get things straight caused much laughter. This may be a common childhood experience, but it was the first of many later occasions when I spoke seriously to people and only later, on reflection, realised I had been made a figure of fun. With the exception of David we were soon all earning small wages. Annie worked for a photographer, Joey for a ships' engineer, and Janet made trawl nets at home. Though still at school I had two jobs, both at half-a-crown a week. During the dinner-break and on Saturday mornings I worked for Bob Bolton's aunt, peeling potatoes for her fish-and-chip shop. The potatoes were rotated in water inside a rough drum. I turned the handle until they were peeled, drained off the water and then cut out the eyes. The operation was carried out in the yard, and to cope with the large amount of water the manhole over the drain was lifted. One day Bob's aunt got drunk and fell down the drain, and I was in the distressing position of seeing my drunken, good-natured mistress down a drain, weeping, and not knowing what to do about it. On Saturday afternoons I worked, mostly dusting books, at the Carnegie Free Library. At the end of my first day, Miss Durrant, the librarian, apparently forgot to pay me. I hung about, coughed, shuffled my

LOWES TOFT I 90 1-1 6

feet and looked at her appealingly. At last I was obliged to ask for my half-crown. I then heard for the second time the insensitive female laughter that disregards completely the feelings of other people. The cruel noise was loud and piercing as Miss Durrant, holding her sides and almost helpless, managed to tell everyone within hearing that 'the boy has asked for his wages'. Then, wiping the tears from the corner of one eye and pushing her pince-nez straight, she told me I would be paid once a month and would not have to ask for it. I retreated as the laughing broke out afresh. Years later on a liner, more experienced, when I heard such feminine laughter I just assumed that someone had slipped on the deck and broken his leg. Miss Durrant was really a kindly old soul. She had silk frills down her fat bosom, and wore a pince-nez, a bit lop-sided, on the end of a long gold chain. One day she brought a punnet of strawberries from her family fruit shop and said, 'Now you are to sit down and eat all those. You arc not to take any home', which, in any case, I had no intention of doing. Sometimes she foolishly sent me to collect fines from people who had lost books and failed to answer threatening letters. Boys are intelligent enough nowadays to go for a swim and say that the people wouldn't answer the door; or collect the money and go to the cinema with it. I, silly cissie, tried hard to collect the money, failed to do so, and worried about it. Upstairs was the head librarian; a youngish man seldom seen. He knew I was a September Gale orphan and hearing I had no overcoat gave me one of his own. It didn't fit and had to be 'gathered in' by my mother, giving it a balloon-like effect where sleeves and shoulders met, of which I was very self-conscious. This poor man left the library service suddenly. He had been seen, it was whispered, by a town councillor on Bcccles Station with some very strange people. I left school in July 1914, just before war broke out. I had been in the top class - seventh standard - for over a year, and entered and easily passed the Labour Examination, and so was allowed to leave. My teacher's parting advice was, 'Keep your boots clean and say "Yes sir" and "No sir" smartly when you are spoken to, and you'll get on in the world all right'. I was twelve years and eight months old. Before starting work it was decided to let me have a holiday with my Aunt Rose on her fruit farm at Hickling Broad. She must have invited me to stay, for she was known to be an old bitch, and mother would never have dreamed of first suggesting it. The holiday turned out to be short, enjoyable and disastrous, all at the same time. Aunt

THIS S.MALL CLOUD

Rose had been housekeeper to this ancient farmer, Mr Rose, and had married him. She was what is called a good manager. The farm was a paradise, particularly for boys. There was the fruit, of course, and instead of hedges there were dykes of clear water, with punts for the farmhands to propel themselves to distant fields with milk churns and fruit baskets. There were no holiday makers or transport of any sort, bur in the summer the district was crowded with gypsies come to pick the fruit. Aunt Rose made no pretence of liking boys, so had invited her nephew Johnny to keep me company and release her from the bother of entertaining me. She and Johnny were really aunt and nephew, but neither was related to me. There was a distant connection through marriage, too complicated to work out, the words aunt and cousin being used for convemence. On arrival I was sent to the village for a penny tin of blacking, the sort you had to spit in. Uncle Rose believed Cherry Blossom encouraged laziness and was too good for boys' boots. After the midday meal he said 'Let us pray' in a parsonic voice, and I laughed dutifully at what I took to be a joke. Aunt Rose shushed me with a frown, but laughed to herself, I noticed, as we all knelt praying at our chairs. In the afternoon I watched him harnessing a horse and he asked me to pass him the bridle. Not knowing what a bridle was, I offered the wrong article and he reacted with the unchristian annoyance and spite typical of such people. That night in the dark, sitting in the lavatory, I heard Aunt Rose approaching across the yard. I was too frightened to call out, so sat tight like a mesmerised rabbit and hoped for the best, whilst she lifted her clothes and sat on me with her bare behind. So the first day of my holiday was not a complete success. Next day Johnny arrived - a high-school boy of fifteen and very lively. In no time we were punting through the fields, listening to the singing of the gypsy fruit pickers, and eventually passing out to the open Broad. We crossed the Broad and pushed into the reeds, where Johnny soon had my cock out, said it wasn't big enough and spat on it to make it grow. That night, as we were enjoying ourselves in bed, Aunt Rose called shrilly up the stairs, '\Ve can hear every word you are saying up there'. Next day I was sent home. This was probably because war had broken out. It was 4 August 1914, and all along the railway line were soldiers with guns lying in the grass. I arrived home to find 42

LOWESTOfT 1901-16

everyone frantically buying up sugar and flour, and my poor mother, pale and like a beautiful wild animal with her blazing dark eyes, behaving like a mad woman because she had no money and her beloved children would starve. Johnny crossed my path only once again, and then I didn't see him. Whilst dressing at the Salt Water Swimming Bath I heard his enthusiastic voice from the next cubicle. 'Coo - what a whopper!' A deeper voice, slow and complacent, replied, ''Ere - let go - leave it alone'. These were unsettling times. My entry into the labour market coincided with the start of the herring season. I easily got a job as temporary telegraph boy, delivering telegrams at halfpenny a time, with an official badge strapped to my arm. The system was simple. We sat on a form in the messenger's room and the telegrams came through an air-pressure tube with a smack. The first boy took the telegram, already in its envelope, to a table where an inspector sat picking his nose. The inspector issued a disc representing a halfpenny, the boy went out to deliver the telegram and all the other boys moved up one. The discs were counted daily and at the end of the week the grand total was your wage. There was a gambling hazard to this system. If the telegram was for the nearby fisµmarket there would be more through the tube for the same place in a matter of minutes, and the inspector might tell you to wait. Thus sixpence could quickly be earned with twelve telegrams for the fishmarket. On the other hand, a telegram for a boat-owner living on the outskirts of the town could bring a sixpenny tip. The tippers were known and many a sad moment was spent on their doorstep when, after repeated knockings growing more and more frantic, and anxious peering through frosted glass panels, it was realised no one was at home and the telegram must be pushed through the letter box. The best tipper was Mr Briggs, an oldfashioned boat-owner from Pakefield. He owned a few drifters, and his skippers sent telegrams from places like Aberdeen and Scarborough saying, 'Lost all nets in storm' or 'Record catch fetched top price'. In either case, after slowly opening the telegram and reading it with expressionless face, Mr Briggs would say, 'Wait a minute, sonny', and shuffle down a passage through a bead curtain and return to give you a shilling. The system resulted in irregular amounts of wages, and few boys took their full wages home. Some mothers meanly verified the amount at the Post Office. Mine proudly knew it was not necessary to check

43

THIS SMALL CLOUD

up on any child of hers, and I was able without risk to keep back a shilling or eighteen-pence each week for myself. At the end of the herring season I left the Post Office and went to the Constitutional Club. In the mornings and afternoons I swept and cleaned and in the evenings acted as billiard marker. The woman at the Labour Exchange told someone she was afterwards sorry to have sent such a nice boy to such a rotten job. I \Vas not aware I had a rotten job and remember only two things about it. Mr Bonsall, local jeweller and self-important citizen, used to bully me continually for not calling the scores loudly and clearly. It should have been obvious to him- and perhaps was - that his bullying made me incapable of producing any sound at all. The other thing was that when I remarked to an older boy working with me that Annie often woke in the night yelling with cramp, he said 'All girls get cramp if they're screwed too much'. In a few weeks the Post Office invited me back as a regular telegraph boy. There was a snag, however, over pay. During my absence a new system had been started. A fixed weekly wage of five shillings was offered, with a free uniform, which meant something to me, as since my father's death I had always worn clothes inherited from other people. The reduction in pay was a shock to my mother, but she gave in when she saw I was anxious to go back. Now that the fishing season was over telegrams were infrequent and were mostly between recalled naval reservists and their families whom the war had separated. As we waited in the messengers' room there was much horseplay and larking about. I soon ran into trouble. One day the inspector, having failed to attract my attention, said, 'Daley- I am speaking to you'. 'Then speak to my arse for a change', was my witty reply. I had often heard my father say this to mother in similar circumstances, causing her temporary annoyance but always ending with a laugh. I expected similar results. The inspector could hardly believe his ears and sacked me on the spot. He took hold of my arm and pushed me off Post Office premises. I walked round and round the fishmarket for hours. How could I ever go home again? At last I decided to go back and ask if he really meant it. 'Of course I meant it', he said, but softened his face a little and, pretending to be stern, generously led the conversation to where I said 'sorry' as naturally as possible, whereupon he shook hands and said he accepted my apology and took me back. I was always attracted to ships, warehouses, wharves and sheds;

44

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

at the least excuse I delivered my telegrams on a route through the dock area. The war gave added interest to the things -I saw. The yacht-like Ville D'Anvers, a ship belonging to the Belgian Government, was moored permanently in the River Waveney; and quite early in the war, after the sound of distant gunfire, H.M.S. Halcyon entered the harbour with a bent funnel - a most impressive sight. German submarines lay just off the town; one often heard an explosion, looked out to sea at a sinking ship and waited for the lifeboat to bring in the survivors. The sea abounded with mines, the harbour with minesweepers and the town with their crews. Steam trawlers were requisitioned for this work, but sailing smacks continued their fishing on the Dogger Bank. German submarine commanders, declining to waste torpedoes on small vessels, adopted the more humane method of popping up beside the smack, boarding her and allowing the crew to row away in comparative peace - often after the exchange of cigars and fish and cups of tea - before sinking it with a bomb. Uncle Willie had this experience. He met with such kindness and consideration that for the rest of the war he refused to believe stories of German atrocities, many of which, sure enough, were later admitted as inventions of the British Propaganda Factory. The British quickly, and I suppose justifiably, put a stop to this gentlemanly way of waging war. A gun disguised as a capstan was put on several smacks, and two Royal Navy gunners disguised as fishermen were added to the crew. After a few submarines were caught in the trap, fishing smacks were treated as warships and were often sunk by gunfire. During this period Joey, now aged sixteen, stirred by that awful Kitchener-pointing poster, though having been brought up without the aid of the Prince of Wales' Fund or any other fund, patriotically joined up. It was part of the game for boys to put up their ages and for people in authority to pretend they were not suspicious. Joey took after our father and was outstandingly good-tempered and nice. His open delight in his budding manhood, as if it had taken him by surprise, brought smiles of pleasure to everyone who knew him. His voice had broken not long before; he started to take a pride in his hair, much troubled by an unmanageable cowlick in front. He wore a straw hat and the new clocked socks, bracing his trousers high to show them off; he promenaded on the sea-front with other young men. He worked for a shipping engineer. His life had suddenly become very pleasant. Then without warning he joined the Army, 45

THIS SMALL CLOUD

and here in our backyard is Joey, sixteen and gay as a lark, kissing everyone goodbye. Several neighbours are there and Mrs Hart leans over the fence and offers her shining face for a kiss. There is laughing and leg-pulling, then off he goes. We missed him dreadfully. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 6

I was now a fully-fledged telegraph boy with good prospects, I was told, of becoming a postman, pensionable at sixty-five. My mother allowed me sixpence a week spending money, which like all boys I supplemented at every opportunity. I pinched a penny from our mantelpiece, and next day pinched another which, to my surprise, I found exactly in the same place. The second penny must have been a test; though mother never mentioned the subject, there were no more loose pennies lying about. When innocent old ladies replied to telegrams I delivered, and asked my help to word them, I artfully encouraged them to be verbose at a penny a word, later cutting out the unnecessary words and pocketing the surplus pennies. Telegrams were often for men on ships anchored in midstream. An 'a-hoy there' - rather high-pitched - was necessary to bring a rowing-boat across·. By insisting, not quite truthfully, that I must personally deliver the telegram, I was rowed across and often found myself on the decks of the Halcyon, Dryad, Ville D'Anvers and other ships. In the course of time a tall young fisherman with a rather rough face began to take notice of me. Sometimes he was drunk and sometimes sober, but he always greeted me with a smile and a 'hello lofty' - for I was above average height. After a day or two we were on speaking terms; he told me his name was Nobby Clark and that he was in disguise. He was really a Royal Marine from H.M.S. Halcyon, temporarily attached to a fishing smack, and he invited me aboard any evening to be shown around. When I was grown up somebody said I was 'like a sieve - unable to hold anything'. It seemed natural for me to tell my mother of the kind invitation. Equally naturally, of course, she said I was not to go. 'He says he's lonely', I piped up innocently. 'Well - if he's lonely bring him home here and let's have a look at him', said mother. One advantage of working irregular hours, as telegraph boys did, was that mothers couldn't keep a proper check on movements. Instead of going home on my first free evening, I went to the fishmarket 47

THIS SMALL CLOUD

to look for Nobby. He was pleased to see me and took me on board, where I was not very interested to see a pile of ropes and wood which were supposed to cover a gun. He asked whether I liked music and being told I did, took me below to the cabin and played the accordion, occasionally stopping to poke his head up on deck, where the watchman was pottering about. At last all was quiet above. Nob by put the accordion aside and slowly and delicately slipped his arm around my waist and made love to me. This was the best thing that ever happened to me and my happiness canner be described, especially when he asked to see me again the next night. That he thought so highly of me seemed too wonderful to keep to myself. I told my friends and I suppose they told others - before long disturbing remarks came from various quarters. Mother was suspicious but said nothing. The telegraph inspector stopped picking his nose to tell me to watch my step. Approaching a group of men and women, I heard one of them say, 'Here he comes the dirty little bugger'. This was a frightening remark for a boy to overhear, but not really knowing what the fuss was about, I was not unduly worried. Another telegraph boy, rather plump, who could sing with an exceptionally sweet voice, pursed his mouth to say his mother said I should be ashamed of myself. A few years later I saw him in a carnival procession, with a blonde wig and dressed in pink muslin and gold bangles, waggling his bottom on a crowded coal-cart decorated as The Court of the Queen of Sheba - so I suppose he knew what he was talking about. I couldn't believe that love and affection - which had brought me such happiness - were things to be ashamed of, and was incredulous when told I could be sent to prison and, nastily, 'That's probably where you'll end up'. Perhaps I was no longer innocent - and I am not absolutely sure of that - but at least I was open and straightforward. As for Nobby - he had done me no harm, quite the reverse. Vaguely I felt an outsider, but was in no state of mind to be frightened by warnings. I went joyfully about the streets delivering telegrams, walking on air, keeping an eager eye open for Nobby. But people can be nasty, and things could have gone wrong had not events taken a turn to make them think of their own skins and forget about mine. Zeppelin raids were now being carried out on England. So far as Lowestoft was concerned they caused more inconvenience than fear. A few bombs were dropped and most people got out of bed

LOWESTOFT 1901-16

to be on the safe side. The Zeppelins often passed harmlessly over the town just before daybreak after bombing places inland. Before turning in for a few hours rest, most people went out to enjoy the spectacle of the beautiful silver airship floating in the moonlight. Just before all this Annie had met a young summer visitor and had fallen in love. She had married and settled in Dorking. After each cautious newspaper reference to Zeppelins and east coast she sent a telegram saying 'are you all right - why not come here'. She was homesick, but must have known it was unlikely the invitation would be accepted, for my mother's roots were in Suffolk and the sea. It would be necessary to pass through London to reach Dorking. To be lost in London was a real fear to many Lowestoft people. It meant disappearing for ever. Everyone knew of cases where country girls, looking in London shop windows, were approached by dark men and ended up in South America. Then a rumour started that brought real fear, particularly to my mother, who worked herself up to a state of terror. It was said that an invasion of England was imminent, the likely point of landing being the east coast. We had often enough been told that the Germans were wild beasts who would rape women, run bayonets through babies, and boil down fat bodies to make magarine. We knew it was true because we had read it in the newspapers. Some people packed ready to leave at the first alarm. Mother had nothing to pack, and her fears for our safety went beyond all reason, causing me great embarrassment. At the nearby school she begged my old schoolmaster to help save her children if the Germans landed. The poor man gave his promise and would have kept it, for he was an old-fashioned gentleman, though he had his own large family at the other end of the town. In the event the alarm came out of school hours. On a spring night in 1916 one or two bombs were dropped on Lowestoft, and at dawn we watched the Zeppelins float out over the sea. We had just started to undress when, suddenly, the crashing sound of gunfire broke out and shells whistled over our house. German warships were shelling the town and we were not to know that there was no attempt to land. Mother, sounding like a madwoman, her voice suddenly loud and hoarse, urged us to dress and run with her to Aunt Milly and Granny, who lived together a few miles along the coast at Corton. Mother's voice was almost as unnerving as the 49

THIS Sl\IALL CLOUD

screaming shells. I lagged behind sulky and embarrassed, a big boy of fourteen, whilst mother kept running back begging me to hurry. We cut out into the country and then worked back to Aunt Milly's. It is now clear that mother was running to her own mother, but she met with a cruel reception. Aunt Milly and Granny considered they had been bombarded too, and were not prepared to give sympathy - quite the reverse. During the bickering Uncle Willie came in from sea, having sailed without the least fear through the noise and smoke of the enemy ships. So impressed had he been by his earlier encounter with the humane submarine commander, that he now said, 'They wouldn't hurt people like me. They arc not firing at you - what do you want to run away for?' This was said kindly, for Uncle Willie could not behave otherwise, but it wasn't what mother wanted. What the poor darling really needed was a pair of comforting arms around her and a kiss. But Annie sent the usual telegram. We slept at Aunt Milly's for a couple of nights whilst mother negotiated the sale of her furniture for the price of our railway tickets to Dorking. Then, I expect to Annie's surprise, a telegram was sent to say we were on our way. All this was accompanied by the most unhelpful criticism from Granny and Aunt Milly, who thought mother was hysterical and silly and would regret her actions. Nothing now could make her alter her mind. She was determined to have her own way over this - and over every other thing to the end of her life, as it turned out - and in no time we were grumbling in the pouring rain on our way to the railway station. Everything was left to mother. Nobody offered her anything but criticism and complaints. And in the midst of it all I expect she was the only one to remember that if poor Joey in France was dreaming of home - he was dreaming of something which no longer existed. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

50

PART TWO

Darking 1916-25

CHAPTER 7

Our move to Dorking was the best thing that could have happened to us - though we did not realise it for some years. Here I spent my adolescence, which would have been happier had I known earlier that what I sought so despairingly was hiding round the corner just waiting for an invitation to jump out. I missed the sea and, in my innocence, thought happiness possible only if H.M.S. Halcyon could come sailing up the Boxhill Valley. Annie, obviously not expecting us to accept her invitation, had let the front room of her small house, and our arrival nearly burst the seams of the remaining rooms. Her husband had volunteered for the Army before our arrival and was killed in France soon after. But she had a baby boy who became our great joy and the centre of our lives for many years. There was plenty of work to be had, but with what I now know to be lack of ambition I took the first that was offered. This was in a grocer's shop for six shillings a week, a small wage even for those times. The excuse was that I was learning a trade; in fact the parents of a village boy working with me had paid a premium for the privilege of having him work there. A compensation to me were the drawers of delicious things to eat. I nibbled all day at shelled walnuts and Jordan almonds, raisins, crystallised ginger and fruits, biscuits and chocolates, and became quite plump. After a year or two I replaced a traveller who had been conscripted for the Army. Each day I drove a pony and trap to surrounding villages, calling on regular customers for their orders, which a van delivered two days later. I thus saw the tail-end of a world that was about to die. This was the Edwardian world of manor houses occupied by descendants of the men who had built them; of spruce and loyal indoor servants and arrogant bailiffs, head gardeners and coachmen; of gentle parsons who practised what they preached, gentle ladies in pretty cottages, modest labourers in uncomfortable and often dirty cottages, and fat old women with apparently no income, bad legs, wheezy voices and 53

THIS SMALL CLOUD

lots of cats, alone in untidy tumbledown cottages near the village church - the world of Elgar, Vaughan Williams and Butterworth. But when I knew it, particularly on a summer's day, stillness and sorrow hung over the whole scene, for all the young men had gone abroad to fight and probably would never return. Each village had its own character. In the flat farming area round Brockham, a colony of well-fed farmers, all with enormous families, dotted their fields with Old Testament texts on hoardings, warning others of the hell-fire awaiting those who enjoyed pleasures of the flesh. The beautiful manor house here stood shabby and bare in the sunshine, its peeling walls evoking an Italian scene, in which one pictured peasants busy with grapes and melons in the now deserted courtyard. But over the centuries the stone eagles at the entrance gates had been badly treated by rain and frost, and the nearby church was as English as could be. Between the gates and the church lived one of my customers, alone and chair-ridden. Her hovel had sunk into a wilderness of weeds and, through the tiny window, she had to look upwards to see the tombstones. Her income was counted in pennies, but she seemed contented and her cats were fat. Though she looked forward to seeing me, and got me to thread needles enough to last a week, she said she was not really lonely, for she could hear the ring of hammer on anvil from the forge and the bustle from The Dolphin across the road. On a still day she could also hear the booming sound of the guns in France. Next day in the opposite direction I canvassed a different type of country. The idle rich were found among the woods and commons of Abinger. Here were the old-fashioned gentry and a sprinkling of Liberal intellectuals, all so consistently kind and gentle that when arrogance appeared it had to be given another name. Two young ladies in summer dresses, with long hair and real poppies and cornflowers in their straw hats, once stopped my trap and told me to drive them home. Countering my first refusal with a sweetly spoken 'Nonsense - we can't walk another step', they jumped aboard and treated me as a friend. Their home and garden were wonderfully old-fashioned, and they invited me in to meet their mama, who thanked me kindly and asked me to share their milk and cake. But none was capable of realising that my busy routine day could never recover from such a long interruption. Though Abinger Hall boasted a musicians' gallery in the dining 54

DORKING 19 I 6-2 5

hall, it was not really old. A Victorian sham, it perhaps for this reason kept up the Tudor custom of giving food to wayfarers like myself. The kitchen was full of forlorn maids, wearing the hangdog orphanage expression so familiar in such houses in those days - a dozen more could be seen in the laundry under the clock near the stables. The bad-tempered Irish cook, all jokes and laughs to strangers, would shout at the girls to clear a corner of the great kitchen table, and I would be given a plateful of cold meat or game and pints of delicious coffee. Further on, the village of Peaslake was maiden-ladies' country, and these kind ladies have left me with happy memories. Some were rich and some were rather poor, but after a time most of them, even those with servants, came to the kitchen to give their orders personally. I suppose I was intelligent, but I was also a bit daft, with all sorts of things going on in my head and not enough common sense to sift them before speaking. I think I must have been talked about. God knows what I said to them when I was sixteen and seventeen. Later on I remember the two Miss Deakins and their brother, round shouldered and peering at me closely through their spectacles, all coming to the kitchen to give their order. By now I was crazy on music and told them I had just .seen Margaret Sheridan in Madama Butterfly at Covent Garden and asked grandly, 'Arc you going to the opera much this season?' They mumbled an embarrassed 'No - we don't think so'. But later this did not prevent me from getting a generous Christmas-box, which they possibly couldn't afford. My last call was on Miss Peake, taking in Mrs M.K.Coombcs, whose husband was a labourer at the farm opposite. Mrs M.K.Coombes had been servant to an artist in London, had sat for Augustus John and other artists, had conceived two illegitimate children, and had returned to Peaslake to marry her childhood sweetheart. There was another Mrs Coombes in the village, very respectable, who had insisted on Mrs M. K. using those initials so there could never be any confusion. 'San fairy ann,' said Mrs M.K., agreeing good-naturedly to the rather insulting suggestion, and breaking into French to show she was a woman of the world. The fathers of both illegitimate children had given her a lump sum, and she received an allowance from both. This enabled her to feed her family better than other farm labourers, but her home was shocking, much worse than anything I saw subsequently in the London slums.

55

THIS SMALL CLOUD

The two bastards played happily with the numerous legitimate children - all equally filthy and well fed - in the muddy brook outside their house; their mother sat in the doorway. She had pitch-black hair, a big handsome nose, was dreadfully untidy especially about the tits, but somehow was the very picture of abounding good-nature. She reminisced intelligently about Augustus John, Brangwyn, Sickert, and the visitors to the house who were all so fond of her. Now and again a faint cry came from the appalling living-room, and with natural patience she ambled in to attend her old mother who, with a cancer on her lip as big as an orange, sat in a chair slowly dying amidst the junk. Miss Peake was my favourite customer. She sat at a little desk in the corner of her drawing-room, counting out the money to pay her bill, saying slowly in a deep voice, 'What on earth is your master thinking of, entrusting all this money to a child like you - are you sure you won't lose it?' She was very pretty, with a velvet cap like a huntsman's over her white hair, and frilly lace down her front. She became fond of me and worried lest I got wet or cold or robbed - as indeed did many of the ladies. Thinking me a bit pale she prepared soup for me each week, and would be stirring it over the fire when I arrived. Before serving it she would go out, fumbling on her bosom for her lorgnette, to make sure I had covered my horse with a rug and given him his nosebag_. At first she had a couple of servants, then a woman from the village, finally she fended for herself. One of the servants told me that when young she had been engaged to the editor of the Boy's Own, who had died. She was annoyed when I told her that Miss Brodie-Hall had turned nasty when, because of rationing, I had failed to get the preserving sugar she needed for a glut of Victoria plums. 'How vulgar to be rude to a boy like you', she said. 'How Miss Akers-Douglas can endure her as a companion I - shall - never - understand'. To my horror she made for her desk and, I believe, there and then wrote and told the lady what she thought of her. Before I left she would send me for the milk from the farm opposite, where I waited while the farm boy milked the cows. The dimly-lit cowshed, the various smells, and the physical act of milking, easily led to a sexy conversation between us two boys. But he was too innocent or crafty to get down to a wanking session. Just as well perhaps. One day I heard a rustle in the hayloft and saw a pair of eyes spying down on us through the straw.

DORKING I

9I

6-2 5

My customers on Ranmore Common were mostly workpeople and tenants of Lord Ashcombe, whose ugly house, Denbies, overlooked Dorking from the edge of the Common. The exceptions were the people who worked for Mrs Greville, whose lovely house, Polesden Lacey, was just down through the woods. Lord Ashcombe ruled his little kingdom strictly. Parson, school mistress and shopkeeper did as they were told; so did the tenants, who all loved and feared him. They felt safe and contented, however, and knew no harm would befall them if they toed the line. His Lordship this and his Lordship that were their topics of conversation and they never spoke a word against him. He was the provider of their comforts and could destroy them if he wished. They could not afford to incur his displeasure and dreaded doing so by accident or carelessness. They felt towards him as they did towards God. Perhaps Lady Ashcombe had helped them to confuse the two gentlemen; her propaganda for one was to the benefit of both. She gave every cottager a framed poem and directed that it should be hung in the living-room to be seen every day. It read: 'A Sunday well spent, brings a week of content, And strength for the work of the morrow. But a Sunday profaned, whatsoe'er may be gained, ls a certain forerunner of sorrow.'

Everyone was expected to attend church and bible-class, choir practice and mothers-meetings as directed, and they were happy to do so. Children leaving school were expected to start their working lives at Denbies, until old enough to face the wicked world outside. I once saw Lord Ashcombe on a horse, glaring over the hedge of a cottage. He was very angry. He shouted, and a woman ran from the cottage and curtsied. He told her the hedge was a disgrace and her husband must cut it when he came from work. She curtsied again and ran back into the cottage like a frightened wild thing; as she ran she said 'Oh dear!' and they were the only words she spoke. He used her bare surname and it was all in my presence. It gave me a poor opinion of his Lordship, which perhaps was unfair. But, after all, 'Always be well-behaved - it's first impressions that count' is the sort of axiom Lady Ashcombe spent a lifetime ramming down working-class throats. Nowadays at the Women's Institute she and the cottager would be friends instead of patroness 57

THIS SMALL CLOUD

and patronised, talking together naturally of common interests. Someone brought about the change, but I feel sure nothing was contributed towards it by Lady Ashcombe or anyone like her- particularly those who wasted so much time as she did on her knees in church. Through the woods at Polesden Lacey lived Mrs Greville. Her tenants were pitied by the Denbies tenants, who had no doubt the two estates could be clearly labelled Sacred and Profane. Mrs Greville was fashionable and fast, even though she did entertain royalty. Her house was often full of people known to indulge in such sinful practices as drinking, smoking, gambling, laughing, making love and wearing pretty clothes. In the middle of the night she once rang the alarm bell on the top of her house. Cottagers from both estates ran to the scene, ostensibly to help, but no doubt also to enjoy the spectacle. But there was no fire. The Polesden people loyally said she had rung the bell as a test - but at Denbies it was said she was drunk. The order was given that no one from Denbies was to answer the bell again under any circumstances. When fashion demanded her presence elsewhere, Mrs Greville's tenants often saw her Ascot dresses, and even tried on the twiddly-bits, long before she saw them herself. The Denbies tenants cluck-clucked at this, and thought it much nicer to be invited to their big house, to get a hymn book or something equally sensible from the Christmas tree. The rest of the week I spent in villages close to Dorking, and had time to drink endless cups of tea. Mrs Mole was gawky and pleasant, with a wart exactly on the end of her nose. She made the tea and carried on with the ironing as she told her daydreams. She would have liked to be an actress - just a small part, for she knew her limitations. She wanted to see something through a window in the first act and then at the end, when someone was falsely accused, to reappear and point a finger at the guilty party and cry, 'You done it- because I saw you!' Loud cheers from the audience. Curtain. She often acted this little scene for me. It was quite impressive. Carefully putting down her flat-iron and holding up her head with a proud and scornful look, she would point straight at me. After a suitable pause she would give a little sniff and say, 'Silly - isn't it?' Her husband, apparently, didn't appreciate the performance. He was not interested in the stage, she said, referring to him affectionately as an 'old stick-in-the-mud'. My last call of the week was at Cherkley Court, Lord Beaverbrook's

DORKING 1916-25

estate at Mickleham. As I toiled up his long flinty drive I often saw him and got a pleasant 'Good afternoon'. 'Oh, he'll speak to anyone', said Mrs Skinner, his chicken woman, who was the real object of my visit. Smothered with feathers, with a sack apron and a trilby hat, she would snatch a few minutes for a cup of tea and a gossip. She told me he was suffering from a throat infection caused, it was believed, from his habit of sucking at odd bits of straw. 'But he doesn't want it talked about', said Mrs Skinner, dropping her voice to a whisper. And when she gave me a dozen eggs for my mother, she said, 'Don't tell anyone - it all gets back'. Lord Beaverbrook's neighbour was Dr Marie Stopes at Givons Grove. They fell out over something. When I was on foot one day and making for the nearest bus stop, I walked through the ancient dark Cherkley yew woods and cut across one of her fields. Dr Stopes was picking up wood. She ran after me and ordered me back, but allowed me to pass on learning I was not a member of the Bea verb rook household. Many years later I ran into her again. She had moved to Norbury Park on the opposite hill. I had read in The Locks of Norbury by Vittoria Sermoneta an intriguing description of the Italian painted drawing-room in this handsome house, and thought I would like to see it. The park itself is the property of the Surrey County Council, open to the public, but by stepping over a piece of wire and crossing a lawn it is perfectly easy to look in the drawing-room window. Just as I was doing so Dr Stopes, in a pair of hobnailed boots, suddenly appeared behind me. 'Who are you and what do you want?' she snapped. I told her what I wanted ('full of inaccuracies', she said, when I mentioned the book) and added that I was a London policeman on leave. 'Let me see your warrant card', she snapped again, holding out her hand. She examined the card. 'H'mm. I've never caught a policeman trespassing before - so I suppose I had better ask you in', she said, without softening her severe manner. But she looked pleased when I reminded her that she had once chased and caught me. On hearing I came from 'C' Division, she said, 'As a matter of fact I am greatly indebted to the London police, particularly "C" Division. When I first opened my clinic in Whitfield Street I was often in danger and had to be protected'. She showed me round. She had a weakness for big houses. Givons Grove was very big, with only five rooms furnished. Norbury Park was even larger and was also barely furnished. 59

THIS SMALL CLOUD

The servants at Givons Grove had said to me years before, 'She's a mean old bitch. She even measured the port wine in the decanter and wrote it down before she went to Egypt for the winter'. Servants' gossip could never shake my admiration for Dr Marie Stopes and all her gallant kind - but I thought of this when she asked if I could find her a man and wife as servants. This second encounter was during the Battle of Britain. It was a misty Sunday morning and the air was full of unsettling noises. Dr Stopes had just been to see a German bomber which had been brought down in her woods the night before. The walls of the Italian painted room had been cracked. We stood on the crest of a hill. She was pointing to a damaged farm in the valley below when, with a roar, several German bombers came through the low clouds and flew past us towards London. My impression of this vivid, frightening moment is that I saw German faces staring at us from the planes. In all the villages were bad payers and people who grumbled about rising prices, upstart young married women putting on airs, and old ladies with beards and other recluses opening doors a few inches to speak to me through the cracks; and people who sent plums and cherries to my mother, and others who looked at me doubtfully or poked fun at me. There were also mothers who hoped 'such a nice young man' as myself would show an interest in their daughters. Embarrassment was taken for shyness and they pushed ahead. Had the facts of life been faced up to, openly discussed and properly understood, much time would have been saved and fewer people hurt and offended. Throughout my life I have had a recurrent nightmare in which, having just been married, I lead my beautiful bride to the church door. At this point I cry out in despair, 'Oh! What a bloody fool I am!' and wake in a fright to realise with relief that I have not really ruined two lives. Open air and the change of seasons were always a delight. Driving my trap through roaring gales and torrential rain I often felt like a seaman, with twigs and branches, instead of waves, crashing around me. At other times I gladly endured snow and frost and snatching east winds for the pleasure of eventually finding warm shelter. No one in spring could have more enjoyed the leaping lambs, sticky buds, wild flowers and buzzing insects, the skimpy clouds racing across the lukewarm sun. In autumn, amidst the harvesting, I pictured my 60

DORKING 1916-25

mother as a child, free from care, gleaning the Suffolk fields with her sisters, and Uncle Willie humping the gleaned corn to be ground at Blundeston windmill. In spite of all this, however, I was always rather lonely. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

61

CHAPTER 8

At Lowestoft I had often 'wandered abroad' on my way home from work, but once home I seldom left. I was conscious of my ill-fitting inherited clothes, and was also aware of a critical, unfriendly world outside; so I stayed at home and found my pleasures there. At first I did the same in Dorking, until workmates commented on it and persuaded me to launch out into the social round. I was a nice-looking boy and now had a new suit- so why not? My new boss had decided to run for his staff some get-together social evenings in one of those corrugated-iron structures remotely connected with religion, found on the outskirts of most towns. There was supposed to be singing and dancing, but few could dance, only one could play the piano, and we were inclined to stand about embarrassed and rather cold. Then we were taken in hand by dowdy Gladys, a clerk, both sulky and friendly, who for some reason thought she was part of the management. She was determined we should enjoy ourselves. She paired us off and shouted instructions on how to twostep, and, after shoving us about into a sort of pattern, expected us to move off into a stately court dance at the first tinkle from the piano. But she kept her temper. When the dancing became hopeless she climbed on to a platform and sang, in her bass-baritone, songs like 'Oh no, John!' and 'I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby'. One evening, just as she got cracking on 'Seated One Day at the Organ', a woman, who had been tipped off, rushed into the hall, gave a quick look round and then darted into the back yard, where she caught her husband shagging another woman in the chicken-run. These social evenings, which many of the guests genuinely enjoyed, were useful in confirming my hitherto vague opinion that to amble round a room with your arms round a girl was boring and meaningless, and that unless I could dance like a Cossack I had no wish to dance at all. If this was the alternative to loneliness, I preferred to be lonely. I was beginning to realise that my natural playground was the secret chicken-run rather than the public dance floor. Going to the social one evening with my sisters, dressed in my new suit

DORKING I

9 I 6-2 5

and carrying, in my hand I'm afraid, a clean handkerchief, some boys farted at us from across the road. 'I suppose they look on you as a freak', said Annie with typical lack of tact. Lack of fair play too, for they could just as well have been farting at her for all we knew. In any case they couldn't hurt me. I knew something neither they nor anyone of my acquaintance knew, outside my family. I knew about books, and was soon to learn about plays and music and the National Gallery. I had an insatiable curiosity about such things and, following every clue in papers and magazines, eventually found myself in a world in which farting boys were freaks. I had read books from childhood, but at Dorking there was no library and I was restricted to reading books which I could afford to buy. Anyone remembering the boxes of cheap books outside booksellers' shops will have an idea of what I read. Sartor Resartus, Sesame and Lilies and similar books I read to the end without understanding a word. Humphrey Clinker and Moll Flanders were delights; Keats and Rider Haggard brought me equal pleasure. I understood parts of Browning and enjoyed lots of Milton and Shakespeare, particularly the passages recalling the English countryside. There must also have been a great deal of now forgotten rubbish. Later on John 0' London's W eek[y guided me to levels more easily understood, though harder to get. Arnold Bennett, the Tono Bungay side of H.G.Wells, the lesser known novels of Melville, Dickens again and Thackeray, were all a joy to me and I stayed at home happily to read them. Playgoing, which has brought me such pleasure, also started as a game of hit or miss. About this time my mother started something which may have been the beginning of the unbridgeable rift that later developed between us. This was a pin-pricking interference, which she carried out more persistently when she realised the annoyance it caused me. 'You should save up and go to London - you won't be able to say you've been there when we get back to Lowestoft' was one of the phrases - said every time I spent money, even so little as a penny. The fare to London was about three shillings. So one Sunday I took the bus and was dumped at Clapham Common, where I wandered about quite content, but determined to save again and penetrate further into the interior. Next time my target was Drury Lane Theatre. Because of the pantomimes and melodramas this was the only theatre known by name to the majority of Lowestoft people. I do not remember how I got there, but after a long wait at the pit entrance I heard Sir Thomas 63

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Beecham conduct Carmen, with Doris Woodall in the title role and Miriam Licette as Michaela. It was the spring of 1917 and I was fifteen years old. It was immediately enjoyable and I was disappointed when the audience laughed at the reappearance again and again of the same men and horses, with slightly different trappings, in the long procession to the bull-fight. In the autumn of that year I saw Madge Titheradge in The Best of Luck at the same theatre. She rode a motor-bike along a plank over a broken bridge, and two divers fought underwater. Gerald Lawrence as the villain crouched about overhearing conversations and thus made the plot just possible. For the first time I noticed the lovely smell of London, with dusk falling and a slight fog. There were wounded soldiers in hospital blue and ladies selling flags, and commissionaires outside hotels and theatres blowing shrill whistles to attract cabs. That Christmas I saw the Drury Lane pantomine Puss in New Boots. Madge Titheradge recited 'The Song of England' in front of an enormous tableau; Florence Smithson sang 'In Lilac Time'; and Will Evans as the Baroness fell through the bottom of a haycart whilst romping with the villagers. During the following years I spent happy days discovering new theatres, uncritically enjoying everything the advertisements told me was enjoyable. These were the days of Chu Chin Chow, The Maid of the Mountains and Doris Keane in Romance, plays that everyone saw. But I also saw Ellen Terry as the nurse in Romeo and Juliet, Maggie Teyte in Monsieur Beaucaire, Alice Delysia and Marie Blanche in Carminetta, Chariot's Revues, Sybil Thorndike in Shakespeare, and later in The Cenci and Jane Clegg. I saw revues with names like Hanky Panky and Buzz Buzz, with artists like Ethel Levey, Lee White, Robert Hale and Walter Williams. I saw Palace Theatre revues with Gina Palerme, Regine Flory, Elsie Janis, Gertie Millar making a come-back, and Lily Elsie doing the same at the same theatre in Pamela. I saw Delysia in Cochran's Afgar, Pavlova at Covent Garden, Barrie's Dear Brutus, W.H.Berry in musical comedies at the Adelphi, and so on, gradually getting more particular until the present day. Music-halls I thought at the time were beneath my attention. Thus, to my regret, I missed Marie Lloyd. But later I became an enthusiast and often saw Nellie Wallace, Billy Bennett, Kate Carney and other great artists. During my lonely wandering in London I was too nervous and

DORKING I

9 I 6-2 5

short of money to eat in restaurants. I would pop into Charing Cross Station for a drink of water and make do on that. I frequently took shelter in the National Gallery, which was free, though not every day at that time. The paintings at first seemed dreary because of their biblical subjects. But I liked some of the faces and the patterns on the clothes; then at the bottom of many pictures I noticed flowers in the grass and small animals. I enjoyed searching for these and gradually got pleasure from the whole composition. In spite of my accidental visit to Carmen, my discovery of music was delayed until I was older, and then I was fortunate enough to start at the top. At the age of nineteen I paused outside Dorking Fire Station of all places, and read that in the hall above the fire engine, the Leith Hill Music Festival was being resumed after a war-time break. In the half-empty hall I heard Ralph Vaughan Williams conduct Bach's third Brandenburg Concerto, the vigorous rhythms of which delighted me at once. Equally delightful was the sight of the orchestra moving also in vigorous rhythm. Instinctively I knew this was going to be important to me. As Vaughan Williams bowed and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, I readily agreed with a roughish boy who turned and said, 'That's harder than it looks you know'. At subsequent concerts I heard Jelly d' Aranyi and Adila Fachiri play Bach's violin and double violin concertos, which were an immediate joy. Later I heard his big choral works - incomprehensible then of course, but now heavenly to me. My interest in music was aroused, but in those pre-wireless days not easily satisfied. I had enjoyed Bach's third Brandenburg Concerto, therefore there must be two others at least. What were they like? 'Beecham's Jupiter is always superb', I read. What could it possibly mean? How could I find out? These were my problems. I had no one to ask. Many years later a very musical new friend heard my Bartok records and then discovered that I didn't know Beethoven's Second Symphony. 'What!' he cried, almost in anger. 'You don't know Beethoven's Second and you've bought records of Bartok's unaccompanied violin sonata!' Perhaps he looked on me as a pretentious humbug. He had been educated and guided step by step along the right path, and would have been surprised to know of the slippery and unlikely paths which had made it even possible for me to be in his company discussing music. ~ly imagination had leapt here and there, often in the dark, and I had leapt after it.

CHAPTER 9 Having gained confidence in my jaunts to London and now dressed in my own clothes, I began to seek pleasure in Dorking. From early childhood I had been rolled and bounced by rough waves on Lowestoft' s forbidden North Beach, and was consequently an above-average swimmer. There was an enclosed swimming bath at Dorking, and a shed and spring-board perched in a wood on the side of the River Mole - which was the Dorking Swimming Club. Both these places brought me great pleasure and I soon made friends. When I was sixteen I met Alf Ashton, a boy of the same age who worked with me. This was my first regular friendship and it lasted until we both left Dorking. 'He was a good-looking boy with nice teeth, small black laughing eyes, and an attractive impediment in his speech. We were fond of one another, but without being priggish or condemnatory he knew when a thing had gone far enough, and that was all right with me. His father had been village school-master just outside Dorking, and the family moved into the town on his death. His two sisters, frumpy but lively, were school-teachers in London and came home weekends. He had one of those mothers who didn't mind who came to tea. Thus on Sunday evenings I often saw a home life, common enough I suppose, but new and enjoyable to me. They had a piano and could all sing. One or other of the sisters would rattle off 'The Pipes of Pan' or 'Early One Morning' in a loud, shrill voice, holding up her head and opening her mouth widely as no doubt their father had taught them, with a confidence and finish most thrilling. They tackled 'One Fine Day' from Madama Butterfly, but were stumped by the high-pitched beginning. They were not prepared to pass a thing shoddily done; they pegged away at it mercilessly and goodness knows what the neighbours thought. But they would hum a bit and play a bit on the piano and discuss it in detail, and it was all most interesting and instructive. Their precise school-marm manner was useful to me in other ways. 'Will you sing Madama Butterfly?' I once begged. 'I will attempt 66

DORKING 1916-25

to sing an aria

from Madanza Butterfly', was the prim reply. Some-

times they would raise their eyebrows and repeat a word I had just used. Had they been kind enough to repeat it correctly, instead of in surprised imitation of my faulty pronunciation, they would have done me great service. Never before had I been able to discuss my various interests. I knew the look of words but had never needed to worry how they sounded. Now that I could speak as well as think, I was often wide of the mark. I left sentences unfinished when I found the picture of a word, quite clear in my mind, could not be translated to sound. This troubled me to middle-age, but now I don't care a damn. On the river bank Alf and I made other friends, and the summer evenings were wonderfully happy. The secretary of the open-air swimming club was a local draper, an active member of the Congregational Church and a narrow-minded bastard. Every morning throughout the year he swam at seven o'clock - probably as a penance. On Sundays, the only day on which we were free, he forced us to do the same. He forbade Sunday swimming after eight o'clock, just when the sun was making things enjoyable. Before that time we were allowed to plunge into the icy, tree-shaded water. For years we never dreamed of challenging this rule, until at last our secretary ran off with another man's wife, leaving his own family to fend for themselves. After a few weeks, nervously at first, we stayed in the water until half-past-eight, but gradually got more reckless and at last found ourselves enjoying the warm sunlit water. One of the reasons I like the young people of today is that they refuse to tolerate such nonsense. On the river bank one day we met and became friends with two strangers to Dorking - brothers from Leeds, much older than the rest of us, with some slight mystery about them. They seemed delighted to be accepted by us, as if they had suffered a set-back of some sort. Their advent, if not exactly altering the course of my life, gave it more meaning. Both brothers had red noses. Henry, the elder, on his wore a rimless pince-nez with which he fiddled continually - in imitation, I later suspected, of Sir Henry Irving or someone. My impression is that it was attached to a wide black ribbon, but I cannot make this fit with the fact that the brothers ran a cycle repair business in an old shed. They knew nothing about cycles, but taught themselves by taking to pieces and reassembling machines brought in for puncture

THIS SMALL CLOUD

repairs by their first unsuspecting customers. Henry was an elocutionist and recited in village halls for two guineas - three if he could get it. He put me on to Tennyson and the Idylls of the King, and things like Reynard the Fox, Dauber and The Everlasting Mercy, parts of which he recited. I bought these poems (with money pinched from work, I recollect with pleasure) and placed them beside my apple-green and gold Shaw plays. He told me what Shaw was really up to, and I reread the volumes with excitement. He told me of the Georgian poets and said that many things were worthwhile even though second-rate. I never questioned anything he said. In our eyes he was a celebrity. He once performed further afield than usual, reciting The Lady of Shalott and two Odes by Keats immediately before Bratza, the violinist, played a Mozart Rondo. Even Henry was impressed by this. He offered his services to the B.B.C. - 2.L.O. in those days - and was outraged when they invited him for a voice test. Voice test! And he an elocutionist for twenty years! Holding the pince-nez firmly on his nose, he led off about fools in high places, Philistines, and bribery and corruption. It sounded like something from King Lear and may well have been for all we knew. Sir Henry himself could not have done it better. He ignored their invitation, but in the long run his sense of humour came to the rescue. The younger one, Maurice, had been a commercial artist and had wide interests, chiefly in painting and architecture. He told me the pretty curved houses I had seen in Park Lane were William and Mary - I think that's what he said - which made me go and have another look. National Gallery? He preferred the Tate. 'It's more modern. I like to know what's happening today'. I went to see, and a wonderful new coloured world opened up to me. One of my treasures was a brightly coloured picture of the Firebird ballet, orange, green and purple, cut from a magazine. 'I think it's Golovine - Diaghilev knew what he wanted.' H'mm ! At Darking fair he pointed out that the fairground lights made the surrounding elm trees look like stage scenery. He poked fun at the Royal Family for always choosing La Boheme for gala nights, alleging this was the only opera they had heard of. But Maurice was really more interested in the footballplaying section of our group. The brothers' cycle shed was in a village, and they lodged with a woman who had a big musical family who played the piano, cello

68

DORKING

r 9 I 6-2 5

and violin up to professional standard and had endless musical evenings - to which I was not invited. Their landlady, now old and gaga, recently stopped me in the street to recall the 'good old days'. She seemed under the impression I had spent much of my time in her musical home. Yet I went but once and they all made fun of me. Of this I was unaware until Henry jumped up shaking with anger, told them they should be ashamed of themselves, and asked Maurice to speak to him outside. Maurice at length made friends with a boy who worked in an ironmonger's shop; there were sniggering secrets and minor jealousy and spite. After giving us four years of their enjoyable company the brothers left Dorking with the new friend. I often think about these men so important in my life. We met them just after the war. Maurice had been in the Air Force but I now think Henry, kind and honourable and courageous, may have been a Conscientious Objector. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 10 During these growing-up years certain things irritated me enough to make me avoid them at all cost, and loneliness at holiday time must often have been self-imposed. After long disputes among my friends we would plan an outing for the following day; would then call for each other, wait about because some were not ready, and at last, too late to go anywhere, would kick a tennis ball about on the nearest open space. Dribbling and kicking at small objects, which gave such pleasure to my companions, did not come naturally to me, and I had no wish to learn. On such occasions, and while my friend Alf played interminable billiards at a club we had joined, I often wandered alone, not necessarily unhappy, to a nearby natural park, where the woods and ferns and secret-looking dips seemed to offer a chance of romantic adventure. I never kept a diary and cannot recall this part of my life in proper sequence - not that it matters - but as I was seventeen when the Armistice was signed, my war memories can be placed before that innocent age. In them, in bitter weather, I am surrounded by wounded Canadian soldiers from Epsom Hospital, I am alone as I watch the whole of Dorking skating on the Mill Pond; I am standing heartbroken and alone at the Armistice bonfire. We counted the years to the end of the war for Joey's return. He came on leave once or twice and was dreadfully disappointed with Dorking. Sprucing himself up and looking beautiful in his Royal Artillery uniform, he asked where the youth and beauty of Dorking usually promenaded. Alas, they didn't promenade anywhere. There was only the High Street, and the Dorking elders, ex-domestics aping their masters, considered it 'common' to be seen there after the shops had closed. Younger people were brought up in the same tradition, which was defied only by the rougher boys, who stood on street corners with hands in pockets - the depths. Joey grumbled a bit in his goodtempered way, and mother promised to take us all back to Lowes to ft when the war was over. He was now eighteen and, I expect, found me a bit childish; but he shared my bed again, and like children

DORKING 19 l 6-2 5

we slept with our arms round one another. In 1918 Joey came on leave again, and there were signs that the war was nearing its end. On departing he kissed us goodbye with an air of 'it won't be long now'. Indeed it was not long. Long after midnight that night we were awakened by a banging on the door. It was Joey again! He had lost his connection at Folkestone and had come all the way home again. There were no late trains to Dorking, but he had reached Redhill and walked the last eight miles. We were delighted, but amazed he had taken so much trouble; for he must leave, he said, at seven o'clock in the morning. He never came home again. Armistice Day must have been on a Monday, for I was driving past Betchworth Church when the maroons and sirens sounded. That the sound saddened me was not surprising, for I already knew I was an outsider so far as celebrations were concerned. Someone had given me a basket of special apples for my mother, which I knew would please her. When I reached home in the late afternoon I found mother, Annie and Janet, all in tears, clearing up after the Monday wash. A letter of condolence from an officer and the official telegram, understandably delayed by the Armistice muddle, had arrived together to say that four days_ earlier Joey had died in France. The officer's letter said he did not know he was dying and was looking forward to coming home. Poor mother went upstairs to lie on her bed. I went out to see the bonfire. For the first time I felt that gnawing, flesh-devouring pain in the stomach caused by hopeless sorrow. How could my mother get over it? How do any parents get over it? Perhaps they don't. My mother had gone to church every Sunday and had been so good. She felt badly let down. Following the custom of the period she had small memorial cards printed saying that Joey, aged twenty, was 'In Jesus's Keeping'. She believed this to be true, but to the end of her life never attended church again. There was no more talk of returning to Lowes to ft. ♦♦♦

•••

71

CHAPTER 11

Company was not encouraged in our house, nor did we often visit other people. David had school friends and was usually out enjoying himself, doing the things I should have done at his age had I the guts - the scouts, the choir, woodwork classes, cycling with his friends, camping out, playing this, that and the other. The rest of us stayed at home in the evening, usually content to read and talk. But some of us had dreadfully quick tempers and flared up at the least excuse. What were these rows about? Because Annie reminded mother we were in her house; because I had bought a new record; because somebody was reading when they should have been doing the washing-up. I now know that too many people in the house were not having a satisfying sex-life. We should have encouraged mother to jump into bed with the nice old widower next door, instead of eyeing their innocent friendship with chilly indifference. Annie, a widow, was in love with a merchant seaman who, on his short infrequent leave, teased her until she cried - that being his idea of a joke. I had at last learnt that what I wanted would have to be secret, never to be discussed. Janet? Who can tell what went on behind that calm, gentle face. She never let on. David, as I said, was in the scouts. I was soon to be in a happier position. During Alf's sporting activities I often went alone to the indoor swimming-bath. This was heated by the burning refuse at the destructor next door - the more refuse, the warmer the water. Consequently the water was usually quite hot and visibility through the steam was almost nil. In these ideal conditions a good time was had by all - and admission was only twopence. Here I first met 'Kruger' Atkinson, a boy a year older than myself. During bad summer weather, when the river was uncomfortable, the dressing accommodation at the indoor bath was inadequate. The aggressive attendant would say, 'You'll have to share cabins - can't be helped', and I would pull what I hoped was the appropriate aggrieved expression. Kruger was usually accompanied by his younger brother, and one day I was bundled in with them. He had a beautiful body, strong and graceful, but a rather plain face - what used to 72

DORKING 1916-2 5

be called an honest countenance. When I commented shyly on his handsome muscles, he held away the towel he was using and looked down with his expressionless face as if seeing himself for the first time. Kruger was a labourer and a local celebrity, usually referred to affectionately as 'old Kruger'. There were no clubs in Dorking for training young athletes, in any case he was not the dub-joining type, but with natural gifts and extraordinary determination he gave impressive performances at running and boxing. Several times a year on Wednesday evenings a race was run from Brockham Green to the White Horse in Dorking High Street - about three miles. A rope was stretched across the High Street to mark the finish. Kruger won the race so often and easily that he was handicapped to give other boys a chance. But he still won. At last he was handicapped ruthlessly lest the others were discouraged from entering the race. Who would win this time? The little crowd at the White Horse peer down the High Street. A white figure appears in the distance - no other figure in sight. It is Kruger of course. He is belting along half-dead, panting, drooping, his heart thumping through his vest. He reaches the rope and then stands still, his eyes fixed on something unknown in the far distance. The crowd look at one another intredulous. 'Old Kruger - would you believe it?' The other runners come in one by one and there is a bit of cheering and excitement. But Kruger doesn't look excited or pleased. He doesn't look displeased either - no elation, no excitement, no smiles, no frowns, nothing. His young brother, holding his clothes, stands and waits. At Dorking Fair he would stand and stare at the boxing promoter. All-comers were challenged, but Kruger chose his own time to hand coat and coconuts to his brother and slowly strip to the waist. The Dorking boys went wild with pleasure and laughing faces filled the booth. But Kruger fought and won, as he always did, took the five shilling prize, dressed himself and retrieved his coconuts, and left the booth without the faintest expression having crossed his face. I was shy of this celebrity, and having dressed almost in silence that evening at the baths was amazed when he said, 'Coming swimming tomorrow?' This friendship was of the greatest importance to me - and I believe to him. He was always pleased to see me. At a stable where he worked, against a row of horses' behinds, I called and invited him to swim in the river. He said he had intended going 73

THIS SMALL CLOUD

to the pictures, but would rather see me. He turned towards his brother. 'Do you mind going to the pictures alone?' No reply. 'Never mind - I'll take you tomorrow instead.' Later he worked at a sandpit and leant on his shovel and gazed unsmiling into the distance as he said, 'Coming out tonight?' It was a friendship without complications. Dorking in those days was closely surrounded by fields of hay and corn - the countryside was dotted with courting couples. As Kruger and I retraced our steps for the homeward stroll, Peeping Toms would rise from their cover and scatter in all directions. But Bach and Kruger did not mix. Later in life I had to decide that if I chose the friends that attracted me, I would never be able to discuss my other interests with them. And that, roughly speaking, is how my life worked out. My life, happier than most I expect, had a darker side which I find it hard to define exactly. I remember the reactions but have forgotten the cause. For all I know it may be a common experience. Why did I feel I was living on the edge of a precipice and decide, as I often did, that if I could reach the age of twenty-one without falling over the edge I should have to be satisfied? Then later to decide I should not have done too badly if I reached twenty-five without being flung into prison? On the surface there was nothing to make me feel so apprehensive. Surrounding me were friendship and kindness, but understanding was probably what I also needed:. Further afield, it seemed, was hostility and danger. I was unaware that further afield there would again be friendship and kindness around me, and the hostility and danger would still be in the distance. I had Alf and Kruger, a good home and a loving mother, even though she was now deliberately stirring up my temper by repeating incessantly, 'I wish I could make you independent'. Independent? So far as I knew there was no other person like me in the whole world. Subconsciously I was already planning an independent life. The cause of the trouble was hypocrisy, deceit, and general ignorance. The worthies of those days - judges, clergymen and magistrates continually preaching, moralising and advising the lower orders, were thought to be genuine and only occasionally were exposed as hypocrites. Many people, young and old, carried a burden of guilt which would have floated away like a balloon had they been able to air the subject and discover how commonplace was the secret 'thing' that weighed so heavy upon them - and how easily forgiven when properly understood. 74

DORKING 19 16-2 5

Nowadays, when we all know exactly what happens in royal and aristocratic bedrooms, to say nothing of vestries, scout camps and public lavatories, no child, however fantastic his desires, could possibly feel unique. Children, I expect, now sort out these things long before leaving school. But facing up to some inescapable defect in one's character must at first still be a bitter experience. A nice little boy who played with my nephew soon developed an irresistible desire to cut shiny black dresses when they were stretched tightly over ladies' fat bottoms. When his former friends were courting, marrying, visiting each other's homes and enjoying the company of their children, he was either hunting down his victims or himself being hunted. Society must be avenged. His many prison sentences served no other end, as I knew later when police stations were notified of the date of his release, always ending with this admission of failure - 'watch should be kept as the offences will start again immediately'. I should like to know what went on in his head when he first realised his misfortune. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

75

CHAPTER 12

Without the least ambition to better myself or to earn high wages; having a rather poor opinion of myself and uneasy because of this small cloud hanging over me - this guilty conscience or whatever it was - my life was led in pursuit of simple pleasures, and the years rolled by. The uneasy side of me felt that I would soon be twenty-one, an old man, and it would then be too late. Too late for what? I did not know. Not money, nor power over other people, for it never entered my head such a pleasure existed. I seemed to be missing something. Perhaps it was to do with people singing up at the pub. When Kruger was twenty, like many adventurous young men of that period, he was ambitious enough to join the Army. This must have been a blow to me, though I only remember my leaping heart on Friday evenings when he came on leave and I spotted his uniform in the High Street. Leave was frequent when he was stationed in England, but I saw less of him when he was posted to Ireland. At last he was sent to India and I lost a good friend for some years. On his return to England he married and had a son, but after a few happy years his wife died suddenly. During all this time he was always pleased to see me. At the present time the baby Kruger is a young man in tight jeans, with lovely side whiskers. He stands outside Woolworths in the High Street and is gazing at something far away in the distance. Soon he is joined by his wife, about seventeen, who pushes a pram carrying a baby Kruger of the third generation. In the pub the original Kruger, now a bit the worse for wear, plays darts with a new lady friend and soon falls out with her. She isn't very big but her voice rises above his. Nobody is going to sit on her, she says, and don't you think it, my word! She can stick up for herself. While she is doing so Kruger crosses to the bar, sits with elbow on counter and chin in hand, and ignores her. His eyes at first are fixed on India or somewhere, then slowly focus across the bar and meet mine. He looks at me a long time, his lips move slightly, but his face gives no indication of his thoughts. But back to the past. Soon after Kruger's departure for India, the

DORKING 19 I 6-2 5

weddings of my sisters must also have unsettled me, breaking up as they did our routine home life. Whatever the cause, I now thought perhaps I could not travel a grocer's round for the rest of my life. Even as I thought this the years rolled by - I was that sort of young man. But what could I do? All adolescents are victims of traditional remarks. Big boys like myself were always advised that we should join the Police when we were old enough. This advice, so often repeated, made me loathe the very name of Police. The Army was also out of the question. I had seen a comic drawing, a rude Army joke of some sort, in the background of which was a long row of closets without doors. Men were sitting in some of the compartments and I was told that Army lavatories were constructed like that. How awful! I could never sit exposed in one of those. What a narrow escape I had had. If the war had lasted another year I should have been called up. So the Police and the Army were out of the question. Quite slowly it seemed I might be suitable for the Navy. Another year rolled by. I went to a place in Charing Cross Road and was told I was too old to be an able-seaman, they were trained at the age of seventeen - but I could join as a stoker. Stoker! 'There aren't many coal burners now', urged the hard-faced old Petty Officer. 'It's nearly all just turning on oil valves'. I wanted to be on deck- coiling ropes, barefoot in the sunshine. I hope I was not silly enough to have said that to him. When I decided to think it over I realised I could not be as leisurely as hitherto. Recklessly I had told people I had joined the Navy, had said some goodbyes, and received one or two parting presents from the Peaslake ladies. The Police question must be reconsidered. When I learnt that one could leave the force at a month's notice, not being bound for life as I had thought, I decided to join, put up with it for the time being, and resign when I found a good job in London. Joining the Police was a long job - they were much more particular than I had anticipated. At last, however, all the examinations, medical and educational, were over; references were satisfactory, and I was called to Peel House for training. Mr Billings, the Chief Constable on the selection committee, had said in my hearing, 'He's a bit fat, but that will come off - he's a good type of chap - just what we want'. As Mr Billings had achieved the feat of working his way up from the rank of constable, I suppose he knew what he was talking about. 77

THIS SMALL CLOUD

It is my last night at home. Let us see, then, what constitutes a good type of chap. I am twenty-four years old; uneducated, but possibly slightly above average intelligence for the period; well below average plain common sense; sexually both innocent and deplorable; honourable if not exactly honest; trusting; truthful; romantic and sentimental to the point of sloppiness. In any case, in• a few weeks' time numerous old ladies, and old gentlemen too come to that, will sleep more soundly in their beds because I am patrolling the streets outside. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

PART THREE

Metropolitan Police 1925-50

CHAPTER 13

I joined Peel House in March 1925, and from the first day enjoyed being a policeman. There were no more thoughts of leaving for a better job. I was now in contact with men of the world, tolerant, confident and unshockable, never surprised, knowing all the ins and outs of human nature. My admiration for them was unbounded and, though later I met many policemen ·who were shaky in various ways, my confidence in the soundness of the Metropolitan Police as a \Vhole remains unshaken to this day. Viewed from outside, policemen now seem very unpopular, though I never seriously sensed this when serving. How many times have I seen a crO\vd, staring in attitudes of anxiety at something on the ground, look up with relief at my approach? Hundreds of times it is a commonplace thing to all policemen. Could anything be more complimentary? In the poorer districts of London, people in trouble run to the police station continually, as people ran to the vicarage in Victorian villages. At Wandsworth police station, where I finished my service, a truthful sign could be displayed over the door, as over the portal of a fairy-tale castle - No person came here for help and went away uncomforted. The old-time lawbreaker bore no grudge against police. He hoped not to get caught, but he was doing \Vrong and knew it was the duty of policemen to catch him if they could. The present unpopularity of police apparentiy arose when the new motoring public decided to defy the law and were not prepared to accept the consequences. Among other things there arc allegations of bribery and violence. In my early years minor bribery was a common-place - if bribery can ever be classed as minor - and occasionally I saw prisoners struck by their captors. But in my third or fourth year of service general bribery in the uniform branch was ruthlessly stamped out. At about the same time violence died a natural death as the standard of recruits improved and better types were promoted. After having a rough time in the street, some policemen naturally 81

THIS SMALL CLOUD

were often inclined to have a poke back. But it had to be quick, for soon the impartial station-officer and gaoler would be present and beating-up would not be tolerated. The faces of scores of intelligent, pleasant policemen come to mind as I write these words; they were incapable of violence nor would they permit it in their presence. All these men on numerous occasions, usually when making arrests, have responded to abuse and threats, and even minor technical assaults, with kindly tolerance and humour. Many people imagine they have seen violent treatment of prisoners in the street. Most prisoners go to the police station unwillingly, and violent scenes are inevitable. Order your grandmother to bed as an experiment; if she refuses to go, try to take her against her will. You will be surprised at the violent appearance of the scene, especially if granny is artful enough to trip you up at the top of the stairs. When I was young, drunken and other violent prisoners arrested a mile or two from the station were a great problem. We couldn't call it a day and set them free, so struggling and falling they were propelled through the streets. Obviously the constable was not the cause of the struggle. Nowadays there are vans for this purpose, but how does one get an unwilling man into a van without causing an ugly-looking scene? Drunken prisoners often enjoy attacking policemen in the charge room. What does one do? Pick one's champion to fight him back or sensibly and quickly restrain him with the available men - and be accused of fighting four or five against one? Without thinking much about it, I was a natural pacifist throughout my service. I never once struck any person and none deliberately struck me when I alone was involved - though a nasty cripple once took a swipe at me with his crutch, and missed. Rough houses were different; they were not personal and anyone could join in. They were usually so enjoyable to the instigators that they could hardly complain next day at being fined a small fee. Because of my attitude to violence I was often called a cissy by old-fashioned coppers; but violent policemen were in the minority even among the old-timers. The peaceful ones, being peaceful, were ineffective and unsure of themselves, but by the end of my service most policemen were of my way of thinking, and collectively we could often intimidate the remaining bullies to curb their natural aggression. This is why I cannot allow the present sweeping

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

allegations against police to pass unchallenged. I do not believe the situation could have deteriorated so quickly. Having defended the police so pompously over the matter of violence, when what I really intended was to give a general picture of the life I was about to lead, I had better come down to earth at once and say we all usually had a marvellous time - especially on night duty. People who said they wouldn't like to be a copper, walking about all night with nothing to do, were obviously unaware that in Greater London, especially in summertime and apart from other delights, there was in every third or fourth house at least one person lying sleepless on a bed just longing to be stuffed. The slightest disturbance in the street brought them streaming out - with the policeman the centre of everything. But first I had to do nine weeks' swatting, unaware of the future pleasure of human contacts, but being taught as my first lesson that the primary duty of police is the Preservation of Peace and Public Tranquillity-in other words to keep the public happy and contented. It was a difficult course. I was crammed with a superficial knowledge of the law, but sufficient to enable me to make some sort of show in the streets of London when confronted with people in trouble, either misbehaving .or seeking help and advice, or demanding this and that. My fellow students were farm labourers, shop assistants, ex-soldiers and sailors, miners, clerks and factory hands, from all over the country and particularly Scotland, with a sprinkling of intelligent, confident young men who knew exactly what they wanted and with fathers in the background to see they got it. Any one of us, however green or fresh, could soon be called upon, possibly in an atmosphere of confusion, to make a snap decision, the rights and wrongs of which might later be argued for hours by lawyers, constantly referring to their legal books, in the calm of a court. So we crammed our heads with facts and definitions, and the powers of arrest (or absence of them) of the various Acts; all trickily worded to avoid loopholes through which tricky lawyers could squeeze their tricky clients. We learnt eagerly about prostitution and brothels, murder, robbery and rape; with less enthusiasm about foot and mouth disease and old metal dealers. We learnt first-aid (boring subject) and were drilled by an ex-serjeant major from the guards. Sometimes the lessons sprang to life. I was pleased to hear that Charlie Peace committed his crimes with a lamp-blacked face, and to learn it was still an offence to blacken

THIS SMALL CLOUD

one's face 'with intent'. It was also interesting to learn that wandering abroad without visible means of subsistence, peddling without a licence, exposing wounds for the purpose of gathering alms, lodging in barns, outhouses or unoccupied buildings or - the most heartless regulation of all - being in the open air after being directed to a workhouse - all became offences after the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo. The British soldier, no longer needed, was dumped at places like Plymouth, Dover or Deal, and left to wander home northward through village and countryside. God was thanked for their victories, and their Regimental Colours were preserved in the churches past which they wandered. They fended for themselves, kept alive as best they could, and should they get caught committing one of these inavoidable new offences were stamped first as Idle and Disorderly Persons and then as Rogues and Vagabonds. Our poor heads got stuffed to bursting point with strange facts and figures and from time to time we were given a treat. We went to Lambeth Police Court, the Royal Mews and the Black Museum. To accustom us to the sight of death we went to Horseferry Road Mortuary, where the preliminary tough-guy jokes were silenced by the sight of an old lady who, dying alone in a basement and missed by nobody, had been almost devoured by rats before being found; and the poor crushed body of a golden-haired girl who was trapped and rolled between two trams. The instructors were hand-picked and first-rate. Some were rather vain and all the better for it; vanity is tiresome only when the person pretends to be modest. Some of my best friends have been kept permanently happy and good-natured by the attractive picture constantly reflected from their looking-glass; and it must be everyone's experience that attractive people are always ready and willing to jump into bed to give pleasure, whereas one has only to ask the right time of a person with bad teeth and pebble glasses, for them to rush off to the telephone and dial 999. The recruits were a mixed lot. I was not exceptional in their company, coming roughly in the middle - not so intelligent as some nor so daft as others. We worked too hard to give much time to one another, but the confident young men were friendly to me, whilst I liked the homely miner types from the Midlands, some of whom were exceptionally nice men. The only men I remember clearly are Gumbrill and Nash, ex-guardsmen, who sat near me in class. Nash had exceptionally strong hands, which he noticed attracted my

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

attention. After a time the two men showed-off casually with expensive-looking rings, watches and cigarette cases, and by conversing in my hearing let me know that they got them from old gentlemen whom they accompanied home. Apparently, what they were not given freely they took for themselves, and they laughed heartily at their memories. I was puzzled and fascinated but instinctively careful. At last Nash leaned forward conspiratorially and said to me, 'I believe you know something about this sort of thing'. I didn't of course, and I told them so. My obvious sincerity must have convinced them and, you will be disappointed to hear, that was the end of the matter. At the end of our training, both these men were posted to 'A' Division, and while still probationers were dismissed from the Force, appearing in Police Orders as 'not likely to become efficient officers'. I passed my examination, was sworn in at Scotland Yard, given a Warrant Card and several uniforms, and posted to 'T' Division, which stretched from Hammersmith to Hampton Court. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

85

CHAPTER 14

Bachelor policemen from surrounding stations lived in Hammersmith Section House. This big bare building had a billiard room, a mess room and a kitchen on the ground floor, an old army hut in the yard, and lots of bathrooms and a hundred cubicles up the dingy stone stairs. Here I lived with ninety-nine other young coppers. I did duty at Chiswick, a long way from the Shaftesbury Avenue theatres which were my idea of London, and was warned that after six months I would be transferred to one of the undermanned outer villages of the Division. This appalling threat gave fleeting intensity to the pleasures of Section House life, and made Chiswick, at first so remote-sounding, seem very desirable. Though I got no cases at Chiswick and felt sure I never would, my self-respect was buoyed up by other things. One day as I was going off duty, looking forward to an evening swim and a concert, someone drew my attention to a man who was not looking very well. He was leaning against a shop front and someone was bringing out a chair for him. He was middle-aged and looked very poor. Seeing a spoilt evening ahead, I asked impatiently how he felt and whether he would like to go to hospital. He made no reply. Immediately ashamed of my impatience, I asked whether he would like a cup of tea. 'Yes please', he said softly, after looking at me intently to make sure the offer was genuine. He died as I handed him the tea. The last thing the poor man heard was a kind word, but only just, and that taught me a lesson. His finger-prints proved him to be a homeless tramp with convictions for begging, but no one was traced who could come to weep over him - or pay for the funeral. This was not my first dead body. I had already been called by a polite little girl who had returned home from school to find her grandfather hanging behind the kitchen door. I was helping other children to cross the road outside the school and, though dry-eyed, she was dreadfully afraid I would not be free to go and help her. Apart from this my Chiswick memories arc confined to Devonshire Road, the roughest road in the district, which started near Hogarth's

86

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

house and the pretty riverside parish church, and had the misfortune to end exactly opposite the police station in the High Road. Here at night I often saw Barry Lloyd sleeping peacefully on a coster's barrow. It was interesting to study him closely, for during the day he was a violent drunk, semi-mad, who took offence and attacked anyone who looked at him - even a policeman. It was our little night duty treat to tip up the barrow and run like hell. In hot weather I saw the entire population spending the night on the pavement outside their houses, some sleeping, others talking and playing cards, with children romping around them. 'Who won't?' I asked innocently, when a woman said, 'They won't let us sleep, guv'nor'. Every Monday morning I saw these same women queuing outside the pawnshop to pop their husbands' Sunday suits. Quite soon a frightening thing befell me. We were not paid for overtime, but took it off at our convenience. So I found myself on a bus at ten o'clock one morning, finished for the day, homeward bound for the Section House and feeling very pleased with myself. Where Chiswick joins Hammersmith and therefore at the furthest possible point from both stations, the bus stopped suddenly at a scene of great confusion, and the conductor shouted up the stairs 'Quick guv'nor - you're wanted'. A few weeks earlier I had been an innocent country boy, but jumping off this London bus I realised everyone was glad I had come to put things right. A Foden steam wagon had gone out of control. The driver found he could not stop his vehicle or reduce its speed and, seeing there was a fairly clear space behind him, had reversed instead. After about two hundred yards he struck a tram and then bounded forward into the space he had cleared for himself. He then ran into a van and bounded back again. He could do nothing but run backwards and forwards at a tremendous speed, each reversal being accompanied by a deafening chug, chug, chug, and clouds of hissing steam. It was a scene of terror. I was surprised to find myself quite confident, and saw that nothing must be allowed in the space where the plunging vehicle was performing, until it ran out of steam or whatever it was it had to run out of. I stopped all traffic at my end and wished someone at the other end would do the same. One or two vehicles still trickled through, and a damaged van and a bicycle were already lying derelict on the route. At last, making it clear at my end that nothing must move, I set out for the other end intending to do the same. At that moment, ignoring my signals not to chance it, a man on

THIS SMALL CLOUD

a donkey-cart came towards me in an attempt to get through. The wagon had been on a fairly straight course, but as if drawn by a magnet and hissing like a dragon, it now swerved into the donkey-cart and sent it flying. Then like some living evil monster it chugged back again. The man was left yelling in the road with a broken leg and, unbearably sad sight, the donkey, silently looking up at me, had his four little severed hooves in a neat row some distance away. Oh dear! This was also too much for the wagon driver - at last he collapsed. Forward came the wagon again, then suddenly it swerved into a roadside tree, which fell crashing into the window and door of a baker's shop, into which scores of sightseers had just fled for safety. The driver slid fainting from his cabin. A pompous little man pushed himself forward to say, 'Officer - arrest that man - he's drunk.' I looked round bewildered. The pompous little man then shook my arm and said, 'Officer - I demand the arrest of that man.' How glad I was to remember a Peel House lesson and say, in a voice which could not have sounded very commanding, 'Don't interfere with me in the execution of my duty'. From the baker's shop I then phoned the police station and told them all about it, especially about the donkey, and asked for two ambulances. Although fairly confident in dealing with the episode, I was not sure I knew how to report it. This had been at the back of my mind during the excitement - now I must face it. All police reports arc written to a formula; everything has an exact place; nothing must be forgotten. Mistakes must not be made, for they will be spotted by judges, magistrates, coroners, insurance companies and the Daily Mirror- this had been drilled into me most thoroughly. Except during lessons I had never written an accident report, and had pictured myself being ticked off for forgetting to say a bicycle had a bell properly fitted or something like that. But now- let me sec. Time, date, place. Names, addresses, ages, injuries and statements of all injured persons. Exact time and method of informing their relations - which must be immediately. Exact time of calling ambulance and of its arrival. Name of hospital and house surgeon, and his diagnosis, name of the ward and the bed number. Description of all vehicles involved, with their index and licence numbers, horse power and damage. Names and addresses of the owners, with their insurance particulars. Drivers' names, addresses, ages, licence numbers and statements. Allegation of dangerous driving or suspicion of mechanical defects or faulty brakes? Then don't allow the vehicle 88

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

to be moved until Scotland Yard experts arrive. Measure skid marks and examine the road surface and tram tracks. Good heavens! I had forgotten the tram. The L.C.C. must be informed immediately. Start all over again with the driver, conductor and passengers - and don't forget the badge numbers. Were Harrison and Barber, the horse slaughterers, interested in donkeys? Nobody seemed to have mentioned donkeys at Peel House, and certainly cats were not so well provided for as dogs. The tree? Local Council to be told immediately - but was the tree in Chiswick or Hammersmith? Names, addresses and statements of all available witnesses. Good God! I looked out through the busted shop front and saw at least five hundred witnesses, staring in and looking only too anxious to make statements. These thoughts crowded through my mind in a matter of seconds. With sinking heart I took out my pocket book, which seemed very small, and wrote Tuesday,/ May, 1925, 10-15 am, Chiswick High Road - . I heard the ambulance ringing in the distance and simultaneously four policemen, alerted in Hammersmith Broadway, jumped off a bus and took charge of the situation. 'All right son - we'll look after this', one of them said, and with confidence and good-humour they set about tending the injured and collecting evidence. Soon everything was peaceful and orderly again. I had intended to visit the zoo, but I changed my mind and hurried back to the Section House to spend a couple of hours in bed. Soon after this I was transferred to Hounslow of all places and lived in lodgings. While still suffering from the shock, I was posted in Police Orders for transfer to Devonport Dockyard - royal dockyards being a Metropolitan Police responsibility in those days. I escaped this by a bit of fiddling. In my state of trusting innocence this transfer could have been disastrous, as could the posting direct to a West End Division I so much desired. I have had a lucky life and cannot escape the belief that Something must have watched over me. The army hut at the Section House was used as a gymnasium and local professional boxers were allowed to train there. Though more interested in them than in the actual boxing, I joined in the fun and made a show. Rowing also brought me pleasure, and to maintain my place in the eight I was enthusiastic enough to travel up from Hounslow for training. I also pretended to be ambitious and said I was getting no police experience at dreary Hounslow. These things put together made me seem a possible asset to the Divisional Station.

THIS SMALL CLOUD

My Devonport transfer was cancelled and I was allowed to change stations with a Hammersmith copper who had put a girl in the family way and was glad to accept exile in the wilds to escape her vindictive mixture of love and wrath. After these preliminary worries I now settled down in Hammersmith to ten years of such great happiness that even the efforts of my enemies failed to destroy it- and they mostly gave up trying. Many of the Section House men were ex-guardsmen, speedily recruited after the war from this gold-mine of tall men. They were rather disorderly, and there was a sharp dividing line between them and the younger policemen of my type. It was obvious that Scotland Yard, now they had time to pick and choose, were encouraging a quieter type of man. All the same, it was during the reign of the rough and ready policeman that the slogan 'the finest body of men in the world' was coined and used and sometimes actually believed. The worldly-wise older gang gambled and drank and pulled my leg, and it was nice to have them about the house. They were often hard up, and small objects left lying about could be counted as lost; lockers were often busted open and robbed. There was a roll call at midnight and missing men were reported as defaulters. The door was locked and theoretically no one could enter without ringing the bell. Lots of dummies were left in beds and, after midnight, a great deal of clambering over the ten foot back gate went on. The Sub-Divisional Inspector, to avoid ringing the doorbell and alerting the gamblers, also occasionally came over the gate in an attempt to catch them. One policeman regularly hoisted his sweetheart over the gate on a rope, to spend the night with him in a bed on the gymnasium floor. This daredevil type was already on his way out, falling by the wayside in various ways, to be replaced by newer types soon to be in the majority. Among these were the studious, the sporting, the crafty crawl-arses, the ambitious, the religious, the cissy, and the just plain nice, who in Hammersmith alone could soon be counted by the score. My friends were among the new men. In this cramped world of cubicles we lounged on one another's beds to talk and conduct our affectionate Platonic friendships. Downstairs we had access to frying pans and gas-rings and mainly fed ourselves. We lived on steaks and eggs and bacon, tinned salmon, fruit, crusty new bread and lots of butter. When training for sporting events we increased the steaks

90

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

and eggs and got awfully hot stuff. We ate together off bare scrubbed tables in the great high-ceilinged mess room, and when we went up to bed in our cubicles we talked to one another over the partitions. It was like camping out and was heavenly. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

91

CHAPTER 15

Hammersmith Broadway was the pleasure centre of this end of London in the same way that Piccadilly Circus was supposed to be for London as a whole. The scene was predominantly Cockney, the invasion by the Irish, that unlovable race, soon to flood and spoil the district, being still unforeseen. The Cockneys, at first suspicious and alert, enjoyed humorous contact with us while pretending we were their natural enemies. The Cockney atmosphere was leavened by interesting people from the outside world. The Lyric Theatre, where Nigel Playfair, Edith Evans, Lottie Venne, John Gielgud and others were attracting people from all over the world, was tucked away in a slummy corner which few could find without our help. In one direction our ground stretched from Hammersmith Bridge to Chiswick Mall, and took in all the lovely eighteenth-century bits and pieces and the artists and writers who lived there. In the opposite direction we took in Olympia, where international visitors turned up year after year to be greeted as old friends. People came from all over London to row, and once a year from all over England to see the Boat Race. One way and another Hammersmith was a delightful place and I could have stayed there happily for the rest of my life. From a police point of view, too, Hammersmith was an attractive station. It was mildly and cosily corrupt, with a good sprinkling of street bookmakers willing to give the copper on the beat half-a-crown a day to keep out of the way. The station was conveniently in the Broadway, and the public seemed to spend most of the time popping in and out for help or advice, as chummy as you like and often on Christian name terms. Last night's drunk popped in to see if we had his hat; women pushing kids in prams with squeaky wheels would cock a hopeful eye at the copper on the door and pop in to have them oiled; costers popped in to complain of being moved on with their barrows, and women to complain of their neighbours; old ladies feeling faint popped in for a glass of water and a sit down; and dotty people in great numbers, unwelcome in their homes till bedtime and knowing the vicar was too busy organising his money-

92

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

making schemes to bother with them, popped in to unwind their endless rigmaroles, knowing they would be heard with sympathetic kindness. I saw all this in the first few days and it brought me great joy. A young man also impressed me when he rushed panting into the station from a nearby slum, begging help for his wife, whose baby had just started to come three weeks too soon. No arrangements had been made, even for three weeks hence, and it was now left to the station officer to see things through. There were few, if any, social services, and he must rely on the help of good-natured doctors and of nuns from a nearby convent. 'Hurry up, guv'nor - for Gawd's sake', pants the young man, and when the station officer, kind, unruffled, with home troubles of his own, reminds him that time would have been saved had he phoned the police from the kiosk near his home, he replies, 'Yes, I know guv'nor - but we haven't got tuppence'. Soon I was to learn that the beat on which the young man lived supported five street bookmakers, each paying daily half-crowns to the constable and goodness knows what to the higher ranks. Later still I learnt that with a house full of kids and an empty cupboard and a bookmaker on your doorstep, it is an irresistible temptation to try to turn your- last shilling into ten. Then I knew for certain that street bookmakers were a social evil. But some people looked on the Broadway as dreadfully vulgar, even dangerous, and wouldn't be seen in the police station for anything. They were to be found in places like the seedy part of West Kensington at the back of Olympia, and for their benefit a copper was posted to a short patrol nearby. This gave them a much needed sense of safety, for quite close was the shocking Rayleigh Road, the wild inhabitants of which caused great dread to the genteel West Kensingtonians. The latter were refined and pretended not to know each other and thus, independent and lonely, were no match for the enemy who, as thick as thieves, helped each other in their villainy and never split. It was like living in a jungle, always open to attack from the natives; not African style, forewarned by drums, but oriental and sinister, with the enemy entering your house by stealth and craft. They got in all ways; locks and bolts were no good. They pretended to read gas meters and mend lavatory cisterns, they even made love to charwomen, and respectable-looking old men could hardly be trusted to 'clip the hedge for a shilling' without poking about in the hall 93

THIS SMALL CLOUD

and walking off with the grandfather clock. The residents would have been wise to band themselves together for their own protection, but they merely peered anxiously from behind their curtains to make sure they had police protection. This boring patrol was much dreaded by the coppers, and it was a big temptation now and again to slip round the corner to Auntie's. Auntie was always willing to make a cup of tea in the little room behind her sweet shop, but she was very dirty and wore carpet slippers because of her bad feet, and, though the tea was welcome, we recoiled from her homemade cake. Auntie knew nothing about discipline, and when a knowing sergeant failed to find you on the patrol and burst angrily into her back room, she merely poured another cup and brought out the cake. In cold weather Auntie's warm room would be such a draw that the poor nervous residents, after peering fruitlessly from behind their curtains, would write a polite letter to the police station, not to make mischief but from genuine anxiety, asking if everything was all right as they hadn't seen a constable for a day or two. That at first I took no part in the street bookmaker racket was no credit to me. Young constables were barred from beats where the bookmakers thrived; it was a matter of bribery and negotiation with the S.D. Inspector through his crafty clerk. The S.D.I. was a Cockney, rosy-faced and common, very corrupt and likeable, known to us as B.B., which was short for Bollocky Bill. One Monday, posted to a beat with five bookmakers on it and hardly believing my luck, I scuttled round at top speed - only to learn that there was no racing on Mondays. My turn came in the course of time and I followed the majority. Many men were too proud to collect the half-crowns- others looked with disgust at the whole business. At first I was thought to be one of these and for a time the bookmaker told me some other constable had forestalled me. I traced the offender as the P.C. on the next beat and the following inaccurate assessment of my character was given: 'I didn't think you're the sort who'd take it - and I wasn't going to see it wasted'. 'Half-a-crown is as useful to me as it is to you - you thieving fucking bastard.' 'I'm surprised at a man like you using language like that.' Collection was all too easy. The bookmaker was usually down an alley or behind a pub. You approached slowly, gazing straight ahead with what you hoped looked like dignified indifference, and

94

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

wiped up the half-crown from the ledge on which he had placed it before getting out of the way for you to pass. Brewers' draymen, window cleaners, painters and decorators, gossiping women, all suspended their activities for a moment or two to watch the familiar ceremony. It was a low performance. If you think I should have been ashamed of myself, the answer is - I was, but not quite enough. I wish they could have sent the money to me in a plain envelope as I knew they did to my Superintendent - but they did not and I was prepared to collect it. The men who refused the bookmakers' half-crowns were not in a position to arrest them, nor to be awkward by hanging about the pitch. The bookmaker thought such behaviour most unsporting, and his complaint to the station soon resulted in a transfer to an outer village. Arrests were by arrangement and an unconvicted stooge was always put out for sacrifice. The truth is that the rottenness went right to the top. The Commissioner was not above suspicion, nor was our Superintendent, a charming dandy, who often put a 'Do Not Disturb' notice on his locked office door when entertaining lady friends. He welcomed bookmakers and publicans with open arms when they called to see him at the station, as he did their hampers and parcels at Christmas. Dubious things were done even with official approval. A sergeant in plain clothes was employed selling tickets for police dances, minstrel shows, horse shows and similar things to the same bookmakers and publicans, and to tradesmen. Nobody refused to buy, though the tickets were seldom taken and were sold over and over again. 'I shan't buy any more of your bloody tickets' was constantly flung in the face of the ordinary copper trying to do his duty. Bertram Mills always entertained the Assistant Commissioner among the sporting celebrities and minor royalties who formed the guests at his Olympia Circus publicity luncheon. He then snapped his fingers at the laws and regulations relating to obstruction and the use of decorated vehicles, animals and fancy dress for advertising in the streets, and bossed us as he did his employees. It would be unfair if I did not say that not all men of rank were involved. Our old Chief Inspector was above suspicion; he was quiet and aloof and nobody knew what he thought of it all. There were several similar senior officers in the Metropolitan Police at this time, some of whom had been farm labourers and bricklayers and had joined the police at the end of the nineteenth century. They had 95

THIS SMALL CLOUD

reached the top by integrity and hard work - for promotion examinations entail difficult study of the law, which must first be understood and then correlated with the strange, unexpected behaviour of human beings. To be fair all round I must mention that usually they were freemasons. Towards the end of their careers, having attained their object and now free from the stress of competition, they sat back relaxed, reverted to their original state and became once again, in effect, countrymen and labourers - and very wise and likeable old boys many of them were. Olympia, which took up so much of our time, was a microcosm of our interesting and sinful life. At some exhibitions we were locked in at night with the firemen, for they could steal and we might cause fires. We were given a frying pan and gas-ring, a temptation in this land of plenty - and we lived off the land. When pilfering things like eggs, tomatoes and fruit from a carefully designed display, we took care that the symmetry of the pattern was not disturbed. The art may have excused the crime, for nothing was ever said. We were paid to see the big shows, a satisfaction in itself, but I also got intense pleasure from the sense of being behind the scenes. To watch artists perform, then immediately after to see them relaxed, has always been of great interest to me. If this pleasure has a snobbish basis it cannot be helped- at Olympia I wallowed in it. For the big boxing matches we were officially on duty, and this gives me the opportunity for two sentimental anecdotes about Larry Gains. At the top of his form one night at Olympia he scored a big success. On the same programme Al Brown fought a substitute because his billed opponent was unable to appear. The substitute was a local boy thought to have a big future. It was soon clear that he was no match for Al Brown who, with his long reach and great skill, decided to tease the young boxer, turn the bout into a comic act, and finish it off when it suited his whim. The crowd, at first disappointed, decided to make the best of a bad job and join in the fun. A good time was had by all, except of course the young boxer whose big chance this was intended to be. For twenty minutes or so Olympia sounded like a music-hall. At the end of the show, or perhaps during an interval, Larry Gains strolled about with his arm round the shoulders of the young boxer, and the crowd, anxious to do homage to their hero of the moment, found him rather unresponsive and were obliged to fawn before and shake the hand of the young man they had just humiliated.

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

This interested me, for one night a week earlier a homeless, hungry unemployed man sitting on a park seat told me that passing through Leicestershire on his long walk from Scotland to London he had early one morning been overtaken by a coloured gentleman who was training for something or other. It was Larry Gains training for this very fight. So great was his concern for the young Scot that the latter realised he was sure to be offered a meal at the next village. He got his meal and also five pound notes. The money had now been spent and it was in keeping with the times that the young man telling the story should again be hungry and destitute. But Larry Gains' kind heart was 'a joy for ever' and the Scot's face beamed with pleasure at the memory of it. Yet, because of his colour, Larry Gains could be refused admission to places which would welcome Lord Beaverbrook with open arms. On this particular night Al Brown complained of strangers walking into his improvised dressing-room which had no lock on the door. I was therefore ordered - or did I volunteer? - to remain to keep out intruders whilst Al took a tub-bath in the middle of the floor. At Olympia Circus I made friends with Barbette, the trapeze artist, whose sensational first appearance in England was so splendidly arranged by Bertram Mills. Spotlit in a darkened arena she slowly descended a great stairway magnificently dressed in white ostrich feathers, delicately discarding them one by one in a sort of floating strip-tease until she stood alone in the arena, beautiful and pathetic and naked - except for diamonds on her tits and fanny. A pause, a few larks on a tight-rope, then nimble as a cat she nipped up to the roof and was swinging on the high trapeze, perfection, with the vast silent audience staring up spellbound. There were beautifully timed mishaps, miraculously saved at the last second, finally by her ankle when her hands missed the bar and all seemed lost. Screams - then great applause as she swung upside down with fluttering curls and looking so helpless and cuddly. The applause continued as she slid to the ground exhausted and was carried off on a divan, and increased as she stepped lightly back into the arena to bow and bow and bow - and finally to whip off her wig to reveal an almost bald-headed man. The clapping stopped as if cut by a knife. Had something not quite nice taken place before the children? Barbette was in fact an American, hard as nails, intelligent and malicious enough to enjoy both the initial applause and the final embarrassment. 97

THIS SMALL CLOUD

He invited me behind the scenes whenever I saw him perform and during the next few years I saw him at places like the Palladium. In his dressing-room at this theatre I met a group of his music-hall friends and was surprised at the conversation. It was August and someone mentioned that Billy Merson was performing at Douglas, Isle of Man. This seemed to upset them. After a shocked silence they each contributed a bit to the following conversation: 'Billy Merson !' 'Douglas - Isle of Man !' 'In August!' 'How dreadful !' They all agreed that this was the saddest thing they had ever heard. Then followed a sort of two minute silence, which I took to be a tribute to Billy Merson. But I now realise they were picturing themselves in old age, performing their various acts on the end of Douglas pier in the pouring August rain. A man who made a stir at Olympia every year was not officially a performer - quite the reverse. Fred Barnes had been one of those young men who, with straw hat and cane, stepped about rhythmically on the music-hall stage singing about moonlight and girls. He reached the top of his tree; not so high as that of the great comic artists with whom he appeared, but sufficiently so for his name to be news. He was good-natured and silly and the appearance of his Rolls Royce was a welcome sight to many an unemployed man - especially to those in the know. His good-nature was his downfall for he never did harm to anybody. He became more and more notorious; his act, much out of date, was received with jeers and insulting shouts from the audience; it was soon impossible for him to appear. In the course of time he was arrested with a sailor in Hyde Park. His screams and cries of distress must have chilled and alerted hundreds of people up to no good from one end of the Park to the other. This was bad luck for the sailor. But Fred Barnes really had nothing to lose and it is possible the poor man, whose early life must have been so happy, could now even enjoy being the centre-piece of such a spectacle. His next misfortune - supreme misfortune - was to be banned officially from Olympia during the run of the Royal Tournament. This to him must have seemed like being so far in the depths as to be almost a distinction - but in spite of the ban he often managed to get in.

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

Police duty at the Royal Tournament was enjoyable and keenly sought. Discipline, never oppressive, was completely forgotten on these occasions. It was July and the weather made us as drowsy and carefree as Italians; the London Bobby was still part of the London scene and it was easy to be pleasant and helpful, which was all that was asked of us. We made friends with the soldiers and sailors and took a personal interest in their performances. Afternoons were particularly sleepy. We would lean on things and chat together lazily, peer into the arena for our favourite bits, stroll away for a cup of tea with our service friends, and enjoy the pleasant sensation of being behind the scenes. Gradually there would be a vague stirring in the distance; then shouting and the sound of running feet. What are they saying? What? 'He's in again !' 'He's in again !' Everyone starts to run - some this way, some that. But they are not all running for the same reason. The Military Police and their self-righteous sympathisers feel personally insulted and are running to catch Fred Barnes if they can, and throw him out neck and crop. But scores of young sailors are running to find him first, to warn him of danger and hide him until excitement dies down, when it will be written off as a false alarm. We must be realistic and admit that Fred Barnes was generous, if now not so rich, but surely the laughing young sailors also had sympathy for a hunted thing; and perhaps amused admiration for one who, confronted with this frightening restriction imposed by the combined authority of the War Office, Air Ministry and Admiralty, should remain undaunted and successfully defy it. But duty at Olympia was not all fun and games. There was a sordid side to it - dirty and immoral. I refer, of course, to the car parking activities, especially at the Motor Show, and the bribery, greed, hate, jealousy, malice and revenge it engendered. How I became involved is rather a long story.

99

CHAPTER 16

One of my worries was that I couldn't get a case. We were all expected to work, and indeed I was anxious to gain police court experience. It was very difficult. Drivers without lights would cry 'How kind of you - thanks you so much', then put them right and drive off with a smile. Drunks were never so drunk but they could mumble 'I only live round the corner, mate', and even ask for a helping hand home. Costermongers were often taken in for obstruction, but I knew I could never arrest them- they were too enchanting. If only a motorist would tell me to mind my own fucking business and ask if I was after promotion; or I could find a drunk speechless in the gutter and take him in for his own good. These things did happen, but not to me, nor to many of my friends. One had to be hard-hearted or lucky. The public often intimidated young coppers into interfering against their better judgment. For instance, it takes courage to walk past a gang of happy, noisy youths, when the whole street waits and watches to see what you are going to do. The truth is that it takes all sorts to make a police force and the top authorities recognise the fact. Young men find it uncomfortable to report people for trivial things that can be put right on the spot. It comes more naturally to help them to do so and part friends. Twenty years after I joined the police, Scotland Yard brought in a system of verbal warnings and thus gave official approval to a practice already carried out by the majority of policemen. There was a minority of snatchers, however, who overlooked nothing and forgave nothing. These were approved by the S.D. Inspector, who was responsible for the practical side of policing a district and liked the figures to show his stations as active and important. He held up the snatchers as examples to others and threatened to delay promotion unless more work was done. When other detrimental factors were present, he occasionally carried out his threat. This pressure to make young policemen work - to summon and arrest people - was always denied when questions were asked in Parliament. However, after the first year or two the threats were not taken too seriously and most men TOO

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

with moral courage were able to ignore them. The Metropolitan Police Act entitles 'any constable to stop, search and detain any person reasonably suspected of being in possession of stolen property'. In my early days I made perfect use of this Act. As I stood in a doorway in the dead of night I heard hurrying footsteps and, peeping out, saw a man with a heavy bag which clinked with metal as he got closer. With heart in mouth I stopped a doctor carrying his instruments, returning from a nearby emergency call. Hearty laughter and a friendly parting, of course. Snatchers ignored the words 'reasonably suspected' and by stopping everyone with a bag or parcel occasionally caught thieves carrying stolen property. They antagonised hundreds of innocent people and those almost innocent - such as workmen carrying home wood or paint which had been 'left over'. At night they interfered unnecessarily with happy drunks and made them drunks and disordcrlies and assaults on police. But I enjoyed the day when a snatcher brought in a scruffy man carrying a sack full of pound notes, who turned out to be a genuine miser carrying his wealth on his back; and the day when a bitch rushed into the station to 'get at' a snatcher who had arrested her almost innocent husband. At the three Sub-Divisions in which I served - I expect it is true of all Sub-Divisions - the S.D.l.s had two special snatchers whom they could trust to do anything, however dirty, with ruthless efficiency. At Hammersmith these two were Sergeant Hunter and P.C. Chilvers - a couple of dirty dogs. They knew everything that was afoot, however secret, and everyone bowed before them. These were the men used by the S.D.I. to arrest street bookmakers after negotiation. They tracked down and raided half-penny gaming machines in cafes, arrested footsore prostitutes in pubs, innocent gamblers in factory canteens, children throwing fireworks on Guy Fawkes' Night; they watched and caught anybody suspected of anything trivial. Now and again they brought in a Nancy-Boy, as they were then called, and treated him as though he were an inanimate object without feeling. They rubbed his face with toilet paper to procure evidence of make-up, joked and laughed about him as if he was not present, and always found the same sized tin of vaseline in his pocket. They brought in an old man for looking up little girls clothes as he gave them a swing in a park; the police matron, a harridan, slapped the old chap's face. 'I just couldn't help it', she said self-righteously. A week later they set a trap and caught her stealing money from drunken IOI

THIS SMALL CLOUD

women prisoners. Some of the things they did were necessary. They were useful as vultures arc useful in India - if they didn't dean up the shit others would have had to do so. Sergeant Hunter was a rat. Instead of talking he nagged with little yelping snaps. Without a friend in the world and incapable of any action that was not mean and underhanded, he sailed triumphantly through life with never a word of criticism uttered to him - it would have been too dangerous to have done so. But his end seemed a triumph for justice. At a celebration - a twenty-first birthday or something - his whole family was assembled under one roof when there was a raid, a lucky hit by a German bomber, and the whole lot were blown sky high. Apart from Churchill's 'on the beaches' speech, this, to a great number of defenceless people, was the most heartening event of the war. P.C. Chilvers was outwardly different - quite chummy in fact. He was immensely fat and round, with a head like a coconut and the sort of hair one expects to find on that unattractive nut. His face was enormous, with little pigs' eyes. He thought he was the best fellow in the world and, much feared, was indeed greeted everywhere with a cheery 'Momin' Mr Chilvers' from the Mayor down to the Broadway paper boys who touched their hats to him. His manner was pleasant and it was this, combined with his rosy smile and the nimble way he managed his great bulk, that made him so sinister. Treacherous was the word to describe him, and however often you touched your hat it would make no difference when your turn came. He betrayed his best friend, watching him for a fortnight before denouncing him as an adulterer - a disciplinary offence. When he became a publican after retirement he betrayed another policeman in similar circumstances, making the revealing written statement, 'I allowed them to drink in my pub, though I admit I knew they were not man and wife'. He held the dead in great respect, standing stiffly to attention at passing funerals, darting his little eyes about to sec the lower orders removed their hats. 'I knocked a bloke flat once', he told me, 'for not taking off his hat. I can't bear disrespect to the dead'. In the meantime, in spite of a few near misses, it seemed I would never get a case. I found a man and woman fighting on Brook Green and, remembering a Peel House lesson not to interfere unnecessarily between man and wife, asked her if she knew him. 'Know him! Know him!' she squawked. 'What d'yer think he keeps making me drink 102

METROPOLITAN POLICE

1925-50

gin for- and jump off tables?' Though puzzling, this was good enough for me. Another time, appropriately enough at the back of Fyffe's banana depot, I just missed a man putting his hand up the leg of a boy's shorts and feeling his cock. After a few months the bunch of recruits began to poke out as individuals, and I seemed to poke out more than most. It was clear from leg-pulls, jokes and jibes that my companions knew I was homosexual. Chilvers, particularly, was fond of pulling my leg in a probing manner ('When are you getting tied up?' - 'I don't think you are a ladies' man, are you?') and reluctantly I faced up to the fact that this stirring news must have spread upwards by now. One day B.B. sent for me and, referring to my blank record, said in the kindest possible manner, 'We think you are a nice chap but you want egging on a bit'. The 'we' was disturbing, but I was grateful for his fatherly manner. Then he said, 'We are putting you out with Chilvers for a few weeks to show you the ropes'. This was alarming news. Why had they picked on me? None of my friends had had cases, and they were not sent for. I returned worried to the Section House and spent a sleepless night, during which the only grain of comfort was remembering that, after all, I had requested transfer to Hammersmith to gain experience - perhaps this was the reason. It meant that I would be forced to arrest or summon people who normally I wouldn't hurt for worlds - and this is exactly what happened. This was a sloppy point of view, I agree, and I am not putting myself forward as anything but sloppy at this stage of my career. In the event some of my victims seemed to care much less than I. Armed with a piece of wire for poking up silencers, I stood on a straight stretch of road while Chilvers in the distance signalled me what to stop. He signalled errand boys towing their bicycles behind lorries and motor cyclists with noisy silencers, everything that was without a rear light, lorries that rattled and vehicles with excise licences the wrong colour; always the sort of people I liked - never once anyone who looked able to afford a fine. Before Chilvers strolled up I had a few minutes to explain the position to the people I stopped, making it clear he would give no mercy though his manner might give hope. If the errand boys looked too worried I gave them their half-crown fine and had done with it. But lorry drivers were often depressed beyond rallying point. Unemployment was already rife and they were not in a position to refuse 103

THIS SMALL CLOUD

to drive the rattling lorries with their ramshackle silencers. They were the victims of snatchers all over the country and often paid a large part of their wages in fines. When business was slack on the main roads we searched for prey in the back streets. 'Would you believe it! Look at that!' Chilvers cried indignantly one day. I looked and saw nothing - except five shabby boys kicking a newspaper rolled up into a ball. It turned out to be football in the streets - an offence ! I was learning. After taking their names and addresses we found that one was false, but it was easy for Chilvers to intimidate the smallest of the honest boys to betray his pal - within minutes we tracked him down. He lived with his family in one awful room - just two beds, a table and a chair. A mangle stood outside the door, almost blocking it and spoiling our entry, intended by Chilvers to be grave and portentous. The father sat silent on the chair with hanging head, the boy sulked on a bed, two children stood and stared, the mother faced the situation. 'I don't know what's come over him - I really don't - ·he used to be such a good boy', she said. She looked at her son, but both he and his father ignored us completely. They were unemployed, of course, as was every man and boy in the neighbourhood; the mother took in washing and she told us all about it. Speaking sternly and looking at the boy's turned back, Chilvers said, 'He'll come to a bad end if he goes on like this - things like false names is a serious matter'. 'Yes sir - thank you sir - I can promise it won't happen again', said the mother. As we squeezed back past the mangle she took a sixpence from her purse and said, 'Would you like to get a drink, sir?' Outside, final indignity for the poor people, were all the neighbours gathered to see what was happening. Chilvers, who of course refused the sixpence, said he wished 'we hadn't done it now'; but he was incapable of rubbing out the five names which, though against orders, would have been so easy. One sunny Sunday morning Chilvers signalled a noisy motor-bike. It was very early and the streets were deserted. We heard the motorbike from a great distance and little did the rider know he was heading straight into the arms of the law. Down the road Chilvers lifted his thumb and smiled. We had arranged to make an early catch and finish for the day, and no doubt he thought we were in luck. I was not so sure. I could picture the sort of young man out riding so early. Up with the lark and too full of beans to sit about, he was having a ride round the houses until breakfast was ready - and 104

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

probably was dressed in nothing but flannels and singlet. Exactly as I thought! He was a sun-burned young man with a broad smile and wavy hair. He remained astride his bike with outstretched legs as I explained the situation, and when I mentioned Chilvers his smile stretched even broader - from ear to ear - as he said, 'Oh Christ! I've heard of that bastard'. Chilvers came up and poked my piece of wire right through the silencer. At this the young man winked, I returned a wry smile, and Chilvers looked up at that moment. 'Arc you friends?' he cried, and when I lied that we were, he shook the young man's hand and, turning to me, said I should have said so at first. I was amazed, and delighted to see the young man ride off safely, though with a noise that made Chilvers frown and look doubtful. After this I saw him in the streets almost daily. His name was Bruce, a regular soldier just returned from India at the end of his service. He told me the motor-bike was his brother's and, apart from the doctored silencer which could have involved them both, he had no driving licence. He put his hand affectionately on my shoulder and said I was a 'good pal' - he would have been surprised at the pleasure these words brought me. His manner was protective in spire of the circumstance of our first meeting. I said how pleased I would be if ever I could do anything for him. He had been in India since he was seventeen and now, six years later, at first resumed the life he had led in Hammersmith at that age. He was too good for the company he kept, and their larks in the streets often resulted in distress signals which I was pleased to answer. But his quality soon told and brought him to his proper level. Soon I saw him every morning with his father and two brothers walking up King Street on their way to work. He and his brothers were all normal, tough and handsome, and it was pleasant to sec them give their smaller father an affectionate farewell kiss at the parting of their ways in the Broadway. Bruce used his intelligence and was a plasterer when that was well paid, a steel erector when that brought top wages, and when his world became unemployed had the wit and personality to turn himself into a popular wrestler. He made friends wherever he went; I could never be as important to him as he was to me, and I was content to share with others the bounty of his good-nature. People to me arc all-important. I dreamed of friendship with men

THIS SMALL CLOUD

like Bruce as some dream of wealth and power, and thought, as no doubt they do, how unlikely the dreams could ever come true. Yet a smiling Bruce had held my shoulder, called me a good pal, and by sincerity had imparted a sense of security and permanence. My spirits soared, and no sniper could ever again bring them down - however severe the wounds. I first met Bruce in 19 26. A quarter century later I saw him on a tram with his soldier son. In between these times he had never been anything but tolerant and kind. His appearance had altered but not his manner. Beneath the surface was still the good-natured, smiling young man sitting astride a motor-bike in the Sunday morning sunshine. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

106

CHAPTER 17

My apprenticeship to Chilvers, so worrying at times, was clearly to my advantage in the long run. There was an interlude, however, which was even more of an education. The Motor Show opened at Olympia a week or two after I had started with Chilvers; this indicates that the idea for me to be 'egged on' was arranged at a higher level than the S.D. Inspector. The latter, hand-in-glove with Chilvers, must have known he would expect by right, without the fiddling and bribery necessary for lesser men, to be free to be posted to the best of the car-parking streets around Olympia - where thirty pounds a week in tips could be made. Consequently, after anxious interviews between Chilvers and the S.D.1., we were switched to Avonmore Road near Olympia, the best paying street, where Chilvers took over the main part and I the bottom bit where he could keep his eye on me. Officially, we were to see that cars were parked in an orderly manner and protected from damage or theft. I soon found myself in the delightful position of being inconvenienced by the weight of half-crowns and shillings in my pocket. This duty would not normally be given to a man of my service and I was soon to prove the wisdom of the ruling. My first day's takings were thought to be inadequate by those who had a percentage claim on them - the sergeant and the S.D.I's clerk. I was not suspected of giving a false return, as many did, but several drivers had been seen to escape, and I had not followed the advice to 'pack 'em in tight so they can't get out without your help'. Next day I was put out of the way in a side street off North End Road, which was not expected to be busy. A young civilian named Lewis, pale, thin, wideawake and unemployed, was already working this street. It took him about five minutes to weigh me up. He told a hard-luck story of a starving wife and children, which could have been true at that time but in fact was not. He was later to become a habitual criminal, serving some dreadfully long sentences. I was pleased to give him permission to work in my street, and he darted about and made a small fortune. I worked 107

THIS SMALL CLOUD

with self-conscious indifference and made the satisfactory sum of about thirty shillings a day - my weekly wage as a policeman was three pounds, six shillings. Lewis kept out of sight when the sergeant made his daily visit. Towards the end of the week B.B. sent for me. Holding a letter in his hand he said, 'Bloke here is upsetting himself about you. Says you took money from a motorist - did you?' 'Yes sir. You posted me to the duty with Chilvers - don't you remember?' 'Oh my Gawd ! Don't be such a bloody fool - otherwise I can't help you. You did not take money from a motorist, did you?' 'No sir.' 'That's better.' He had arranged for the man to visit the station the following Sunday morning. I was to be present, but for safety's sake was to keep my 'trap shut'. On Sunday a neat little man appeared, Sunday suit, walking stick, affected speech, and the suspicion of having touched up his hair. He lived in the street concerned and had definitely seen me take money from a motorist, which was grossly unfair to the young man parking the cars, whom he knew definitely was unemployed with a starving wife and family and was trying to make an honest living. The S.D.I. told him I was there to prevent young men parking cars in the street, which was illegal, adding, 'Are you sure it was money you saw him take?' 'What else would it be?' 'A pencil, for instance.' 'How absurd!' 'Well', said the S.O.1. 'yesterday a motorist gave me this outside Olympia'. He produced a pencil stamped 'With the Compliments of Austin Motors'. The man wasn't at all satisfied, but accepted a cigarette before departing crestfallen. 'That shot him up the arse', said B.B., laughing heartily and without reprimanding me in the least. If truth is the most important thing in the world - as it obviously is - then loyalty, which so often cuts across truth, must often be undesirable and evil. Perhaps the word loyalty is used too loosely and a different word should be used to describe, for instance, the behaviour of dishonourable people who hang together and tell lies to cover one another's faults. This time I benefited, but more often later in life I was the victim. This brings to an end my tale of organised corruption in the uniform branch of the Metropolitan Police. The following spring changes were made which took the younger men by surprise, though the omens had been present for those in the know. We had a new Commissioner, our Superintendent retired and B.B. went sick. We were summoned for a special parade and addressed by a stranger. He said his name 108

METROPOLITAN POLICE I

925-50

was Goldie, he was our new S.D.l. and we would never sec B.B. again. From now on honourable and intelligent men would be helped and encouraged; bookmakers could be arrested on sight by anyone able to get near enough to do so; no persons would be privileged - not even publicans. The sale of charity tickets would cease; watch would be kept and any man caught taking bribes or drinks would be sacked instantly. Mr Goldie ended with a little joke - 'and if our friend Mr Bertam Mills gets up to his tricks', he said with a smile, 'bring him in with the rest of them'. In recent years the underpaid police were thought less likely to be tempted to corruption if their pay was increased. I am not so sure. In our case it was a question of example. We knew that many, though not all, of our superiors were taking bribes. It went higher than we suspected. After the Commissioner's sudden retirement we learnt that, among other things, free cases of whisky were delivered regularly to his house; and the dentist with the Police contract, a bad-tempered snob, was exposed charging full dentures for the teeth he pulled. We were comparatively well paid in those days, and had we been given higher wages I don't suppose we should have decided bookmakers' half-crowns were no longer necessary, any more than rich men decide not to go to endless trouble and ingenuity to dodge the taxes they can well afford to pay. When our superior officers were known to be honest, the majority of us followed suit. Our new Superintendent was an austere old gentleman, and there were many men of this quality to take up positions left vacant by the clean-up. The new regime was a deliverance to men like myself, who fiddled greedily whilst it was easy and approved, but were nevertheless uncomfortable and ashamed. Giving has always given me greater pleasure than receiving, and I now toed the line easily so far as bribery was concerned. During the following months the district was flooded secretly with the 'rubber-heel' squad, who crept and crawled and watched and spied, catching several men who ignored the warning so fairly given, and who rightly were sacked without mercy. The rubber-heel squad is a secret department operated from Scotland Yard. It is formed of men, regularly switched about, willing to spy on their fellow policemen. When rumour reports them in the vicinity disguised as busmen, postmen or paper sellers, they cause much uneasiness, even to an honest copper slipping into a cafe for a quick cup of tea. They are necessary and useful, I suppose; at 109

THIS SMALL CLOUD

the same time, to be sent for and told you are considered suitable for transfer to their ranks is not entirely a compliment. Lord Byng, our new Commissioner, soon paid a goodwill visit to our parade room and in spite of a minor faux pas was much liked. Unhurried and courteous, as if he had all the time in the world, he shook hands and exchanged a few sincere words with everyone. It was pay day, and a few minutes later he met us again at the pay table upstairs. Without recognising any of us he went down the whole line again, shaking our hands and murmuring the same 'sincere words'. Discipline under the new management was not tightened. Mr Goldie put us on our honour and made it clear that men without honour were not wanted. Cars were still parked near Olympia and it was still our duty to sec they were not pinched; greedy men occasionally still took money for the service, but no longer with impunity. About this time, I think, began the decline of the 'finest body of men in the world' fable. Hunter and Chilvers, changing sides but under stricter control, were still employed usefully as scavengers. The snatchers were still called 'workers', but the non-workers were now also appreciated. While the workers hung about near a car awaiting the offending driver's return, or waited interminably for their cases to be called at court, the non-workers, now only spasmodically urged to work, were encouraged to make a good job of other police duties. So they attended to the prevention of crime and accidents; to traffic control, fires, floods, suicides, lunacy and sudden madness; to comforting lost children and animals, the old, the lonely, the sick and the sex-starved, the epileptics in fits and the diabetics in comas; to the rescuing of cats from trees, hoops from between tramlines, and boys' heads from between railings; to helping the unfortunate and directing the lost, and to investigating unusual noises and why milk bottles were not taken in; to placating the angry, listening patiently to complaints from the weak and the down-trodden, and cunningly putting nosy-parkcrs and busy-bodies in their place without laying themselves open to an accusation of insolence; and to giving a sense of safety to the insecure. Also, I had better add, enjoying gossip with friends and acquaintances and endless jokes and fun with the attractive naughty people one finds in the streets of places like Hammersmith. Where do the burglars come into all this? So far as the uniform TIO

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

branch is concerned they are almost a separate story. Broadly speaking, the uniform branch tries to prevent crime and the C.I.D. detects and arrests the criminal if the crime has been committed. The tall policeman topped by his helmet, though a guiding beacon to some, is obviously intended as a warning to others, and it is an unlucky burglar who gets caught by him. The unlucky ones were caught by idle coppers smoking behind shops, or by civilians telling of shadows on roofs or sounds in places that should be silent, or by the rare, intelligent young copper with a flair for crime - transferred as soon as possible to the C.I.D. The best arrests were made by established C.I.D. officers, with their knowledge of individual criminals and their methods, and with the help of informants and finger-prints and the wonderful filing system at the Yard-which, I suppose, is all as it should be. So criminals were caught without much help from my friends or myself, but there was no way of assessing how many crimes we prevented. I am writing of the past. In these days of wireless cars and people continually dialling 999 about one another, it is possible that all uniform policemen are now as crime-minded as the public. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

I I I

CHAPTER 18

My personal background to all this was one of great happiness. It was a period of making friends and enemies - the pleasure brought by the former easily outweighing the worry of the latter. My friendships outside the police were rather unconventional and seemed to be the cause of animosity towards me by certain policemen. But it was not really so. These friendships merely supplied fodder for the men already against me for not conforming to the normal pattern, who had shown disapproval of my interest in books and music, sneeringly calling me a highbrow, not realising what to them was an insult to me seemed a compliment. The policemen hostile to me were mostly married men who did not live in the Section House. Many were ex-guardsmen, ex-prostitutes though normal, who looked on homosexuals as a source of extra income. They couldn't resist telling of their adventures in the guards with rich old queers, but anxious not to give themselves away completely, always ended with 'Of course - directly he touched me - biff-bang-wallop'. Of course! But the biff, bang, wallops were not entirely effective; a few nights later, apparently, the same rich old gents were met in the same West End pubs and again accompanied home. One of them came to my cubicle to borrow a pound. He woke me and sat on the bed leaning over me as he whispered that it was almost a matter of life and death. He was one of my chief attackers and I didn't realise he was offering his services, so innocently I lent the pound, which of course he never repaid. My innocent behaviour didn't prevent him rejoining the mob against me. Their malicious remarks, disguised as jokes, continued almost nonstop in my presence and presumably in my absence. A hole in the office wall was altered with pencil to represent an arsehole, and 'love from 308', which was my number, was written underneath. Chilvers, as I have already said, provided he had an audience, was fond of asking sly, innocent-sounding questions respecting my lack of interest in women. If this all sounds trivial, I can only say it is the sort of triviality that spoils lives and can cause as much unhappiness as a II2

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

permanent prison sentence or illness. It did not spoil mine, for nothing could spoil the pleasure of being alive in Hammersmith, but it did increase the underlying sense of insecurity which I had felt since my telegraph-boy days, and I wished it would stop. The company of policemen friends was enjoyable; we did interesting duties together, and off duty swam or rowed on the river, played tennis or took a turn in the gymnasium. Shift work gave us much free time during the day, but on free evenings we temporarily parted company. My interests lay in theatre-land, and here I preferred to be alone. I did not care much for the few policemen with similar tastes; in fact I have never much enjoyed the company of my own kind. My tastes were experimental, and I was not prepared to saddle myself with a fidget who might persuade me to leave before the end. However unintelligible or even downright unenjoyable an entertainment was, I always stayed to the end and had the pleasure of satisfied curiosity. So after a swim I would hurry off to Ibsen at the Hampstead Everyman, Stravinsky or Hindemith at Queen's Hall, an Eisenstein or Lubitsch film, or Collins' at Islington, and later return joyfully to my friends still playing cards or billiards at the Section House. I delighted in the people swarming the streets, and in the realisation that often they were· as interested in me as I in them. Most interesting were those alert to our presence - the lonely eccentrics who had become our friends, and the various gangs who infested the district. They ranged from playful boys gathered together for company, to criminal and racecourse gangs joined up for safety and protection, all of whom had met with sufficient interference from us to make them watch our approach apprehensively, as antelopes watch the approach of lions. I am aware that in Hammersmith, as in other places, there lived thousands of ordinary respectable people neither beautiful nor lawdefying- the 'plain, humble folk' so much admired by Wilfred Pickles and Godfrey Winn. [Wilfred Pickles (1904-78) was a well-known North-country actor and broadcaster, host from 1946 of the folksy and long-running radio guest-programme Have a Go. Godfrey Winn ( 1908-71) was a popular Daily Mirror and Sunday Express columnist and broadcaster, who specialised in a sentimental appeal to the values of the 'man in the street'.] They were regular in their habits and believed everything they read in the Daily Express, especially when it told them, as it did most days, that they were the salt of the earth; they thought charity was something to do with selling raffle tickets 113

THIS SMALL CLOUD

and collecting milk-bottle tops. So they did these things and felt good - but their faces were not unknown at the police station. On a fine summer's evening, when country people might say, 'What a lovely evening - let's stroll down to the churchyard and put some fresh flowers on granny's grave', the plain, humble folk say, '- let's stroll down to the police station and complain about somebody'. This book is not about them - for that you must turn to the outpourings of Winn and Pickles. I liked the people outside this smug pattern. I liked the solitary lady who kept pets and had their skins turned into fur coats when they died. None of the skins of her pets was wasted, not even the drowned kittens which, incomprehensibly to her, other people put in dustbins. She had several pretty fur coats, particularly the one composed of tame hares, rabbits and cats, tabby, black and ginger, all in their natural colours and with the tails left on. Her happiness, however, was not complete. She was never sure that people were not making fun of her. Every now and again, pretending to look into a shop window, she looked around carefully to make sure she was not being stared at. Another strangely dressed solitary lady greeted me with a smile and stopped for a gossip. I was always proud that these people stopped with such confidence in our friendliness. She had walked from Cornwall, and after a few days sight-seeing in London intended to walk on to Edin burgh, where she had friends. She was dressed in an Edwardian evening dress, with traces of velvet and lace, very low cut and with a heavy skirt trailing the ground behind in a short train, but pinned up to her knees in front to enable her to stride out in her enormous navvy's boots. She was followed by crowds of jeering children, and told me this had been so almost all the way from Cornwall. 'How rude they are', she said, turning her handsome head in their direction, with no trace of anger on her sunburnt face. 'But I don't blame them - I blame their parents.' One suffers many disappointments and great sorrow and sadness, I expect, before one becomes as detached as this. Later she said, 'My father was a policeman - so of course I am of the very best'. Then off she went. I liked the young man who thought he was a number eleven bus. He created his own company, for he was also the driver and conductor, the passengers, the lot. Twice a day he shuffled along the regular number eleven route, put on his brakes and changed his gears, issued tickets and stopped at the proper stops. The Hammersmith busmen

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

had given him bits and pieces of uniform and a ticket machine that rang a bell; traffic policemen held him up with other traffic, or stopped other vehicles to let him pass. His face bore a perpetual smile of sublime silliness, and he drove through avenues of smiling onlookers. He garaged every night with his father, an organ grinder, in a common lodging house at Fulham, but during the day the fuel for his energy depended on charity. Another boy, happy against all odds, was almost a workmate. He was too dotty to work, but had once collected his wandering thoughts sufficiently to say he would like to be a detective. He was issued with a makeshift pocket book by a sympathetic Detective Inspector, and called at the police station every morning for his orders .. At night he brought his meaningless scribbles to be signed and stamped, sometimes concerned about his cases, at other times satisfied, but always convinced he was a person of importance. The gratitude of his parents can be imagined. Then there was Lousy Henry and the man who enjoyed shitting himself, even in cold weather. But we are getting rather low now; they deserved to be lonely- we will leave them to it. Best of all I liked the gangsters - they were my delight. Here I must be careful and more particular. Delight was my first sensation on seeing the groups of flashily dressed young men, so wideawake and humorous, so confident and insolent; and my last when I knew the leaders and found them to be men of character, often kind and considerate - so different from what they pretended. Those who gathered round them were often sheep when away from the wolf-pack, pathetic rather than likeable. Sorting them out took me years, gave me great pleasure, and from their numbers friendships developed, starting with mutual respect and finally blooming, in the most unexpected quarters, into affection. Centred round a favourite local boxer were gangs who quarrelled in the hot weather and split open each other's heads with bottles and things. In view of their reckless violence it interested me to find that many of them bore Italian names. Among these was the Lynch Gang from Notting Dale, who made their headquarters in the Broadway. Joe Lynch was a likeable villain, much scarred and with a broken nose and cauliflower ears, but a good big mouth and clear humorous eyes twinkling through the wreckage. He had a wideawake interest in the people around him which must have been intelligence of some 115

THIS SMALL CLOUD

sort. When he was prisoner and I the gaoler, he was pleased to hear I had often seen him box. 'Come up and sec me sometime', he said in effect, and I often visited his dressing room after a show. He came to think highly of me, often sought my advice, and once asked me to write a letter of complaint to the Commissioner, as he himself was unable to write. His gang, for fun, had tried to put a snatcher down a drain and had almost succeeded; a few nights later some young coppers, for fun, had just failed to get Joe's best friend down a drain. Nice goings on! Joe's complaint was that coppers were paid to be law-abiding and should not expect to have it both ways. I laughed and jibbed at the request, at which Joe, seeing my point of view, said, 'Never mind, Harry - I'll get my mother to write it - I think she can write'. One day Joe discussed with friends the illegality of gambling in public places - defined as 'any place to which the public has access whether by payment or otherwise'. Was a private car on the highway a public place? Too sure that it was not, Joe took heavy bets and persuaded his friends to put it to practical test. Soon they were all seated in a car parked in Shepherds Bush Green ostentatiously playing poker, noisily rattling their money and with anything but poker faces. After a long wait they attracted the attention of police and in due course came before the West London magistrate. I thought all this was intelligent fun, but the magistrate lost his temper, called them hooligans, and inflicted the maximum fine - which they considered money well spent and, almost bursting with suppressed laughter, started to pull Joe's leg while the magistrate was still frowning at them. The Marcellos, Joe's cousins and former members of his gang, once opened a social club in Hammersmith and barred him from becoming a member. He walked in, however, and was welcomed at the top of the stairs by Arturo Marcello, who hit him on the head with a siphon of soda water. One of the strange early pictures stamped on my memory is of Joe, smothered in blood, sitting in the charge room with the Divisional Surgeon busily stitching away at his head, laughing and talking of this and that to a crowd of coppers, his natural enemies, quite without vindictiveness and with no complaint against anybody or anything. Joe had sex appeal - very much so - and when older he married a woman with money and was able to buy himself a hall in Birmingham, where he staged boxing and wrestling matches and 116

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

became comparatively respectable. On a visit to old haunts he came to sec me, most villainous-looking and attractive, and asked if I would give his younger brother a 'talking to'. 'He's a bad, bad boy, Harry - very bad - he worries his mother and I don't like it.' I did nothing, of course, for I knew the brother, a boxer like Joe, already had a gang of his own, and there were other brothers, still at school but growing fast, who had no intention of working for their living. Joe told me that the C.I.D. had once promised not to mention his previous convictions if he gave them five pounds. 'They took my money and then told the lot', said Joe. 'But they won't catch me a second time.' From all angles this was detestable and I said so; the result being that the C.I.D. said that I spent too much time in the company of bad characters. When on promotion I was transferred to Vine Street, in the heart of Mayfair and Soho, Joe said it was in answer to his prayers and we could both now make our fortunes. In fact I was now incorruptible, but this was beyond the comprehension of both Joe and the average C.I.D. officer. Charlie Fox was another criminal charmer, with extreme good looks in more conventional style. We met when we were winter swimmers at Lime Grove Baths and some mornings there were no others. In spite of the season his whole body was sun-tanned in the light clear shade common to blondes. In the circumstances friendship between us was inevitable; we swam and dived competitively, and he discovered I was a policeman long before I learnt he had just been released from Bedford Boys Prison, where he had worked in the fields in all weathers. I seldom saw him in the streets, but one evening ran into him in a pub. He told me he had left the home of his strict father about whom I knew - and invited me round to see the flat he had taken and which he was now decorating. He had painted the walls with columns and drapery and on a blue ceiling was now painting silver stars - rather in the style of a stately home, the inside of which he had possibly seen in the course of his profession. As I gazed up at his handiwork, to my surprise and delight for it seemed too good to be true, he placed his face on mine and affectionately put both his arms around me. He was a lone wolf and a dreamer, though not completely so, for some of his later crimes had great technical efficiency. In the manner of lone wolves he ranged far and wide and much of my knowledge of him was second hand. Later in life he had some big

THIS SMALL CLOUD

successes which, however, did not bring happiness. It amused him to dine at the Mirabelle, the favourite restaurant of Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret and their set, knowing very well that the only attention he could attract would be favourable curiosity. Once he escaped from custody by leaping from a moving train. The romantic Daily Mirror said he had 'risked his life for a last kiss from the girl he loved'; but official Police Orders, more down to earth, said that as both he and the girl were suffering from venereal disease, observation must be kept on clinics - and in a V.D. clinic in fact poor Charlie eventually was caught. He was as honest as daylight on the personal level, and when I first knew him was an exceptional young man - not only in appearance. Later on he always seemed lonely and dissatisfied - perhaps he once had dreams which hadn't come true in spite of his wealth. Perhaps it was just indigestion. Though I always remember the silver stars on his ceiling, my last meeting with him was unromantic. He was standing, handsome and well-dressed but very grumpy-looking, beside his car at the edge of a fair on Putney Heath. 'Have you seen my wife?' he asked angrily. Then, before I could answer, 'I'll break her fucking neck when I lay my hands on her'. There was little money about in the late twenties. Young men in places like Hammersmith scraped and pinched to buy gay clothes, then stood about like peacocks, with empty pockets, possessing nothing but what they stood up in, and not at all down-hearted. High spirits were their Cockney inheritance; they formed into groups and had they been puppies their antics would have been considered charming. But rough boys are liked less than puppies, and they were looked upon as a bloody nuisance. The Browning gang were mostly costermongers. They stood unlicensed in the market place until moved on by the market inspector; then they pushed their barrows into King Street and were moved on by the police. Sometimes they were arrested. In the evening they collected together to eat fish and chips on the corner, to the annoyance of the plain humble folk on their way to chapel. By the time the policeman appeared they had had enough of being moved on and were in rebellious mood. Naturally cheeky and collectively courageous, they moved a few inches and claimed they had obeyed his order, another order and another few inches, then a bit of pushing on both sides - and then they got arrested again. The policeman was not altogether to blame, although he would now have to invent

II8

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

the evidence of obstruction. Once, for a time, they became a tribe with primitive instincts. Because of venereal disease they forbade Acton boys to take their pleasures in Hammersmith. This was defied by an enemy warrior in love with a Hammersmith maiden, so, brooking no sentimental nonsense, they crept into enemy territory and attacked them at feasting time - overturning the coffee stall and breaking nearly a hundred cups and saucers. Although the gang bore his name, Arthur Browning was not a costermonger. His father was a punch-drunk old-time boxer, his mother a woman of character; their front door opened on the market place and Arthur had played with the little costers; when they grew up he was bigger, stronger and wilder than they. All the same, he was more led than leading, for they were artful and he was not. They egged him on to feats of daring and he defended them when things went wrong. His body was like a Michelangelo statue, with beautiful arms and shoulders, that gave as much pleasure as a work by that Master to see- and even more to touch. His nose was straight and his chin was good, but when spoil-sports, resentful at perfection, pointed out that his eyes were too close together, one could only agree and grunt 'so what?' He did well in the building trade and wore suits hand stitched at a pound extra, and he had two sisters - Vera, a beauty, first-rate in every way, and Molly, a blowsy prostitute but not too bad, who made her mother sigh and shake her head. One day Arthur was brought in on a charge of obstruction. Two or three angry constables were waiting for the station officer when he suddenly pushed over an enormous table and jumped up and attacked them. The fight was fierce and short and was obstructed by the overturned table, which ended upside down with Arthur underneath and two coppers sitting on top. 'All right - let me out - I know when I'm beat', came Arthur's voice from under the table, and out he came, all smiles and as friendly as you like. Next morning, losing a day's work, he was fined half-a-crown and left the court smiling with his enemies. The scene greatly impressed me and naturally I was on the side of this beautiful bull charging at his captors. I had not then discovered that it is part of my make-up, over which I have no control, to be always and automatically on the side of the loser or lonely, whether male or female, human or animal, weak or strong, attractive or unattractive, right or wrong. 119

THIS SMALL CLOUD

A week later Arthur beckoned me across the road and asked my name. I was not aware he knew me personally, although once, in the dark, I had disturbed him shagging a girl in a doorway, and had apologised and passed on. Not supposing the Great Man wanted my Christian name, I said it was Daley, at which, thinking I had said David, he held out a big comforting hand and said, 'I've taken a liking to you, Dave'. We were now friends for life and the subsequent gossip made people take sides. Arthur's sister, Molly, was now a slight thorn in my side as well as in that of her mother. When she was arrested and jumped her bail, as she did occasionally, and her description was read out with the words 'wanted- present whereabouts unknown', P.C. Bill Morris could always be relied upon to call out, 'Ask Daley - I expect he knows where she is'. He detested me for being 'unnatural', though he disliked all young policemen for their non-participation in the war - which was an obsession with him. He was a bit cranky about the Army. But he was one of those who came to my rescue in the Foden wagon incident, and there probably was room for both of us in the Force. One Easter Monday, soon after my transfer to Hammersmith, we were on duty together at the Broadway tram terminus. At holiday times crowds of people fought their way on to trams to spend the day at Hampton Court. It was free for all - or nearly all. Women, children and little men pushed, wriggled and kicked their way on to the trams to spend a happy day out, whilst the big and the strong, unable to do so for fear of being called bullies, were left behind to kick their heels in Hammersmith Broadway. Years later it was made compulsory to queue, and fully grown men were at last given their fair chance of a seat. This particular bank holiday was wet and Morris and I had a boring time. Near the end of the day a rude conductor prevented a man from boarding his tram just as it was moving off; the man retaliated by lifting two fingers and blowing a raspberry - a trivial incident. It was common sense to ignore it, and surely common sense was a quality to be expected in stodgy Morris. Not at all. Shouting to me to 'Come on', he grabbed the man's arm and propelled him, struggling, towards the police station. The man, doubled up with pain, complained that Morris was twisting his arm, and this seemed true, for the arm I held was peaceful enough. 'On my left a gentleman - on my right a fucking shit-house', shouted the man as Morris's 120

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

strength rushed us all up the station steps, banged open the door with the prisoner's body and brought us straight into the charge room. Here the prisoner was thrown to the ground with Morris, out of control, banging his head on the floor, shouting, 'Now will you behave yourself?' T uttered a mild protest, but even milder was Inspector Wyler, big and sheep-like, who at the sound of scuffling came from the office and stood several seconds before saying feebly, 'That's enough, Morris'. Then came a blow for patriotic Morris, for on being charged with insulting behaviour the man gave his address as Roehampton Hospital. He was a wounded soldier still under treatment though the war had been over for eight years. I plead guilty to moral cowardice over this and similar cases, but ordinary men with dependent mothers were not at this period in a position to be martyrs. In any case, men like myself probably did more good in the long run by staying put and voicing our opinions as our numbers grew stronger. Though having seen nothing to justify this arrest, I was shown on the charge sheet as a witness and later was warned to sec Inspector Wyler before going to police court. The interview was menacingly short. 'Be careful what you say to the magistrate - that's all', was all he said. At police court came the anti-climax. Pleading guilty to insulting behaviour and asked what he had to say, the prisoner, looking lovingly across to Morris, said, 'I must have had too much to drink - I'd never give the boys in blue any trouble - I'd like to apologise'. Morris, unsmiling, accepted by giving a stiff nod, and the magistrate discharged the prisoner. I was thankful to be deprived of my debut in the witness box, anxious though I was for experience. A few days later Morris teased a prisoner in the cells by pretending there was a choice of breakfast dishes. The young man in the cell, good quality but with money troubles, was miserably shy and suspicious, but after a time was persuaded by Morris's well-acted sincerity to order eggs and bacon and coffee; whereupon Morris, braying like a donkey, thrust the disgusting 'authorised sixpenny' from the coffee shop into the cell and told us all about it within hearing of his victim. This \Vas more unbearable to me than twisted arms, and did it matter that men of this type disliked me? Ycs, it mattered to me at that time. I wanted to be liked, and I did not know then that, even in the higher ranks, for every Morris there were dozens of men of goodwill, incapable of hurting anyone, and particularly not an outsider. I2I

CHAPTER 19

When off duty my critics were always sensibly clad in blue serge suits and black boots. Referring to the fact that I wore no hat and to my flannel trousers ('now you can see what he is') they often slightly intimidated me by foretelling trouble when the S.D.I. saw me. Bollocky Bill and Mr Goldie had always been friendly, but the latter, having cleaned up Hammersmith, had now departed to do the same for King's Cross. Our new S.D.I., Mr Canter, had only seen me in uniform and didn't take to me at all. Hats are an awful give-away of character. In my Darking days every hat I wore immediately went limp and sloppy however firm and manly it had looked in the shop. I was told this was because I fiddled with my hats, but I stopped fiddling and got the same result. After being depressed for years at my reflection in shop windows, I decided to go hatless - which was considered eccentric. Now, being vaguely aware that one couldn't salute without a hat, I had bought a trilby to wear at Peel House. Though I carefully abstained from fiddling, a classmate soon told me I looked a 'proper cunt'. This hat I now perched on my head for pay parade, the only time the S.D.I. was likely to see me out of uniform. In spite of my efforts, however, he was not in the least impressed. Mr Canter must have been honest or he would not have been sent to us at this time, but he was over-fond of Guinness and had a purple face and a permanent grimace caused by ill-fitting false teeth. His hobby was handbell ringing - incongruous to me, for my earlier memories of this unrhythmic art were all connected with the Band of Hope entertainments of my childhood. His career had started in distant parts of London where he still had contacts, and a number of arsehole-crawling constables, ambitious and anxious not to miss an advantage however slight, pretended to an interest in handbell ringing and even travelled to places like \Xlalthamstow to hear him and his cronies, standing along a tahle in a church hall, hesitantly dingle out tunes like 'Oh \X!here and Oh Where has my Highland Laddie Gone?'. To be free on these important evenings it was necessary J 21.

METRO PO LI TAN POLICE 19 2

5-5 0

for men on late shift to change their leave day. This was permitted for any valid reason and was constantly done for police dances and whist drives. Consequently I felt justified in applying for a change of leave to attend a particularly attractive Queen's Hall concert. I was sent for at once and confronted with a purple, grimacing S.D.I. glaring at me angrily through his spectacles. Had I submitted this application seriously or as a joke? When I confessed to the former, he said it was an insult and he had a good mind to take me before the Superintendent. What had the likes of me to do with the Queen's Hall? I was working class the same as the rest of them he would like to remind me. How was it he never saw me at whist drives? My face gave an embarrassed twitch and I was told to take that silly grin off it. He tore up my application dramatically and threw it on the floor. Oh dear! - but what a good thing I had friends like Kruger and Bruce,Joe and Arthur, who were always so kind and understanding. Though naturally unaggressive I now sensed danger, and, resentful at the injustice of the situation generally, decided to defend myself. During my adolescence I had once caused amusement by the deliberate, conscious way I had reacted to writers like Shakespeare and Shaw. Now I had r~cently read a story by Saki, in which a fox wasn't chased because he didn't run. He sat washing himself in a glade and was mildly irritated by the baying hounds and the people on horses who circled around him shouting 'Tally Ho'. He wished they would go away. This they soon did, rather shamefaced, not knowing what to do if the fox refused to run. It seemed I could put myself in this position. My homosexuality obviously could not be kept secret, so I might as well agree with everything they said. Things worked out roughly as in the Saki story; though it is doubtful if the result would have been so satisfactory had I not, a bit later, surprisingly got the backing of an unassailable ally. First I had a go at Chilvers - determined not to allow such an ignorant man to spoil my life. I thought out a plan and deliberately, but with thumping heart, carried it out. Starting his usual probing questions before an appreciative audience, he was shocked when I retaliated with some very dirty questions, plainly worded, concerning his activities in bed with his wife. Naturally a terrific row developed, with threats of various sorts, during which I asked what was the difference between his curiosity and mine. It all ended, typically for such people as I now know, in his shaking my hand, saying he didn't 123

THIS SMALL CLOUD

know I had it in me and he would always respect me in future. Though they were seldom near the mark I now agreed with what anyone cared to accuse me of; eventually becoming indifferent - at least on the surface. Soon this was realised and the spiteful jokes became less and less frequent. So far as the uniform was concerned I was slowly left unmolested, apart from an occasional affectionate leg-pull from people who possibly were willing to make love. I imagine the position I have just described is the stage at which a number of off-normal young men feel they have had as much as they can take and resign from such organisations as the police force. This they did in fair numbers, not only those suspected of being homosexual, but religious young men and others with interests and principles more high-minded than the Canters and Morrises were prepared to tolerate. I was almost beyond worry one day when a roughish stranger crossed the road where I was directing traffic. In passing he pushed a note into my hand. 'Beware! Your secret is known!' it read. 'You're telling me', I thought, as he hurried away. Two good friends, both policemen, now appeared in my life. Ronnie Palmer was a Hammersmith boy, trained and educated on the 'Stork', which is moored off Hammersmith Mall and is not a reformatory ship as some people think. He joined the police and was now a celebrity stationed at Scotland Yard- the police middle-weight champion with a terrific wallop in both hands (so it was said) and extremely popular. Considerable pleasure was felt from the Superintendent downwards when it was known he had applied for transfer to Hammersmith to be near his widowed mother. He was a constable of my own age and was tall, slim, a bit thin on top and one-hundredper-cent pleasant- as he could well afford to be. After a time he proved to be extremely light-hearted, and was allembracing in his kindly attitude to the world in general. This included me, to my surprise, for I had not joined the crowd that flocked around him. Then he showed a preference for my company and joined the rowing club, and it was to me he confided that sport was taken too seriously and he didn't intend to 'pull his guts out'. We agreed on so many similar things that he soon became one of my best friends and people who sought his company must now also suffer mine. He could see through the people who flattered him and tormented me and, by joking about them, often made the situation quite enjoyable. So shallow were some of them that they switched over without a blush, and one sergeant, a north country ignoramus soon to lose 124

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

his stripes for misconduct, who for months had been trying to injure me over my friendship with Bruce and Arthur, now coolly offered me his hand and said he had been mistaken. These are the shallow people, changing sides with such ease, who deliberately spoil other people's lives when it suits them. These protective friendships with normal men like Ronnie, never originally sought by me, have been an important part of my life and have no doubt prevented disaster. \Y/e now had transferred to Hammersmith an Inspector Sanders, straight as a die and feared on that account. He had been an instructor at Peel House, where some of the men had known him. He was a friend of Sir George Abbiss, who by his own efforts had risen from constable to Assistant Commissioner and a knighthood. Both these gentlemen had a sense of humour, enjoyed their unpopularity with the old guard and knew that the reason, their incorruptibility, would win them the trust, at least, of the new type of policeman they intended to encourage. During Mr Sanders' first week of station duty a well-dressed woman of about forty-five came to lodge a complaint that I had indecently assaulted her. Not knowing me or anything about me, Mr Sanders took a long statement from the lady and submitted it to the Superintendent. Though she gave my correct number and the exact place I was on duty at the time, I assumed it to be a case of mistaken identity which would easily be cleared up when she saw me. But next evening she identified me in Mr Canter's office. 'Yes - that's him', she whispered, delicately backing away from me in fear, but being reassured when her hunted, darting eyes saw she was protected by the presence of several senior officers. I could only say I had never seen her before. The position was serious. I could be sacked, and even if the allegation was not proved would be transferred to a distant station. The next night station duty was taken over by a very kind station sergeant. At this late time of his life, at the end of his career, after a lifetime of happiness, his wife had suddenly and strangely run off with another man. He fell very silent, but with this great sorrow on his mind behaved always with gentleness and tolerance to all comers, police and public, however tiresome they might be. But on this particular night he made an exception. Soon after ten o'clock the lady reappeared, big and handsome, with rich-looking clothes and furs. She said that in spite of her recent complaint I had just interfered with her again - off duty this time. 125

THIS SMALL CLOUD

The station sergeant knew this could not be true. Quickly he sent someone to find me, to give me a chance to defend myself. 'That's him', sneered the lady when I appeared. 'Thinks himself everybody - walking up and down King Street with his nice wavy hair.' Having failed to persuade her to have a drink, she said, I had tried to pull her round the corner for a 'short time'. She agreed to write another statement, but after filling in the printed heading, giving a good Bayswater address and her age as twenty-six, she had trouble with the pen and asked the sergeant to take her dictation. Soon there was further trouble - over the sentence 'he lured at me'. Are you sure you don't mean leered?' asked the station officer. 'I said lured and I mean lured', replied the lady. 'I don't believe there is such a word', said the officer. At this she snatched the pen from his hand and spilt the inkwell over the statement. The sergeant snatched back the pen and the lady smacked his face. The sergeant then smacked her face and pushed her out of the station. This was all surprising and entertaining, especially as the smack landed fair and square on the lady's face with a most satisfying sound. In his most gentle and unruffled manner the sergeant then said to me, 'Don't let this worry you, sonny - we will see no harm comes to you'. The next night, waiting until after ten o'clock when Mr Sanders was again on duty, she came back to charge me with stealing her handbag. 'I'm sure he's got it', she said, and thought nothing more was needed to have me locked up. The situation was now ridiculous and Mr Sanders was the first to realise it. Next day a complete report, with the ink-splashed statement, was sent to Scotland Yard. Through them we learnt that on three previous occasions, in various parts of London, the lady had made similar accusations against tall young policemen with wavy hair- the first two of whom had been punished by transfer. A message was now received by all stations saying that should she reappear with more accusations, Scotland Yard was to be informed and an attempt made to persuade her to see the Divisional Surgeon. That was the last I heard of her. The immediate result of all this was that Mr Sanders now talked to me at every opportunity. He sought me out on my beat for the pleasure of talking about music, books and plays; he invited me to his home. I was not sure that I was worthwhile and was afraid he would be disappointed if he knew me better. At least he had heard both sides of the question. 'I told Mr Canter he had made a great mistake over you', he said. Though he was lower in rank, from a 126

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

man of his reputation this was equivalent to telling Mr Canter to lay off. I told him of the row with Chilvers which had led to the 'friends for life' handshake, and added, 'He has liked me ever since'. 'They have not liked you ever since', he said. 'Always remember that.' The 'they' was sinister, for though I spoke of Chilvers, he was referring to Hunter and Chilvers. He told me of his unhappy time as a young policeman. A good and gentle boy from Somerset, teetotal, non-swearing, non-smoking and incorruptible, a lover of Shakespeare and Milton and of music, he had such a rough time from the old coppers that he was driven to make the un-Christian resolution - 'I'll get to the top and when I'm there I'll give you hell'. He got there all right, and to some men it was hell when he made them toe the line - but a man of this quality was obviously incapable of vindictiveness when the opportunity came. He offered his help and, had I been ambitious, I also could have risen to fairly high rank. Secretly I knew he over-estimated me. I could pass examinations all right, but what would he think of Arthur and Joe, to say nothing of the many other men of whom I had grown fond? I had no wish to involve other people in my possible downfall, nor was I prepared to accept invitations to his home, or to any other home, there to pretend to an interest in his family which I could never feel. It was impossible for them to accept me for what I was and I was not prepared to waste my life in false pretences. If being pleasant meant, as obviously it did, saying things you did not believe to people you were not interested in, then I must be written off as unpleasant. I gained confidence, possibly a cockiness, from the apparent good opinion of me held by my new friends, and I now looked suspiciously, though not maliciously, at my fellow coppers. Handsome Dick, for instance, had, among other things, refused to walk with me because I carried my rowing togs in a paper parcel. Yet later he pinched a Postal Order of mine from the letter rack at the Section House, cashed it, and when caught out, easily and confidently and quite shamelessly persuaded me not to press the matter; and when the very next day he complained of my slow and girlish way of dealing a pack of cards, I took it all lying down without question. At about the same time we were all off to row at Kew regatta, most of the crew being accompanied by their wives and sweethearts. From the top of an open-deck bus I called down a greeting to my 127

THIS SMALL CLOUD

friend Arthur Browning, who was standing beside a coster's barrow. After a suitable pause, during which there was a little whispering, a friend said, 'Look Harry - if you speak to people like that, none of us decent people can have anything to do with you'. True it was said in the kindest possible manner and he indicated with his hand that he was really thinking of the ladies who were present, some of whom were very high class and refined, assistants in the best Hammersmith shops, or as one of them put it, 'None of your old Woolworths touch, thank you'. Smiling and condescending, they told me that, irrespective of the social standing of one's friends, audible greeting from the top of a bus was really rather vulgar; etiquette required merely a nod, a smile if one knew the person really well. At lunch in a Kew restaurant, in an attempt to be the life and soul of the party, I irretrievably blotted my copy book, so I was told later, by making one or two rather good rude jokes. It was depressing always to be in the wrong, but in my new critical mood I saw clearly what I had always known, that in spite of loving sweethearts and wives and highfaluting manners, most of the men on that bus were not above being unfaithful if the chance of a safe bit of sex came along. This was none of my business, but it was clear we all had our faults and attached importance to different things. I may be different, I thought, but I am not necessarily inferior. Hardly having time to absorb this comforting discovery, I got another blast (the final it so happened) from Mr Canter. He entered the mess room in fault-finding mood, glowered round at the thirty-odd men present and then spotted a pair of boots drying near the gas-ring - strictly against orders. Useless to protest the boots were not mine - he was not interested in that. Glad of an excuse, however unfair, to show his hatred, he quite lost control of himself and let fly at me. When he left I was almost stunned - then recovered gradually to turn over in my mind the events of the past few weeks. Slowly emerged the comforting figures of Kruger and Arthur, Joe and Bruce and one or two other friends, always kind and humorously understanding, always pleased to see me, never critical or condemning. If only I could be friends openly with such people instead of this deceitful hole-and-corner life. But why not? Whose hostile criticism was preventing it? Of whom was I afraid ? Whom indeed! With rising anger I then and there decided to make friends openly with the people to whom I was attracted, irrespective of job, class or criminal record - and bugger the consequences. Greatly relieved, I then 128

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

went to my cubicle and wept. This is no neat arrangement of facts; things happened as I have related. My decision was made violently, as was my decision to quarrel with Chilvers, almost as if in contradiction to my natural inoffensive character. Nobody knew better than I that Mr Sanders' friendship was a godsend. From then on I stuck to my resolution, but who can tell what would have happened to me without his protection. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

129

CHAPTER 20

So here I was out in the open with no guilty secrets, some good and affectionate friends, husky and unhusky, and an enemy retreating if not defeated. There now followed a wonderfully happy period, both on and off duty. Though getting few arrests and no summonses at all, my friends and I did a great deal of those things, often unconnected with crime, that over the years, through the habit of people running for help where they are most sure of getting it, have been accepted as part of regular police duty. After years of dealing with domestic tragedies, dramas and comedies, and in the succeeding calm discussing them over cups of tea ('I don't mind telling you for I am sure you will understand') one knew not only the faces but the secrets of most of the population. People stopped in the street, pleased to see us again, to tell the development of things of which we knew part, paying us compliments in their phrasing - 'You will be pleased to hear that everything is all right now'. We were pleased to hear it and nobody was going to persuade us we were unpopular. I often envied the craftsman who, ordered to make a cabinet, could put skill into his work and finally display a beautiful object. The policeman's skill is usually unnoticed, except by some grateful person; his successes arc unrecorded, while his mistakes poke out a mile and are publicised and punished. Police authorities are aware of this. General Orders say that absence of crime on a beat is the sign of a good policeman. But this is hypocrisy, for they never praise anyone for the absence of crime, and leave it to the S.D.I. on a lower level to grumble at the absence of arrests. Presumably under the blessing of Mr Sanders I was now favoured with duties not normally done by outsiders. I often found myself as acting-sergeant. With two elastic stripes on my arm I deputised for sergeants on leave and strolled unchecked to where the best faces were to be seen. During this pleasant duty it crossed my mind that it wouldn't be too bad being a real sergeant, if only it didn't mean being transferred from Hammersmith. Reserve duty inside the station also now came my way. Two of

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

us answered the telephone and looked after the prisoners; with Ronnie as a mate this interesting duty could be thoroughly enjoyable. We cooked the station officers' meals, after popping over to Palmers' Stores for a bit of steak or fish, with the injunction to 'tell them who it's for'. We also filled in those Persons Found forms which, when displayed outside police stations, cause such disappointment to the reader. Raising interest by describing the person as about twenty, fresh complexion, fair hair, good teeth, well built - they bring one down to earth with a bump by ending 'now in Horseferry Road Mortuary'. As gaoler I often had to lock up my friends and acquaintances not so -:.ipsetting as it sounds. They were from families where such things are no disgrace, and had usually committed trivial offences, with the prospect of early bail and a small fine. Nor were the rarer criminal types particularly upset. They looked on this stage as part of the excitement of their calling, and there was still a chance of being found not guilty - the distress began at the prison gates. They bore no resentment and were only too pleased to have a gaoler who would never grumble, however often they rang their bells for a light. Smoking in cells was forbidden and all property was taken from prisoners before they were l_ocked up. Most station-officers, however, allowed them cigarettes one by one from their bundles on condition the matches were held by the gaoler. Consequently, when the high-ups paid a surprise visit, there was a lot of puffing and blowing and waving about of newspapers in an attempt to dispel the tell-tale smoke. But the underlying sadness when dealing with people facing long sentences was always present. A friend of whom I was very fond was wanted on a warrant for a comparatively trivial offence, though released from a long term in prison only the week before. I met him accidentally and persuaded him to surrender voluntarily at the station rather than be hunted relentlessly from place to place. By coincidence I became his gaoler, and he was almost cheerful. But when sentenced to two years by the sadistic Justice Avory, he cried out 'Oh my Lord! That's too long'. The cry rang through my head for years and still does occasionally. Ronnie and I were on duty when an anonymous voice telephoned to say the man we wanted would arrive in the Broadway on the seven o'clock coach from the West Country. The man we wanted was Rouse, the murderer, for whom there was a hue and cry. It was ten minutes to seven and the C.I.D. just had time to run out 131

THIS SMALL CLOUD

to the coach to find Rouse sitting in it. I looked after him until the big detectives arrived from the Yard. The ordinary-looking little man chatted away, telling me several times he was innocent, and recklessly I chatted back. Though I was only being friendly to a man in trouble, his lawyer could have alleged later, as they do when they have a weak defence, that I had questioned him without giving the necessary caution. I was unaware that this was to be a celebrated case. Soon, however, our lines became blocked by reporters pretending to speak as friends of Mrs Rouse, even imitating her voice, in an attempt to get information an hour or two before the official announcement from the Press Bureau at the Yard. The big shots from the Yard were pleased to see Rouse and told me to make him a cup of tea. This I did and served it up in the police station crockery. 'Oh dear! Haven't you got a better cup than that?' said the Yard man. 'No sir - it's what the station officer drinks out of.' 'Well - you can't really offer him that chipped old thing - pop along to the A.B.C. and ask if they'll lend you one of their best cups - there's a good chap.' Outside, to my surprise, the station was besieged by press photographers and, realising for the first time the importance of our prisoner, I in turn felt ashamed at returning with an A.B.C. cup which, though unchipped, seemed dreadfully thick. I admire the intelligent C.I.D. man who gets on and moves up, and have occasionally envied the top men their interesting jobs. They are seldom saints, which is one of their attractions, and their understanding of human failings is another. But before they reach these interesting posts they must pass through early stages intolerable to me. I never had the least desire to enter the C.I.D. or do duty in plain clothes which is the preliminary. I was not willing to have a chummy chat with an unsuspecting man and see him turn white when I revealed my identity; nor could I welcome informers with open arms. I had no wish to be on Christian name terms with publicans in high-class pubs and spend every evening drinking in the saloon bars of these insincere bores. Nor did the obvious access to extra money entice me at all. I preferred to stand in the street in uniform for people to spot me and come for help. All the same, I was always impressed by the thoroughness of the top detectives. One day an important little busybody reported to me that on the previous Saturday, in Park Lane, he had seen the current wanted man - The Milkman with Glaring Eyes. Finding it

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

difficult at the best of times to be civil to busybodies, I remarked how helpful to report it four days later. Then, realising his face was familiar, I asked whether he was not the man who saw The Parson in Wellington Boots three weeks earlier. Yes, he was - and what of if, pray? Before I could tell him what of it, a policewoman flew up to the Detective Inspector's office to report the conversation, and I rightly found myself before him being told that however much I disliked busybodies, as he did himself, I must never reveal my impatience. Lunatics, drunks, busybodies, all must be welcomed warmly, listened to with patience and thanked profusely. Never must it get about that people believing they have information could be received otherwise. Everything is carefully sifted and at last the clue is found. He was right, of course, and he spoke to me kindly, for these men are too broadminded and busy to be petty. Most Sub-Divisions had one or two detective-constables who had fiddled their way in, but did not have sufficient intelligence to work their way up. They stayed in one place, growing more and more seedy, passing themselves off as detective-inspectors, doing useful work rooting out information among the local small-time criminals. At Hammersmith this type heard a lot about me, and from my friends I heard a lot about them. They alleged that I kept bad company and I alleged that they took bribes. I had taken my routine try-out in plain clothes unwillingly, had no intention of doing well, and in fact had told everyone that I was a copper - which was not at all playing the C.I.D. game. They took offence at this, for they were used to seeing themselves the envy of young uniformed coppers. The ill-feeling between us was trivial and intermittent; to them I suppose I was no more than a minor irritant. The matter would not be worth mentioning except that it led to my being tipped off (not by Mr Sanders) that the Yard were about to watch me 'starting next Monday for a fortnight'. What a shock! And really how exhilarating shocks are! Unsuspecting policemen must often have been watched, but the only recent known case at Hammersmith had been the watching of a jovial, happy-go-lucky constable. On a wet Sunday afternoon at the end of the first week he felt so sorry for the two rubber-heel watchers concealed in a leaky shed opposite his house, that he sent his little girl across with tea for two on a tray. But he didn't care. He was suspected of associating with bookmakers, which was quite true, and before they could punish him he resigned from the police

THIS SMALL CLOUD

and had himself become a bookmaker. But I did care. I wanted to stay in the police and was innocent of what they suspected. They thought I was assisting local criminals to commit crimes. Aids to C.I.D., hard up for a case, had often approached me confidentially - awful word - and asked if I could put them on to a good thing, and clearly didn't believe me when I said I knew nothing of the criminals' secrets. I preferred to leave the pumping and spying to the C.I.D., whose job it was, but I often told my friends that I would arrest them if I actually caught them committing crimes - which they agreed was fair enough. Whether I would have done so in practice is another matter - it was never put to the test. E.M. Forster somewhere says that if put to the test he hopes he would betray his country before betraying his friend; and I don't suppose I was really capable of betraying my friends for the sake of a stockbroker's jewels. You will, I am afraid, be disappointed to hear that I was watched and heard no more about it. However, the Rubber Heel, who presumably did as I did, couldn't grumble. They saw two West End plays and a film at the local cinema, attended a Queen's Hall concert and explored Limehouse on a bicycle; they rowed on the river, had a daily swim, and saw my friend Dick Stubbins box at Fulham Baths - and also saw a young constable work his beat more conscientiously than they thought possible. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

1 34

CHAPTER 21

Social life in the late twenties and early thirties was gay and allembracing; everybody gave parties and I was invited with the rest. Many people were kind to me when there was no earthly reason why they should be; some got fond of me and one or two even fell in love - though 'love' seems hardly the right word to describe the spite and back-biting it all involved. People in love must never be crossed or disappointed, it seemed, and all that was asked was that I should give up all my former friends, acquaintances, hobbies and interests, and sit waiting at home until my lovers found time to call - and on no condition tell anyone I knew them. All this was something, but in my opinion it was not love. The problem was to fit anything more into a life already full, and to tell the real from the bogus. The real thing could crop up, I suppose, but by the time one is experienced enough to judge, one is too old to attract either: But some kind people were hurt and I am now more sorry for it than I can possibly express - and if I could have my life over again I should probably behave exactly the same. In these things I was culprit as well as victim. Romantic and fresh from the country, I was obviously in the mood to fall in love at the least excuse. I now believe it could have been any one of a dozen people, but poor Fred was the unlucky one. He was a young plumber's mate, a first-class professional boxer who was allowed to train in the Section House gymnasium. I fell for his simplicity and nice manners, combined with his boxing prowess and rippling muscles. For two or three years I sought his company continually and pestered the life out of him. He was too polite to tell me to piss off. Sadly enough he was caught in the slump, and being unemployed most of the time was in no position to refuse the little gifts and attentions which, in my hateful patronage, I pushed on to him. He became an obsession and I could hardly think of anything else. He was always kind, but I was a trial to him, and when friends told me that behind my back he said I was a bloody nuisance, I knew it was true but could do nothing about it. To share his interests I entered the depths, 1 35

THIS SMALL CLOUD

learning to play cards and billiards and even attending football matches. But we had some happy times on the rare occasions when we were alone. Sitting with him in the sunshine on the grassy slopes of Box Hill, I realised this would be looked back on as one of my happiest days - a realisation that usually comes too late - and enjoyed it to the full. The friendship was Platonic, for that was the only way he would have it and my sole desire was to please him. At the same time it would have been nice to put my arms round someone I liked so much. He was what was called clean-minded, and once even gave that description to me - which wasn't quite true. I felt I would never get him off my mind; the strange thing was that although most of the time I felt like Sarah Siddons the Tragedy Queen, the lyrics of the popular dance tunes seemed to fit my case. In spite of all this I cannot remember how it ended. The next picture my memory produces is of Fred married - and I am not particularly interested. But thank God he is now in work. He stands holding his lovely dark baby in his arms, looking straight at my face, as he always did, with his smiling brown eyes; gentle and kind as always, and probably now knowing more about me than I knew about myself, for the affair caused quite a stir in Hammersmith and most of the population, it seemed, gave poor Fred advice and warning at one time or another. Being new to the surburban streets of London, I was at first not aware of unemployment. I assumed it was normal for men to stand in groups all day in places like the Broadway, and for newspaper boys and costermongcrs to have idle friends gossiping at their pitches. Accustomed, too, to finding people like Barty Lloyd sleeping rough in the open, I only realised gradually that some of the men who quickly awoke at my approach were from distant parts, skilled men who had left beloved families behind in their depressed home towns to seek work in London. It soon became common, especially at night, to sec these men tramping towards central London. After walking along the still countrified Great West Road, from which direction many of them came, and the leafy streets of Chiswick, it was in our King Street they first realised they were in a city and near their journey's end. We told them this was really true and saw the flicker of pleasure cross their faces. But after disheartening days in the West End and disheartening nights trying to sleep in Hyde Park, they drifted back to places like

METROPOLITAN POLICE I 925-50

Hammersmith where there were charitable convents, and Rowton Houses and cheap common lodging houses. Soon great groups of men were standing about, all known to each other, from some Welsh or Northern derelict town or village, or even from the same factory, coalmine or shipyard. At the height of the depression literally every park seat, shelter, cart, van and lorry held its sleeping figure, and many men took to sleeping on the towing path across Hammersmith Bridge. Though supposed to be a pleasant walk, the towing path was really a place of horror - a mile of bushes running along the riverside, unlit at night and the ideal place for unfortunate people, too old, ugly or diseased to stand a chance in the lighted streets, to have fun with each other in the dark. During the day ancient drunken prostitutes, who in Victorian times had queened it in velvet and feathers in Leicester Square, wanked off old men at a shilling a time, watched through bleary eyes by mumbling methylated spirit drinkers who sat on the seats surrounded by their empties. Sometimes also watched by us, when at rowing practice we stopped close inshore for a rest. Still rubbing away at the unresponsive old cocks they would shout to us to 'fuck off'; in return we would blow out raspberries - all rather undignified, I suppose. When arrests were made, as sometimes happened, it turned out that people came here to misbehave from as far distant as North London and the East End. Behind the bushes they all spat, spewed and shined, and threw their empty bottles and boxes, their old papers and french-letters, and dirty old rags and bandages from their bad legs and things; all to be floated once a year on the flooding spring tides and left festooned on the rusty railings and dingy bushes not a nice place to innocently seek peace and quiet for a night's rest. We frequented a coffee shop in an alley which was used by men from a nearby factory. They were mostly young and lively, and their larking about at meals caused annoyance to an older man who had worked at the factory for years. Without speaking, but continuously making a pursing movement with his mouth, he pushed the youngsters away angrily if they jostled about near him, while they, of course, poked fun at him. Soon the younger boys were stood off through shortage of work. They still came for a cup of tea and the company of their former workmates, not seeming to mind much, especially when later some of the young men were also stood off. One day the grumpy old man was told there was no more work for him; 1 37

THIS SMALL CLOUD

it somehow seemed much worse being in the middle of the morning. He came to the coffee shop to think it over and sat so long and so silent over an untouched cup of tea that the boys, romping about and laughing behind his back, at last seemed moved by his presence and also fell subdued and silent. This is the picture that comes to mind most readily when I think of the Great Depression. Apart from policemen and busmen soon everyone I knew was out of work. They stood about all day bored and hopeless or went on thieving expeditions, according to the home they came from. The young men from the slums, with lots of energy and no scruples, set about fending for themselves; poor Fred, from a respectable home, stood outside the Labour Exchange where he was treated like dirt, or outside Lyons' factory where nobody noticed him. There now ran through our duties a pattern of hunger marches, demonstrations, political meetings and disorderly scenes outside Labour Exchanges. We marched so often with the unemployed that at last we identified ourselves with them, and trudged about wearily at the mercy of the organisers - men who seized on the situation to grind their own axes without really caring much about the hungry footsore unemployed - or the well-fed footsore coppers come to that. After a long march round London and an interminable meeting in Hyde Park, hardly able to stand, we were often alleged to have declared unanimously our determination to march on to Wormwood Scrubs Prison to shout consoling slogans to some of Harry Pollitt's friends who were locked up inside - and off we would totter. One Sunday evening we were cheered by an incident almost too good to be true. Tens of thousands of people, with great trouble, were reduced to silence to allow Harry Pollitt to attempt contact with his friends in the cells. 'Can - you - hear - us - comrades?' 'Ye - ss - s - s -', came the faint reply. 'Have - you - a - message - for - us - comrades?' 'Ye - ss - s - s.' 'What - is -your- message - comrades?' Everyone held his breath and the reply floated into absolute silence- 'Bol- lock- ss -s -s'. Gangs of black-shirted louts now began to upset other people's meetings and their activities led up to the strangest of all our Olympia duties. In 19 3 4, with Hitler flourishing in Germany and official England not seeming to mind very much, Oswald Mosley hired Olympia and invited thousands of his admirers to fill the hall, to roar their approval as he shouted insulting remarks about Jews and Negroes and other inoffensive people. Technically, in spite of its size, this

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

was as much a private party as Mrs Jones' sing-song in her front room on the occasion of her daughter's wedding. The party was staged in the Hitler manner, with a patriotic style of decoration on the platform, variations in lighting, dramatic entries, and scores of storm troopers in black shirts and jack-boots standing about as ushers. Unknown to us at first, many decent men had courageously gate-crashed the party and were scattered singly about the hall, from which, as trespassers, they could legally be ejected 'with no more force than necessary'. We watched from a room with windows looking down on the hall, more or less imprisoned, having been forbidden to leave it under any circumstances. We had been paraded by our Chief Inspector, which was unusual, who told us that whatever we saw we were not to interfere. This warning was later twice repeated. Why were we there? Should we have been called into action had Mosley's limbs been endangered, or was some cowardly Home Office official insuring against future accusations in Parliament? A few years later, living in a Section House with some young Special Branch men, I was surprised at their enthusiastic zeal when enquiring into the activities of suspected Communists, whilst their attitude to the Fascists, whose gangs of louts were by then openly beating-up in the West End streets any Jew or Negro unfortunate enough to be caught on his own, ranged from indifference to approval. These young men were public school types and therefore not likely to think things out for themselves; there is no doubt they took their cue from much higher up. From our room at Olympia we looked down at the preparations for Mosley's great entry. At last the lights were lowered, a spotlight shone on a doorway and through it came Mosley - I was going to say 'like Barbette', but unfortunately he was not in the least like that tolerant man - with a thug bodyguard, all giving the Fascist salute. They strode like ham actors to the platform by an unnecessarily long route, whilst the cheering audience, as befitted the sacred moment, rose as one man to their feet. We were unable to hear Mosley's words, but could see his exaggered gestures. Now and again one of the decent intruders in the audience rose in his seat, apparently to question something Mosley had said. Each time ushers in force pounced on the offender and carried him from the hall. They passed through a passage under our room and, by crossing to the opposite windows, we could see what happened in the yard. We saw groups of black-shirts with their coshes violently beating the defenceless 1 39

THIS SMALL CLOUD

hecklers, who could do nothing but stand and cover their bowed heads with their arms and hands until they fell to the ground. Nobody, up to then, had ever seen anything like it. We were all shocked. These brutal scenes had been organised by a prominent Englishman, and carried out in the most famous hall in the country under the noses of members of the Metropolitan Police, who three times had been ordered not to interfere under any circumstances. There is nothing more I can say about this shameful occurrence, because there is nothing more I know of it. Our consolation at the time was that there would be swift retribution. But no! There were proud boasts of our freedom of speech; things I had seen with my own eyes were denied officially in parliament; and Mosley was left free to organise his mischief-making rallies in the Jewish districts of the East End. I was left to reflect that politics was a dirty business, and politicians, with their thick skins, their cowardice, broken promises and shiftiness, were not at all of the quality of my generous-minded costermonger and bricklayer friends in Hammersmith. Among the policemen witnessing these violent scenes were some of my critics, whom I confess were equally shocked by what they saw. I could not resist remarking that, as these thugs were obviously middle-class, no doubt I could associate with them without adverse comment. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 22

Night duty, which might be supposed to be a pain in the neck, was always a pleasure. Anything could happen during the first part of the night, what with turning-out time and one thing and another, and time went in a flash. Then after a refreshment break out again to streets now deserted and time slowed down; perhaps to wander through the moonlit eighteenth-century riverside area, never knowing what you would find up the next alley-way but hoping for the best; in springtime to enjoy hearing the birds waking at dawn, surprisingly early, in the fresh lilac-scented air. I cannot remember the wet nights I must have spent in the dreary streets around Olympia, bur I recall with delight the roaring windy nights, with crashing glass and hoardings blowing down all over the place. Wandering in solitude awaiting the unknown was a dreamy romantic experience, or one could seek out those whose company was enjoyable. It was less pleasant when others sought mine, apparently for the pleasure of my company, to talk of things that were often boring. Mr Sanders, who talked of music and books, was always welcome, but he had now departed on his climb to the top. Ronnie, also, was now a mounted policeman and no longer a night duty companion. He had always been a favourite of Colonel Percy Laurie, the Assistant Commissioner, whose fancy it was to have all his favourites on horseback under his direct command. This marvellously romantic idea was not always easy to carry out, for some of the best-looking men were not born horsemen. At the riding-school on one occasion the Colonel had cried out in despair, 'Oh Trevor! Trevor! you've got a wonderful head of hair - but you'll never bloody well learn to ride'. Ronnie was afraid of horses but he knew his turn would come; in the event, to his surprise, he got to love his horse and now rode like a king through the streets he had once padded on foot. Just before Christmas one year the social side of night duty was interrupted by a series of shopbreakings so persistent and worrying that even the Superintendent turned out at night to see what was going on. The crimes took place in one small area and it seemed

THIS SMALL CLOUD

fantastic the thieves were not caught. Detectives were concealed in shops likely to be entered, but when these were always missed and shops on either side were robbed, it was clear a spy in the police ranks was working with the thieves. Tempers were lost and accusations made, and the C.I.D. lost no time in accusing me. This was at first whispered secretly, but when I was openly accused, the slumbering rivalry between the two branches woke up into open quarrelling and most of the uniformed men came out strongly on my side. But I soon discovered that men disposed to be friendly could easily become suspicious. Inspector McKay who, though civil, had not been so intimate with me as some of the other officers, had one night made me actingsergeant as a friendly gesture and, unusually, was walking round with me. He was a Scot of few words and we walked almost in silence, but his kindly manner was consoling to me, as he intended. Suddenly an open Bentley roared through the empty streets towards us. All self-respecting crooks drove Bentleys at this period and, to my surprise, the driver waved and shouted hello as he sped past. 'Who was that?' said Mr McKay, stopping dead. I said I didn't know, and when he pointed out that the driver had waved to me, I said that I didn't know anyone who had a Bentley. Nothing more was said and we walked on in silence - I had never been so unhappy in my life. After a long time we came upon a constable just returned to duty from the sick list. 'Pleased to see you, Moore, but I'm surprised they started you on night duty after such a long illness.' 'I prefer it- it's quieter', said Moore. 'I arranged it with the Divisional Surgeon - he just went past in his new Bentley - did you see him?' The relief of Mr McKay and the subsequent protective attitude towards me of this good undemonstrative man was most moving - but supposing we had not met P.C. Moore? One night I thought things over and became so depressed that I walked off duty - a serious offence - took off my uniform and threw it on the floor; then I told a wise friend all about it. 'I'll resign', I said, 'that's all I can do, isn't it?' 'Yes,' he replied, 'either resign or catch the burglars'. Catch the burglars? Such a thing had never entered my head. How could I succeed where so many cunning, ambitious men had failed? A little later I was confronted by a strict station sergeant who wanted to know what I was doing out of uniform when I should be on duty. I told him. He called me a bloody fool, said everybody knew I was straight and ordered me back to duty.

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

By everybody, he meant everybody in the uniform branch, and I cheered up a bit. Another constable now had reason to be fed up. He disturbed the thieves, had failed to locate them exactly, and had heard them drive away. He had a very soft voice and was known as the Whispering Baritone. Because of this the loud-mouths thought he must be a coward and alleged he could have caught them had he not been afraid. He came to me for sympathy. 'I couldn't have caught them,' he said, 'because I didn't even see them'. He had heard a low warning whistle and realised the thieves were about - but where? He had run to the backs of tobacco and wine shops, looked over walls and, finding nothing, had heard a car drive away. Things had now reached the pitch where we were given permission to leave our own beats and move up now and again to the danger area. Nobody had known such an order before. My beat was distant, at the far end of the riverside district, and it crossed my mind in the early hours to try my luck. I kept off the streets as much as possible and travelled by the alleys and passages which abound in this area. Nearer the danger spot I tip-toed along softly; it was contrary to my nature but good fun. Suddenly I heard the soft warning whistle, exactly as the Whispering Baritone had done, and found myself in the same position. Where were they? I ran to the backs of tobacco and wine shops, looked over walls as he had done, and like him, despairingly, heard a car drive away. Relaxed and despondent I continued my search to see which shops had been busted, assuming I also would be accused of cowardice. In a yard at the back of a fish shop, partly concealed by stinking fish boxes, I saw a portable gramophone, and this clue led me over two walls to the rear of the H.M.V. gramophone shop where, as I expected, I found the window jemmied and standing open. It seems strange that I got so far without seeing other policemen; but at this moment two aids to C.I.D. appeared behind me. Could they have been watching me? One of them was Darkie Bullock, a friend of mine- but one never knows. I told them what had happened and together we climbed through the open window and strolled casually through the long shop, which was carpeted and lined with sound-proof audition rooms. We came to the office and, to our surprise, saw a kneeling young man sawing with a hacksaw at the back of a safe he had pulled to the centre of the floor. I was relieved to find he was a stranger to me. He remained kneeling, but stopped 1 43

THIS SMALL CLOUD

sawing and looking up with the faintest of smiles said, 'It's a fair catch'. 'Yes', I answered meekly. 'I'm afraid it is.' Darkie took the charge because he was my friend and ambitious. This would help him to get into the C.I.D. - my name was merely added to the charge sheet as a witness. This caused tremendous indignation in the uniform branch and angrily I was called a bloody fool by men of all ranks - too late! The prisoner was not depressed that would come later. He chatted away and told us how near we had been to catching them on previous nights. He had lain along the top of a wall, had looked down on us, and felt quite safe because he said coppers never look up. He came from Kennington, and later in the night, under C.I.D. questioning, told us that the look-out in the car, whose warning he had failed to hear in the sound-proof shop, was his brother-in-law, a coal merchant in a small way of business in that district. I took great interest in the arrest of the brother-in-law, but was put off by the C.I.D.; with irritation they told me to leave it to them as it was none of my business. But no further arrest was made and possibly the evidence was not strong enough. After some weeks the case came up at the London Sessions. The C.I.D. did not notify me, later making the excuse that there was to be a plea of guilty and no witnesses were needed. But Mr McKay was watching points and I attended the trial. The case came before Judge Cecil Whiteley, a very nice man who, accepting the plea of guilty, asked if anyone was present to tell him about the accused. 'Yes, my Lord', said the C.I.D. sergeant, leaning confidentially, as they do, towards the judge. •1 have his brother-in-law here - a coal merchant in a good way of business in Kennington - he would like to speak for the accused.' Up stepped the man whose warning whistle I had heard five weeks earlier. It was interesting to see him. Imitating the detective's confidential manner but rather overdoing it, he leaned forward chummily towards the judge with a concerned expression on his face. In a voice clammy with sincerity he said, 'I'm afraid my Lord, 'e's got into very bad company - 'e's a good boy at 'eart, my Lord, and I can find 'im a nice little job in my business where I can keep me eye on 'im - if you could only see your way, my Lord'. Cecil Whiteley, standing out crisp and clean and honourable amidst the filth that surrounded him, said, 'I am glad there will be somebody to keep an eye on him when he finishes his sentence', and gave him nine months. The identity of the shopbreakers' informant was cleared up in an 1 44

METROPOLITAN POLlCE 1925-50

equally shifty manner. It was probably a young C.I.D. probationer. He was suspected and was about to be accused when he disappeared. It was all very hush-hush. A week later he was found suffering from loss of memory on Goodwood racecourse, sitting in the grass muttering to himself, blithely and barmily making daisy chains, quite unaware of his name or where he came from. The poor fellow was invalided out of the force with much sympathy from the C.I.D., a good character, and a lump sum in lieu of pension - after which, no doubt, he made a quick recovery. It seems there are endless variations on the 'before I betray my friend' theme and, though I am all for it, I am not sure that truth and honour don't get a bit of a bashing in the process. These stirring events gave great satisfaction to my friends, suspicion had now steered well away from me and I found myself on a peak of popularity. All the same, I felt that the pattern of my career was too closely following that of Christina Alberta's school career, where, as H. G. Wells tells us, 'at first she was unpopular, then very popular, and then she got expelled'. I felt I would benefit from a change and a fresh start; transfer on promotion was the obvious way to ensure this. I put down my name for the next examination and immediately became enthusiastic. Most of my well-wishers had stopped pushing me forward and free from these off-putting pressures, I now saw that a sergeant's life could be quite delightful. The examination was on parts of General Orders, and for a year I studied hard at this bible-like book. It was rather difficult; not only the legal stuff in legal language, but also directions on how every conceivable happening under the sun should be dealt with. I passed easily, only beaten to top place by three Scotland Yard constable clerks who were assumed to have had a preview of the examination papers. My final months at Hammersmith were peaceful and enjoyable, carried out in an end of term holiday atmosphere. I attended a sergeant's course at Peel House, where we were treated as persons of importance. On the final day, as a special treat, we again visited the Black Museum and later were addressed by Lord Trenchard, the Commissioner. He stood on a platform, his legs a bit wobbly, and he hummed and hawed and fumbled for the right word and abandoned sentences midway. He fidgeted with things on a table and several times forgot all about us. It was like an actor overdoing it a bit in High Comedy, and was in fact a put-on act, for he survived 1 45

THIS SMALL CLOUD

another ten years, whereas the figure he presented to us, even with careful nursing, could not have lasted more than a fortnight. But out of the mumble-jumble one sentence came out clearly. 'The trouble with you working classes,' he said, 'is that you arc too thin-skinned.' Though perfectly true, this bad-mannered remark fell on stony ground, for half the policemen present had been persuaded by their wives that they were middle class, and most of us had the sense of humour that was so lacking in Trenchard the grasping disciplinarian. His Lordship wobbled off the platform, and an inspector appeared with a posting list from which I heard I was to be posted to 'C' Division, Vine Street, which was exactly what I wanted. So I was soon to be a West End copper, that special thing usually referred to by coppers elsewhere with a mixture of envy and contempt both of which, I was to discover, were well deserved. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 23

I was transferred to Vine Street in the spring of 1935. The station was in a cul-de-sac between Piccadilly and Regent Street and was very hard to find. It was a dingy old building but I was proud to belong there and soon looked on it with affection. The approach from Regent Street was through The Man in the Moon Passage, so narrow and crooked you could pass it a dozen times without seeing it. The Man in the Moon was a former Victorian pub, with a street lamp jutting out crookedly from a side wall bracket. It had been taken over by the expanding police station next door and, with little alteration inside and none at all outside, was now used for dealing with non-criminal callers. Fuddled men still looked in and called for a pint, and revellers in the night, male and female, finding this secretlooking passage by accident, came down for a piss against the recessed front door of a pub - which seemed all right. But actually it was our side door and was far from all right - as they learnt when, alerted by the splash, we opened up from inside. Had the revellers turned the corner at the bottom of the passage, they would have seen the front steps up which so many prisoners have gone; prisoners going up gaily and willingly; prisoners going up alone to wait at the top for their lagging captors; notorious criminals going up arrogantly; unconscious prisoners being carried up; prisoners going up indifferently for the hundredth time; and more numerous here than elsewhere, prisoners, far from being criminals, going up with bursting hearts and visions of crumbling worlds. In my new post, I was free to wander at will through the streets of Soho and Mayfair, visiting the constables and signing their reports, the number of which was enormous, though the variety of subject was small. They revealed that the difference between duty at Hammersmith and at Vine Street was similar to the difference between home life and 'a night up West'. In spite of this limitation to their experience (of which they were unaware) the constables were rather snooty and knowing. They knew all about show business and who was queer and who was not. They knew that some people enjoyed 1 47

THIS SMALL CLOUD

having pins stuck into them, and which girls were willing to do it and how much they charged, but they knew nothing about people making love in doorways, free of charge, simply because they liked each other. They never saw prams or lost children and dogs, and their drunks were always strangers who never lived just round the corner. Their tramps and layabouts were minor celebrities often mentioned in the papers, and half the people they met could hardly speak English. They were also unjustly suspected by the public of taking bribes from prostitutes, and there was nowhere to pop in safely for a quick cup of tea. Their whole district was crawling with civilian informers and rubber heel police, and they assumed there was much whispering into earholes. The criminals who frequented the streets treated them with respect. Unlike the youths of Hammersmith who moved defiantly inch by inch when told to move on, having nothing to lose even if arrested, the Soho gangs, important men in their world, moved on willingly and politely if told, right out of sight, for it was essential to their rich living to frequent certain streets without a hostile police on their tails; nor were they willing to clutter up their records with minor convictions. Prostitutes, too, could earn their hundred pounds a week more comfortably if the police were not unfriendly, and they usually took care not to upset us. This sounds like intimidation, but was not really so. Both sides were usually blessed with character and a sense of humour, and we bumped into one another so often it was impossible to prevent a sneaking mutual interest. Short of actual friendship, there was more goodwill between us than between coppers in a country town and the respectable bank manager they prevent parking his car in the High Street. The local rogues and whores used their abundant good looks and charm as business assets, for sale direct or to bewitch victims about to be fleeced; fines were their business expenses, and when told that sergeants were expected to work at this busy station, I made arrests easily, without feeling I had frightened defenceless living creatures. Selfish people causing traffic jams could be summoned with a clear conscience, even with pleasure, and I nabbed self-important businessmen whose cars must stand near their offices, taxi drivers loitering outside hotels and cinemas, and women from outer suburbs come to Regent Street for a day's shopping and eating, dumping their cars in spots convenient to themselves. Nor was there any doubt about

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

what to do in quarrels in which knives and razors were flourished and guns pointed. These things were a challenge that had always been met with a firm no-nonsense manner. I quite agreed. The result was that the ordinary decent Vine Street copper was almost the equivalent of a snatcher elsewhere, the snatchers among them were correspondingly more horrible than their surburban counterparts, and the chief snatchers were quite appalling. So I became the equivalent of a snatcher and found it thoroughly enjoyable, especially when the shoppers and sightseers departed on the last trains and buses, and those left behind, dropping all pretence, stopped walking and started prowling. This was my favourite time of duty. Nothing annoys me more than the universal belief that West End coppers take bribes from prostitutes. They have not done so since the days of Sergeant Goddard. No prostitute ever offered a bribe to me or anyone I know, and prostitutes themselves never make the allegation. Goddard had been exposed seven years before my transfer to Vine Street, and the system under which he flourished was seen to be an open invitation to corruption. He and a constable, both in plain clothes, had for a long time been given exclusive control over common prostitutes. The rot must have developed almost automatically. Each whore paid a regular lump sum to Goddard, which entitled her to be arrested in proper rotation with other girls, never unexpectedly, and enabled her to give full attention to passing men without the nervous wear and tear of keeping constant look-out for coppers. The arrangement was so convenient to the girls that on the appointed day, in places like Lisle Street, they formed small queues waiting to pay their dues to Goddard. It must have been wonderful. When Goddard was caught, a new system was started which still operated in my time. Soliciting prostitutes could now be arrested only by policemen in uniform - any policeman in uniform. Some of the older women still got fuddled when arrested and protested it was not their turn, but most of the girls were wideawake and occasionally grabbed a blackmailing 'policeman' who, if he did not escape, usually turned out to be a guardsman in civvies trying it on. According to the Metropolitan Police Act, 1839, any constable could arrest any common prostitute he saw 'soliciting in the street to the annoyance of passengers' - maximum fine forty shillings. There were over three hundred policemen at Vine Street constantly patrol1 49

THIS SMALL CLOUD

ling the streets. Would it be worth a girl offering a bribe, when the next copper, already in sight, was also liable to arrest her? Not likely! - and neither party ever thought about bribes. The truth, in fact, was just as bad if not worse. Almost all the arrests were illegal. Men were hardly ever annoyed, and police in uniform would be unlikely to see any girl cause annoyance to two, at least, as the law demanded. If the law required the men to give evidence, or merely to give their names and addresses, the arrests would have stopped immediately. The situation in the streets would then have got impossibly out of hand. The danger of hundreds of prostitutes soliciting openly in the streets, both a tourist attraction and a national disgrace, a delight and an abomination to the public according to its mood, was a great responsibility to the S.D. Inspector at Vine Street, unhelped as he was by the law. I made my share of these illegal arrests and my conscience was no more troubled than, apparently, were those of bible-punching Home Secretaries like Joynson Hicks and John Simon, or that of pious Sir Rollo Graham-Campbell, the Chief Magistrate at Bow Street, all of whom were aware of the injustice and did nothing about it. As it was legal to be a prostitute, and even to solicit in the streets if no annoyance was caused, it was spiteful of the law to make it an offence for publicans and cafe owners to allow prostitutes to frequent their premises. Publicans could relax if their door opened to admit Crippen or Christie, Hitler or Mussolini or Justice Avory, but had to sit up and take notice if an innocent prostitute came in for a small port and to rest her poor old feet. The girls were aware they had not broken the law, but didn't seem to mind. The smart girls in Burlington Gardens and Bond Street were usually arrested two or three times a week, and sometimes jibbed a bit at the third. The rougher girls in the Leicester Square area were hooked in about once a fortnight, and occasionally could say, 'Well I can't grumble, dear - I haven't been in for a month'. Sophisticated girls often said, 'How can a pretty girl like me ever cause annoyance?' - giving a dazzling smile and trotting off quite willingly to the station. To avoid attracting attention we followed at a distance, and when they took a cab we followed on foot, after they had reminded us that time is money and begged us not to dilly and dally on the way. They were all charged and bailed and back to work again within twenty minutes, and they considered their only punishment was having to get up early next morning for court.

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

The easy friendliness between police and tarts may be the reason the bribery legend survived so long. Girls often protested they had already just been arrested and fumbled in their bags for the Bail Form to prove it. They could be taken in again, but coppers and girls parted with a smile, and witnesses were convinced they had seen a pound note change hands. Further suspicions were aroused during the afternoons in Regent Street, when respectable shoppers, surprised at seeing painted hussies working away openly with 'Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles', were even more surprised to see policemen walk past without interfering. It was natural to assume some mutual arrangement, but in fact the majority of policemen were not willing to get involved in the prostitute problem when the law on the subject was so unhelpful. But none of us could stand aloof from the genuine offences resulting from prostitution. One Christmas morning just before six another sergeant and I were making our way off duty. It had been snowing all night and it lay about deep and crisp and even. We were still warm and cheerful from the drinks we had been given earlier, and as we passed Ham Yard, which in those days was a sink of iniquity or a garden of delight according to which side you were on, an hysterical, barefoot and almost naked girl came flying out; round her neck was a deep red mark where someone had just tried to strangle her with a cord. She was known to us as a well-behaved tart named Beryl. We ran to her flat and found a young labourer of bull-like appearance, and with about as much intelligence, searching for the four pounds he had given her and which she had hidden. He pretended to think his attack was justified if he could prove she was a prostitute, and he pulled aside the disarranged bedclothes to reveal a surprising number of french letters that had been flung under the bed. He made no attempt to escape, but as we led him out he turned to tell Beryl he would 'get her' when he was free. She took no chances and moved out the same day, in spite of it being Christmas Day and the snow now turned to slush. The man was from Dorset and we learnt that he usually assaulted those with whom he had sexual intercourse. He had many convictions, including an early one for assaulting the vicar of his village, whom he first buggered and then left injured and unconscious on a river bank. He got eighteen months at the Old Bailey for the Beryl affair - which was less than he expected. Later on Beryl said, 'What a

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Christmas! Never again!' I don't know what she meant, for she was all smiles and thriving a few hundred yards from her old address. Perhaps she meant that never again could she say 'You can never find a copper when you want one'. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 24

By dawn even the sexual sinners had gone to bed, the cleaners had refreshed the streets with their flooding fountains, and the beggars in their favourite nooks were left for a while to sleep in peace. It was part of the Vine Street tradition not to badger the beggars; this originally may have been dictated by public opinion. When an old beggar-woman was arrested in Grafton Street outside the mansion of Mrs Willie James, one of the Great Hostesses, this dear lady was very upset and sent a stinker to the Commissioner of Police. 'I like to see her begging outside my house', she wrote. 'She is not to be arrested again.' This was the general attitude to our tramps and beggars. The rich saw them as poor humble creatures whose grovelling manners brought temporary feelings of graciousness and charity; the country visitors saw them as part of the scene they had come to stare at. There were other reasons why they were not often arrested; they left the cells in such a lousy state that we hardly liked to invite a decent criminal in. A well known tramp, bearded and top-hatted, who pushed his possessions along in a pram, was lousy enough to have mice as well as the usual things. When he was arrested and brought to the station they ran from his pram like rats deserting a sinking ship. 'Don't ever dare to bring him here again', cried the station officer, and thus conferred on him the Freedom of the City. The tramps, having gained public approval by public humility, did not feel it necessary to adopt this pose to policemen. They had their regular theatre doorways and other places to sleep in, and often called upon us to eject intruders. We usually left them alone, thankful to have them settled down, but in February it was the custom to speak to them before going off night duty. A frosty February often finished what a damp November had started, and a dead body in a theatre doorway took some explaining when the manager arrived at ten in the morning. Before waking an old woman in the doorway of Daly's Theatre I reflected that she had slept here in the days of The \Valtz Dream, The Count of Luxembourg, The Dollar Princess and The Merry 1 53

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Widow, through the long run of The Maid of the Mountains up the over-patriotic Young England, which was now providing

to

violent middle-class louts with a safe excuse to misbehave in public. I woke her gently with a sort of apology. 'Oh, it's all right', she said. 'I wanted a policeman anyway - I want to report the loss of my furs.' 'Have you been to the police station? They may be there.' 'Don't talk so silly- how can I get to the station with my leg?' She showed me her leg. It was frightful - quite raw and rotting from knee to ankle, with a dreadful smell. I begged to be allowed to take her to hospital, promising, dishonestly, that she would not be kept in. 'Never you mind about my leg', she said testily. 'You get off and look for my furs - that's what you're paid for.' There was often trouble at the back of the Turkish Baths in Jermyn Street, where the hot steam floated up through the gratings and turned them into attractive beds. They were occupied by regulars and were so desirable that it was known who would succeed on the death of the holder. New homeless people sometimes found this haven by accident and once or twice I was called upon to give judgment. It was impossible. My sympathy was with the innocent newcomers, but I was obliged to murmur ambiguously something about first come first served and leave them to work it out for themselves. 'How can I get here earlier when I've got my dustbins to do?', cried one old man. Quite true. If one lives on the crumbs from the rich man's table, one must wait until the rich man finishes, and the best crumbs fall from the supper table. All the hotel and restaurant dustbins were thoroughly sifted every night, not only for food but for other things that brought in a few coppers, several men being specialists. Some sought cigarette and cigar ends which fetched a few shillings for their nicotine content at Covent Garden next morning. To get the biggest haul, enough money to keep alive, it was necessary to wait until the restaurants were finally swept out. Police were aware of this and were not unsympathetic to the idea of reserved doorways and gratings. The newcomers among the homeless, the unfortunate unemployed, got a raw deal all round. Not only were the best sleeping places occupied or booked, but being skilled workmen temporarily hungry and desperate, with no knowledge of the cringing art of begging, they got into trouble by openly asking for money when they saw 1 54

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

it being wasted by revellers. Being by now merely shabby, still far from the picturesque filthy stage, they caused indignation and complaints, on the strength of which the snatchers were only too pleased to make arrests. They then became disillusioned and frightened and drifted out again to places like Hammersmith. The law authorised fingerprints of convicted beggers to be taken, and many honest men in Wales and the North, among those who survived the war, now back in their rightful place as heads of families, must have their convictions and fingerprints filed at Scotland Yard. ♦♦♦

♦♦♦

1 55

CHAPTER 25

Vine Street was not the oldest London police station; that honour belonged to Bow Street just along the road through Covent Garden; but its name was romantic enough to make it no disgrace among the rich to have been run in and charged there. People demonstrated in other police districts, but always celebrated in ours. They celebrated university boat races and rugby matches, cup finals, Reliefs of Ladysmiths and Armistices and Coronations. Students and young bloods demanded to be arrested, gave themselves up, flung themselves into our arms, and celebrated even more gaily once inside the big special cells. They refused to be bailed, for the best fun was to sing in the Black Maria next morning on the way to Bow Street Court. Many famous men could say they had spent a night in the Vine Street cells, and many less famous did say so, proudly bragging of it, though I doubt if they would ever mention the time they were knocked off on the towing path and spent the night in Hammersmith nick. Not all our prisoners were celebrators and some didn't in the least approve of the goings-on. To them a cell was the only place where they slept in the warm. They rang their bells and complained of the noise, and threatened to write to Godfrey Winn about it - which was a sign of the times, for once they used to write to Horatio Bottomley's John Bull. But at Vine Street singers and complainers, whatever their class, were all treated with equal tolerance - it was part of the Vine Street service. I never saw anyone struck there, and cannot even imagine it happening. Vine Street and Piccadilly and Vice were names linked together by most people who bothered with such things. 'Been up the 'dilly lately, dear?' was a common taunt to homosexuals, even by dirty-minded village bumpkins. But whatever went on in pubs or railway station lavatories, importuning homosexuals were not a common sight in the West End streets. They were easily controlled as a side line by two snatchers who worked together. These two men were permanently employed by the S.D. Inspector to deal with the complaints on all subjects, anonymous and open, that came to him. They could be seen

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

lurking discreetly outside his office, like hired assassins waiting in a Vatican passage for the Pope to bring out the new List of Names. When there was nobody to be watched or spied on, no policeman to be put in his place, no flower sellers secretly selling dirty postcards, no tarts congregating in out-of-favour cafes, no club doormen pimping for their girl-friends - then they would set about the homosexuals. Perhaps my hatred for them was really fear; on the other hand their false poker faces may have been assumed to conceal their own guilty secrets. Both had a meek manner; one was sallow with a spot of high colour incongruously on each sunken cheek; the other had an empty egglike face with two blue pebbles for eyes set direct into the face with no surrounding lines or wrinkles. Minor offences in Piccadilly become major disasters when reported in local papers. Decent lonely men must often have looked into these pale pebbles and realised with sinking heart that here could be no softening, no kindness, no forgiveness, no second chances. Their activities were perhaps justified under the County Fire Office arches in Piccadilly Circus, where there was an exception to what I have said. Here the screaming bitch type of homosexual, not averse to robbery or blackmail if the chance came, and normal young criminals, aware of th~ chance for easy money, often made themselves such a nuisance that complaints rolled in from people genuinely disgusted or intimidated. The rich and the important lay thick around Vine Street - the self-important were even thicker. I once arrested a foreign prince, which made him very cross indeed. He threatened to have me up and sent the threat by registered post. I was very disappointed, for up to then, but not since, I associated registered letters with money and thought someone had sent me a present. To do more than mention the subject here will bring him down on me again like a ton of bricks, and I shall not do so; but the authorities approved my action, and when sent to Scotland Yard with confidential documents from my Superintendent (conveniently left unsealed) I was pleased to read that I was a 'reliable man - not likely to make a serious error of judgment'. For at the time I was having a rough passage from a man higher in rank than myself, though much lower than the Superintendent. Inspector Galloway, not much different in manner from the Glasgow gangs at that time infesting Leicester Square, hated all homosexuals, and disliked me enough to literally snarl and foam at the mouth 1 57

THIS SMALL CLOUD

when discussing me, a performance made more effective by his having two projecting fang-like teeth. He thought men who resembled himself were wonderful, allowed them to do as they liked, and soon formed a gang. He was bold and confident, as you can afford to be when you have enticed the S.D. Inspector into being your bosom pal. One of our S.D. Inspectors thought he was Napoleon, but he was really a pathetic softie who longed for affection and admiration. Galloway easily roped him in. Galloway's method was to loudly denounce homosexuals before as many people as possible, even to the constables on parade, making it clear he was referring to me. His gang giggled, tittered or sneered at me as directed, though individually and alone they were often friendly and even showed signs of shame. Their behaviour revolted most of the decent men, who sympathised with me, but often said I had only myself to blame. They meant that, to placate Galloway and the S.D.1., I should stare at girls' legs and pretend to be excited by tits. Why should I? Years ago I had made such a concession my strong language to the copper who pinched my bookmakers' halfcrowns was clearly that of an insecure young man. I could have taken to pipe and beard, as many do, but I decided to be natural and take my chance. Now I entertained my friends, with only slight apprehension, in the Section House that was my home, and I talked about the things in which I was interested. I was much better behaved than either Galloway or the S.D. Inspector. It was only good manners to put up a pretence to the world in general, but I was not prepared to lead a life of deceit to my friends and fellow-workers. What's the good? Nobody is deceived - as becomes clear when men like Galloway turn up. But in the end Galloway brought me great pleasure. Men with a pull or with a flair for dealing with vice, spent three months each year in Clubs Office, a department of Vine Street nicknamed the Vice Squad. Our S.D.l.s took turns at the job, and Galloway and his gang naturally went to Clubs Office when their friend was in charge. Some found it delightful. They associated with every willing Tom, Dick and Fanny of the underworld; ate and drank of the best at their expense or on an expense account; and wiped off old scores for them by taking out warrants for the sins of their friends. With their help they raided brothels and caught ponces red-handed, and found doors of illegal clubs unlocked for their benefit. At the end of three months they returned to the cleansing air of uniform branch

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

- forbidden to as much as speak to their recent charming friends; but such orders could be ignored by big-heads like Galloway, or so he thought. At the time there was a Soho police informant who also owned several night clubs. He bore a grand biblical name which I now forget, possibly because most of his friends bore similar names; but whether he was Solomon Saul or Joshua Moses, like most of the other flamboyant people with whom I have mixed him up, he was generous and good company, of handsome appearance and always ready to strike down his enemies in the good Old Testament manner. He informed against those who offended him, and it was safer to pretend you loved him. His enemies were capable of striking back, but he was constantly and openly in the company of police of rank high enough to protect him. They could not actually be seen drinking his whisky, but could be heard roaring at his jokes - which I believe were good. Rather late in the day the Yard realised the danger, and ordered that he was no longer to be used as informant and no one was to associate with him in any circumstances. Two days later a sergeant friend of Galloway, a backbone of Clubs Office, was seen talking to him and was transferred at once to uniform duty at Blackheath, of all places. During the next six days Galloway went as white as a sheet and lost over a stone in weight. It was nice to sec him get whiter and thinner every day, more fcrrety-cyed through lack of sleep what guilty secrets could have brought such devastation? As the danger passed he recovered his bounce and cast his eyes once more on me. Then he was taken ill suddenly and, to everyone's surprise and my delight, he kicked the bucket. His gang were very upset. For a long, long time, almost a fortnight, they stood over their beer with glum faces, talking of 'old Jock' and saying we should never sec his like again - which I am thankful to say proved to be true. He was not unintelligent, he knew what he was up to; he set out deliberately to make me unhappy, and often succeeded. When I am feeling low, fortunately not very often, I think that if there is such a thing as ever-lasting hell-fire, I hope the rotten bastard is roasting in the middle of it. Clubs Office was unique to Vine Street. It was manned by the uniform branch, who wore plain clothes for three months to do the job. Many ordinary decent men declined to take part, a decision no doubt in which their wives had a say, and it had become a pcrqui1 59

THIS SMALL CLOUD

site of men like Galloway and his friends. As I was not ordinary, and according to him not decent either, I asked to take my turn and, though it must have been obvious to everyone but myself that I was not suitable, my name was put on the waiting list. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

r6o

CHAPTER 26

One day I found myself attached to Clubs Office for three months, free to wander about in search of brothels, accompanied by a constable experienced in this duty. My companion was a good quality Scot who enjoyed the company of the people we were about to meet, but thought others should be prevented from doing so. I heard how he was responsible for the removal of the urinal in Ramillies Place, and how he had thrown a lodger, a lady doctor, out of the boarding house he kept in his wife's name for having a gentleman friend on the premises. When speaking of these things he screwed his mouth up tightly, possibly in subconscious imitation of his old granny in the Highlands, from whom he inherited these puritanical ideas. While still in uniform he had heard of a brothel in Lisle Street, but knowing he was soon to join Clubs Office, had kept it under his helmet. We now watched this place for three days from the White Bear, a pub that stood opposite. I know nothing of brothels in Victorian times. In my day they were never luxurious salons where naked women with fat bottoms sat waiting on settees, but were creepy bedrooms, dingy and makeshift, in accord with their short expectation of life. They were places where someone, for a price, allowed whores with no flat of their own to take the men they picked up in the street. It was that someone, the holder of the rent book, whom we were after. Neither the girls nor their customers were committing an offence, and if they stayed in bed on our arrival, it was merely bad manners and not a breach of the law. Five giris used the Lisle Street brothel and they were in and out like busy bees - one of them seventeen times in one afternoon. She was Irish and pretty and, soliciting beneath our window, couldn't put a foot wrong. On two afternoons she was visited by her ponce and smilingly gave him money; and she was friendly with a butcher's boy, who often sat astride his tradesman's bike chatting to her with a large erection showing through his trousers. \Ve knew that the brothel belonged to a young Jew who dabbled in property. He avoided the premises, but had arranged for a woman

THIS SMALL CLOUD

to take the risk. She lived opposite, and popped across the road in her apron now and again to shake up the beds and make the girls a cup of tea. She had several convictions for soliciting prostitution, but illness and semi-blindness had made her look old and put her out of business. She was pleased to earn a few pounds at the brothel, with the promise of a bonus, plus the amount of the fine, if she was caught. In an attempt to avoid this and to pin down the young Jew as the keeper, we made enquiries at the local rates office, but were unsuccessful, and the warrant, after all, had to be for her arrest. The raid was led by the S.D.I.; it was a laugh for everybody except the woman we had come to arrest. She stood unprotesting and uninterested, as cattle can be seen standing silent and helpless in a bustling market place. What do people have to suffer, I wonder, before they can meet with such indifference the things that to others would seem disaster. However, she responded to a sympathetic smile, looked surprised and pleased and fidgeted a bit, and glanced across hoping to get another. The top room was empty, but a cane hooked over the rail of an iron bedstead, a box of french letters and some dirty postcards were seized as evidence against a plea of not guilty. In a lower room the Irish girl explained that she had no dirty postcards because she always found 'that the men wanted to do what was on the postcards'. She spoke affectionately of her ponce, and said he came to see her most afternoons when he was not at the races. Another young lady explained that she had no cane because 'my bum's for sitting on - not for whacking'. There was laughter and good humour, and even the woman we were about to lead away seemed to realise, dimly, that a joke had been made. Next day at court, after a plea of guilty, the magistrate told her she was obviously a stooge and he would therefore fine her lightly - but next time! A happy ending I suppose. After this fairly good start we ran into the doldrums, and I realised I was not cut out for this sort of work. It was too crafty for my taste. We gossiped with people who might give us information, though it seemed unfair to expect helpless, unprotected people to expose themselves to revenge and ostracism. One hatchet-faced old tart, with sunken checks and a hideous big mouth, assured us almost in panic that she knew nothing about anybody. She was afraid to move from her doorstep, having recently been arrested for soliciting when going to post a letter on the corner. Being roughly aware of her appearance,

METROPOLITAN POLICE I

925-50

she had been ashamed at standing in the dock for this girlish offence, and now felt so insecure that she took advantage of our protective presence to run across the road for half a pint of milk. This Micawberish waiting for something to turn up was quite normal, experienced even by the experts. It was attractive to some, but unsettling to me. I couldn't get used to the idea that we could, and often did, go home to bed without being missed. The next brothel we found was a poor thing - though no poorer than the experts often found. Two homely women from Camden Town, where they probably passed as respectable housewives, had taken a couple of shabby rooms in Macclesfield Street and solicited in the vicinity. We watched from an upper room at De Hem's, with a poor side view of the brothel door. They looked alike and I could tell Agnes, who we knew held the rent book, only by her blue hat. They did fairly well and it was reasonable to expect to catch both women on the premises when we executed the warrant. But things went wrong, though for such a minor brothel perhaps I can be excused for thinking of the mishaps also as minor. On the day of the warrant the ladies were doing less well and, to my confusion, Agnes was wearing a new hat. We were also accompanied by visitors from the Toronto Police who wanted to see how the famous Vine Street did these things. Crowded together in our little observation room we thought the women would never get off. At last they went in together, accompanied by one man, but before we could move one of them came out again and walked off carrying a parcel. Was that Agnes? I had to confess I didn't know. So far as I was concerned the warrant was for a woman in a blue hat. The only thing was to dash in and sec if the other woman was Agnes. No - she was not. Agnes, she said, had just gone home. Turning angrily to a poor man lying on the bed in nothing but his shirt and socks, she gave him a wallop and said, 'I thought you looked like a bloody copper directly I set eyes on you'. By now I had so poor an opinion of myself as a detective that I hardly expected to be heeded when I suggested Agnes must have gone to catch the last bus to Camden Town. But we jumped into the car and there she was at the bus stop near the Palace Theatre. Even now I recognised her only by the parcel she was carrying. At this disheartening moment, when the prospect of numerous future complications must have loomed up in her mind, she accepted her arrest and got mto our car with what can only be

THIS SMALL CLOUD

described as good manners. At Bow Street next day she pleaded guilty and was lightly fined, probably because she stepped into the dock carrying a shopping basket and looked what she was - a thoroughly nice woman. A likeable old lady now crossed our path. She was clever, too, and led us astray so successfully that it was a year before I got her to the Old Bailey. The ins and outs make too long a story, but must just be mentioned because they led to the only serious bribe I was ever offered. Strictly speaking, she wasn't really a lady. She was Rose Elston, brothel keeper and pickpocket, one of the best at the game, ex-Borstal girl and a credit to them. Expensively but badly dressed, with a mink coat buttoned up, if at all, in the wrong buttonholes, she had so many fabulous brooches and clips and diamond rings, that some had to be carried in her handbag. Her hair, all the fashionable colours when she was young, I expect, now hung like limp lengths of colourless string, and she had lost all interest in it. Stout and hot-looking she fanned herself with anything at hand, and the first thing she did on sitting down, even in pubs and restaurants, was to take off her fashionable shoes and say, to friend and stranger alike, 'Christ! What a relief'. She was rowdy and enjoyed a good laugh, and when she laughed she coughed. She worked with three classy girls who enticed the victims, and had a crowd of shabby hangers-on. She worked in a flat near Leicester Square and the arrest was easy. But a fake clergyman's widow, an old lag~ an habitual drunkard with false papers, trained with foresight by Rose, deceived the Bow Street magistrate and got her bailed. Two certificates, intended by the doctor for the manager of a Music-Hall, but sent instead by Rose to the magistrate, kept us unsuspicious for a fortnight. By the time we knew what had happened Rose and her gang were well away on a jolly mystery tour, and I was left holding a warrant. I pictured her laughing and coughing, good humouredly enjoying the chase. But it wasn't really a chase. Being back in uniform, I merely doffed it now and again to investigate clues. My informants were a pretty prostitute and her lesbian ponce. Double crossers? - they put me on to Rose, then probably warned her of danger. I just missed Rose at Brighton and I just missed her at a big white house in Hendon, where an old gardener pretended to be deaf and daft. In Pimlico a bristling landlady threatened to hit me on the head with a jug. In Camberwell I met Rose's husband, a young homosexual,

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

fidgety and scented, who started to cry when I spoke harshly. This made me sorry, for he seemed a nice man and he was with a handsome soldier who listened amazed to our conversation. Now and again someone showed me a beautiful gold cigarette case - Rose's most sentimental possession; 'she'll be upset to lose it' - and I was too simple to know a bribe when I saw one. At last I became cunning and whispered in Soho that I was no longer interested - the warrant was a year old and had run out. In a matter of days I met Rose outside her new brothel in Yarmouth Mews. Quite a thrill ! 'Hui-lo dear- pleased to see you', she cried. 'Pleased to see you, too, Rose', I said. 'But I'm going to arrest you. ' 'Oh, that warrant's run out - didn't they tell you?' she replied smilingly. 'Warrants never run out, Rose', I said rather shamefacedly. 'What fucking lies people tell you nowadays', said poor Rose without, all the same, seeming particularly upset by the fact. Would she be fined or sent to prison? We agreed that with her record prison was more likely. She was anxious to be free for the forthcoming coronation of George the Sixth, saying that such a harvest came only once or twice in a lifetime. 'Must you mention my previous?' she asked in the taxi to Vine Street. 'I don't care what I'm fined but I must be free for the coronation.' She took three or four diamond rings from her fingers and handbag, and a bundle of notes which she said she would make up to three hundred pounds, and put them into my lap. Pushing them back I said, 'Sorry Rose - I'm not that sort of copper' - which was true, though in a case like this it would not be left to me to read out previous convictions. 'No - I know you're not, Harry', she said, putting the stuff back into her bag without pressing the matter further, which I thought was rather nice of her. 'How did you know my name?' 'We always call you Harry-we like you.' 'I like you, too, Rose.' 'Yes - I guessed that', she said. Cheering up, she added, 'Never mind, dear. When I come out I'll give a really nice party for you. Do you think the S.D. Inspector will come?' I couldn't think of anything more unlikely, but said I would ask him. She saw the Coronation after all. At the Old Bailey a bit later 165

THIS SMALL CLOUD

she was fined£ roo, which was nothing to her. This was satisfactory 'all round, for I didn't really want the old girl to go to prison, even if it did mean that several provincial mayors and vicars would return from the Coronation celebrations without their wallets.

About I 9 3 6 an unexpected sideline in my duties, very remote from the activities of the Vice Squad, opened up. Scotland Yard, after consultation with the L.C.C., had had the brainwave of appointing a sergeant at each station as liaison officer between children and police. He had to lecture at schools and get to know the children, who were expected to like him, to trust him, and to run to policemen for help at all times, particularly when crossing the road. It was hoped in time that when mothers threaten to give naughty children to policemen, it should prove to be exactly what the children want. The first we heard of the job was when I was appointed to do it. This school lecturing was in addition to my ordinary duties, but there were not many schools in our part of the West End. I lectured to the children of chauffeurs and other domestic servants in Mayfair; to a few small foreign schools in Soho; and most surprising of all, at a French school next door to the Empire cinema in Leicester Square, where the children sat on forms round whitewashed rooms and my words of wisdom were translated into Frenth by the nuns.

Even during the worst of the Galloway period I never felt completely desperate. My life was too full and interesting, and my top bosses were too well-disposed towards me. Also, I fitted into the Vine Street tradition, in a way that Galloway never could. When I was first there in the calm days of 1935 the dignified S.D. Inspectors often discussed problems with the sergeants; how best to do this, shall we alter that? - always with the public interest in mind. It was important to us, for instance, that theatre-goers should never be delayed or hindered, and we were proud of the elaborate system, involving dozens of constables, that ensured this comfortable state of affairs. Most of us were calm and unhurried and it was felt we need not worry about much if we kept the public contented. It was old-fashioned and cosy. By 1938 things had altered. At some time in between there had developed a game in which the rival S.D. Inspectors tried to beat each other's record for work. For all I know it may have been a direction 166

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

from Scotland Yard or the Home Secretary in face of the increasing traffic, but the result was that useful services to the public not recorded on paper were discouraged and charges and summonses, which could be counted, were all that mattered. Constables realised they could dodge duties like theatre traffic if they arrested a whore or summoned a couple of motorists; theatre traffic was left to look after itself, in spite of the sergeants' efforts to hold things together. It was no use a sergeant reprimanding a constable when he could run complaining to the S.D.l. and show a book full of lovely summonses. Dignity went to the wind; S.D.l.s were called by their Christian names; snatching constables took precedence over sergeants. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 27

Towards the end of my days at Hammersmith, Lord Trenchard, the Commissioner, had visited the Section House there. He had looked into the sitting-room and said loudly, 'This is not good enough' the truest words he ever spoke. It was big, bare and unheated, with a table, two hard chairs, and two photographs on the wall - a man laying the foundation stone of the police orphanage, and mounted policemen at King Edward's funeral - nothing more, not a book nor pen nor paper, not even a mat on the floor. When a man like Trenchard says something which sounds kind and considerate, there must be some other explanation - though I don't blame him, I blame his parents. What he really meant, we soon discovered, was that it was not good enough for the type of man he intended to recruit under his new scheme. Within a month easy chairs, settees, rugs, fires, full coal scuttles, and real pictures appeared as if by magic, and soon after, among the recruits, came the first trickle of public school boys down on their luck. The trickle had started earlier at Vine Street, had become a flood, and the place was thick with them when I was posted there. Most of them were extremely attractive, and even those with cold hearts had good manners. For the first time in history, police were better looking than the criminal classes, and even writers in the New Statesman now sometimes spoke in our favour. Presumably they were the public school washouts, though none the worse for that. Most were already disillusioned and felt themselves victims of a confidence trick. No doubt when speaking to their village constable they felt confident of rising to the top in such company, but once in the force they found themselves in competition with washouts from other public schools and, even more disheartening, washouts from the universities and professions, all desperately cashing in on the new opportunity so providentially offered by Trenchard. There were also masses of ambitious old-type policemen with intelligence and experience, who did not intend to let Trenchard trample them down without a struggle. Though enjoying the company of 168

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

the charming newcomers I was at first indignant on behalf of the old-timers, many of whom had been kind to me. Then I reflected that even they had become freemasons to gain advantage over others, and I decided to remain neutral and make friends with the best of both sides. However, we all looked out on to an unemployed world, and after the first disappointment most of the young men got on with the business of enjoying life and left the worrying to their parents. I lived in Beak Street Section House and my companions were these new young men mixed with others from humbler homes, just as intelligent and charming for the most part, and all benefiting from the new conditions. \Ve did duty together and off duty we swam and rowed; when I introduced ice skating and squash our happiness was enormous, in spite of gnashing of teeth from Galloway and Company at these cissy pastimes. From these pleasures we returned tired out to our delightful mess room - so bare and light - to eat eggs and bacon and drink shandy. With my enthusiasm for theatres, books and music, with lots of lively memories and hundreds of classical records, naturally I attracted young men with similar tastes. Soon I had a circle of close friends in addition to the friendly general mob. This was the happiest period of my life. 11ost unmarried sergeants ended up in charge of Section Houses; it was considered ·a snip for older men. When the streets had become a bore and all crumpet seemed very much alike, and a month's night duty passed without sexual adventure and you didn't much mind how nice to be given office hours indoors. It was like putting old horses (and cows) out to grass, but the job was more important than it seemed. There were two Section Houses for Vine Street coppers. Sergeant Snowdon, in charge of Beak Street, a wonderfully kind man, made us all feel we were favourites, and we behaved like perfect little gents. At the other Section House in Charing Cross Road, the sergeant in charge always felt rather poorly. He hated his charges and they teased him mercilessly; they drank, swore and gambled to excess, and looked across in pity at the Beak Street softies. Yet they were all the same when they left Peel House - a flick of the pen decided into which mould they should be poured. Street duty at Vine Street could never become boring, and Section House sergeants were harder to find there than elsewhere. I dreaded the day when I should be chosen, and when we hoped the beloved Sergeant Snowdon would reign for ever, I had this additional reason. Then one day he married and retired to his bride's little small-holding in Devon.

THIS SMALL CLOUD

We then had a sergeant who had been a railway porter. He was engaged to an engine driver's daughter who didn't want him to associate with anyone common. His efforts to please her made us all feel as common as dirt, and we were thankful when, after a year or two, he married and left us. He was replaced by Sergeant Baker, a happy-go-lucky North-countryman, who spent most of the day lacing up footballs and sorting out jerseys. He was deservedly popular and stood every evening in the canteen surrounded by transformed young constables, all drinking pints and singing their heads off. In no time his mess accounts got into such a muddle that even the expert investigators failed to work out exactly what had happened. At each of these changes I had refused the job, though they could have ordered me to take it. I even made the crack that had I wanted to be a lodging house keeper I would not have joined the police which shows how generously I was normally treated. In any case I was only thirty-seven, which was far too young. On the morning of Sergeant Baker's downfall I was walking through Leicester Square on duty, when the S.D.I. drove up in a car, invited me to jump in, and drove me to Beak Street. Here he handed me the Section House keys and told me firmly that henceforth I was in charge and he would not accept a refusal. Having got the firm bit over, he softened and said 'they' would be obliged if I made a good job of it as 'they' were sure I would. Seeing no chance of escape, I accepted the job gracefully, decided to make a good job of it, and enjoyed it from the very first day. There are many more good people in the world than bad, but there are sufficient mischief-makers everywhere to ensure that one's peculiarities are all promptly reported in the wrong places. I assumed there was nothing off-beat in my character not whispered to my superior officers, but I had reason to believe that in time my good points found their own way upstairs without assistance. They must have known that I was not a disciplinarian and never could be, and that I gadded about rowing and swimming with young men, when I should have been arguing about allotments in the canteen with men of my own age. Yet they forced me into this Section House job, knew I would do it well, and Chief Inspector Ogden, stern, unsmiling, firstrate, to the very end said I was the best Section House sergeant he had known. I had a high enough opinion of the good manners of my wards to feel they would respect one another's comfort, and nothing else 170

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

mattered so far as I was concerned. It was pleasant for them, I expect, and I took no notice when Vine Street killjoys banded together to criticise and describe as hooliganism the happy laughter that floated from our windows into the Soho streets. This happy state lasted about a year, and would have been happier had it not been for Hitler and Munich and approaching war. I liked all the men in Beak Street, but not all liked me. Two young constables, clerks in Divisional Office, lived with us. They worked regular hours and I assumed this was the reason they took no part in the general liveliness. When one of them became dissatisfied with the police and resigned, he wrote to me from his home town a strange letter of apology. He said that on reflection he realised he had made a bad mistake for which he was truly sorry. This I failed to understand, for so far as I knew he had done me no harm. With letter in hand I spoke to his friend, who surprised me by saying, 'There are things going on in this house I don't like'. 'What things? Do you mean men taking too long for refreshments?' I asked, that being something over which I was rather lax and the only thing I could think of. 'No - I do nor', he replied darkly. It turned our he was referring to my friend Roger, with whom he assumed I was going to bed. Such people always picture other people in bed together. Nothing was further from the truth. My sexual inclinations were clearly defined. I was attracted to normal men, older, rougher and stronger than myself. Youthful innocence and freshness of outlook I found delightful, but never connected it with sexual desire - that I held authority over young men of this type made it doubly impossible. The clerk was on the wrong track, bur no doubt he was spreading suspicion in the Divisional Office. I should have been warned by his friend's letter - though what does one do if warned in such circumstances? He slept in the next cubicle to Roger and said later, when in the open, 'He brushes his hair for twenty minutes at a rime - you're not going to tell me that's normal'. Poor Roger was quire normal and delighted in his good looks. I picture him now at the height of his youthful charm, dreamily brushing his hair and trying to recall the tune from the Mozart symphony which had so enchanted him the night before; whilst behind the partition, stop watch in hand, secretly crouches the grubby-minded prig. Roger's father was a captain in the Merchant Navy, stern and cold, and he had been to a boarding school. This may have accounted for his hero-worshipping of me, and his delight in the comic side, 171

THIS SMALL CLOUD

both conscious and unconscious, of my character. He was first class at the sporting pleasures we enjoyed together, was crazy on books and music, and asked me endless questions about them. I was a godsend to him and the leg-pulling he must have endured on my account made no difference. His whole group of friends was almost as close to me; mutual respect was the basis of our friendship and we didn't bring ourselves to discuss the clerk's suspicions - it would have been too embarrassing. By the time of Munich, dissension was further caused by a group of Fascists who lived at Beak Street. They had been influenced by Mosley's domestic staff, particularly the cook, with whom they were friendly. They approved of the Movement's anti-Jewish activities because many Jewish taxi-drivers took liberties, gained personal advantages by ignoring laws designed to protect taxi-drivers as a whole, and made false accusations against policemen who reported them. It was as simple as that. They had angry arguments with other policemen, and I am glad to recall that the arguments seemed endless. They became more effective when joined by a similar group from Hammersmith Section House, led by a meek-faced constable who stirred both groups sufficiently for them to wear black shirts off duty and to distribute anti-Jewish literature in the West End. This constable had come to Hammersmith in my time, when during a reorganisation of police districts we inherited a new Superintendent from another district, complete with his spies, snatchers, hangers-on and crawlers. This gang had just been engaged on a notorious case. A house in their old district had been raided and several homosexuals, dressed in women's clothes, had been arrested. At their trial each had a large sheet of cardboard bearing a number hung round his neck - like cattle at a Christmas fair. Numerous trials had been held previously in which several people stood in the dock together without this insulting method of identifying them. It looked like official malice, and gave me the same feeling of shame as when I saw pictures of harmless Jews in German streets, forced by Hitler to wear the Star of David. The young Fascist had been in the raid and always had an appreciative audience to hear his account of it. Though this took the form of dirty jokes and stories, told with almost hysterical excitement, he was looked upon as an authority on the subject, and it did me no good when he made a practice of calling people aside to warn them to have nothing to do with me. When I protested, he said coolly, 172

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

'Well - what arc you going to do about it?' The unspoken answer had to be, 'Nothing - what can I do?' When war broke out these men changed sides and shouted patriotic slogans with the rest of them. The most delightful policeman in Beak Street was a young Welshman named Barry. He resembled a Greek statue of a beautiful youth, curls and everything, and though he was twenty-one he acted sixteen. He was gay and intelligent and as naughty as possible, and though friendly with the Fascists he seemed too good-natured to be influenced by them. He took full advantage of my susceptibility to his charms and was the leading light in our skating club. But rugby was his real game; he thought that both squash and I were rather sloppy - and said so. He drank like a fish and the departed Sergeant Baker was his real hero. Opposite us in Beak Street was the Old Coffee House, once an eighteenth-century coffee shop, but now a pub. Mrs Fisher, the publican's wife, was a plump Jewess with a grown-up family. She was very likeable. She looked across the road to us, and her motherly eyes exaggerated the discomfort; her motherly hands often made nice things for us to eat. How can Hitler and Mosley have made such headway when there must have been Mrs Fishers all over the world for everyone to see? Barry was her favourite, as indeed he was everyone's favourite, and on his birthday she gave a party in her big room upstairs to which we were all invited. Nothing was too good for us and it must have cost a fortune. We often crossed the road for a drink at the Coffee House, and Mrs Fisher sometimes invited her favourites to supper. When the air raids started, she and her husband, without stopping to lock their door, ran in terror to the public shelter at the bottom of our street. Apprehensive of the future, they were hardly less frightened when they came trembling to the surface at the sound of 'All Clear'. It was sad to see our friends in such a state and I invited them in future to run across the road to the safety of our reinforced basement. They came, and though our company was a consolation, they were too natural to be anything but terrified at such noise and danger. After a few days I was sent for by our new S.D. Inspector. He said a complaint had been made against me. 'They say you are filling your basement with Jews when the raids are on.' I explained that there were only two, and told him about the Fishers and what good friends they were to us. 'It's your boys who are complaining', he 1 73

THIS SMALL CLOUD

said wryly. Telling me I must keep the Fishers out, this decent man suggested I should not hurt them by telling the truth. 'Tell them a new order has come out forbidding civilians in police shelters', he said. And that was what I was obliged to do. Thinking only of our Fascists I returned angrily to the Section House, where I soon encountered Barry. With a 'you'll hardly believe it' air, I told him what had happened. But he wasn't surprised he knew all about it. 'Quite right', he said. 'We don't want Jews in here.' 'But it was chiefly for your sake I invited them in', I said. 'I didn't ask them to give me parties', replied Barry. There was nothing I could say. I was so disappointed. I didn't dare mention the matter to anyone but Roger, lest they should agree with Barry, which would have been unbearable. At the outbreak of war, during the phoney period, most of the young policemen were very unsettled. Here seemed a chance to escape from the trap into which they felt they had been enticed. They hated police work, but saw no alternative except for things like school teaching - which were worse. They were now cager to join the Forces for various reasons - of which patriotism was not one. They wanted adventure on the sea or in foreign countries; some thought of nothing but aeroplanes and battles in the air; and all these educated men thought of rank and the glamorous uniform so nearly within their reach. But they were not allowed to leave the police because of the expected invasion of England. We still swam and rowed, skated and played squash, and I was the only happy man in the group. Propaganda pulled in all directions; nobody was allowed to get a fair and square view of the truth. Hardly less disturbing than the previous activities of the Fascists within the Section House were the pink face and shining eyes of the clerk. He looked up from his \Var Illustrated and cried out the slogans printed under the pictures. This led to a breach between us, which at least was one thing in the open. He looked at the pictures of Dunkirk and cried out 'Our Finest Hour', and repeated the cry so often that at last I asked what it meant. He couldn't tell me because, though he searched diligently below the pictures, the War Illustrated didn't tell him. 'I can't see it's much of a finest hour when beautiful, helpless men run away defeated and even go into the sea up to their necks in an attempt to avoid being killed or maimed.' 'They were not running away - they were British', he replied proudly. 'You bloody fool', said I, and they were the last words that passed between us. There I74

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

were soon signs, however, that he was talking about me, if not to me. His boss, the Divisional Clerk, became definitely cool, and I caught the newest S.D.I. looking at me now a_nd again rather doubtfully. In the meantime Roger fell in love with the prettiest girl anyone had ever seen. She was exactly the traditional Irish girl of romance - sweet nature, auburn hair, exquisite complexion, dancing eyes, all freshly sprinkled with dew, or so it seemed, exactly as told in Irish song and story. Her name was Madge. When she came to Dorking, everyone stopped to get a better view of her, looking back long after she had passed. She was a Catholic and set to with a will to convert Roger. He was so much in love he would willingly have worshipped a witch doctor, or even become a Jehovah's Witness. He went. twice a week for lessons in mumbo-jumbo from a priest in Farm Street. I didn't intend to influence him, but I grumbled about Roman Catholicism as I always enjoyed doing. Apart from the usual objections, I refuse to believe that educated and possibly intelligent people like the Pope, the Duke of Norfolk, Cardinals and similar people practice, or even believe, what they preach to the superstitious, ignorant Irish labourers in Hammersmith, and people like them all over the world. If the Duke of Norfolk wakes with an erection, I am sure he does not believe it to be the work of the Devil and that he is in danger of hell. Yet I have met Irishmen who believe this and arc frightened, and were taught it and similar wicked things by their priests. I believe the religion is divided into two parts- the swindlers and the swindled. Many priests, indistinguishable from navvies apart from their clothes, are obviously among the latter. The sinister thing is - who decides into which ea tegory one goes ? Roger agreed with all this. He looked on it as a lot of nonsense in any case, and didn't care one way or another so long as he married Madge. He explained it all to the priest and told him there was not much sense in his coming for further lessons. We heard later that the light-hearted way he said this, really due to a mixture of charm, shyness and good manners, gave great offence. It sometimes happened that an accumulation of Catholics at one particular station gave them a pull, similar to that of freemasons, and such was the case at Vine Street at this time. Recruits who were Catholics were gathered into the fold and were favoured. When a Catholic recruit named Raby declined to be roped in and stayed 1 75

THIS SMALL CLOUD

independent, pressure was applied and they reminded him of the advantages of joining them. He was a Catholic because he wanted to go to heaven, and his anger as they continued to pester him is one of the things that make me less sure of myself when condemning Catholicism - others being the many happy Catholic schools I have seen, the lovable nuns one meets all over the place, and Pope John being such a smashing old gentleman. The Catholic organisation is very efficient. Two days after Roger had offended Farm Street, someone at Vine Street had a heart-to-heart talk with him. Open honesty amounting to simplicity was one of Roger's charms. He told them what he thought and what I had said, and they were sympathetic; no anger, just understanding smiles and I was moved up near the top of the list of people to be 'wiped off'. Puritanism, Fascism, Roman Catholicism - the forces of evil were closing in, making life less comfortable, and nothing could be done about it. My days at Vine Street were numbered. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 28

The war was now raging and air-raids were a commonplace. At this unreasonable moment someone picked on the lack of discipline in the Section House and ordered me to tighten up. For various reasons this was not possible. I was not capable of enforcing the sort of military discipline they demanded, and I had no intention of trying. Most of the men were anxious to get out of the police in any case, and didn't care a damn about mere authority. The people I had offended were lower in rank than the Chief Inspector, who always approved of me, but they were superior to me, and I was guilty of disobeying orders. They could only report me to the Chief Inspector, however, so I was safe for a time. One of the horrors of war was the taking over of our mess arrangements by a catering organisation staffed mainly by voluntary workers. A counter was buil~ in our mess room, several eager ladies were placed behind it, and we bought what they offered instead of clubbing together to eat what we wanted. Our behaviour and conversation were now conditioned not to give offence to the middle-class females who stood to watch every mouthful \Ve ate and hear every word we spoke. Most of them were all right; we just didn't want them in our home. One or two were those Sloane Street bitches with doublebarrelled names, completely ignorant and inhuman, who considered themselves born bosses and had to have everything done for them. There were also one or two dowdy ladies of whom we grew fond. One plump little maiden of forty-five came every day from an Essex village, for which she was allowed petrol. \Ve looked on her as a patriotic little mouse, until she delighted us all by giving up her war effort, buying a house and inviting Jock, a rough Glasgow-born constable - whom I rather fancied myself - to come to live with her and keep her warm. One day a new woman came to cook in the canteen. Though not young she was extremely attractive; taller, bigger, more shapely, more handsome than the average, with lovely short dark curls. She was lively, intelligent and broad-minded; a marvellous cook. She could 1 77

THIS SMALL CLOUD

make delicious omelettes from dried eggs, make wartime sausages tasty, and at first we all adored her. During the lighter raids we often escorted her home; it was like walking beside a beautiful graceful horse, and possible to tell her so and have it taken as a compliment. If the raids were bad she stayed with us and we made up a bed for her in our basement kitchen. The blitz now became frightful enough to be often enjoyable. When all available firemen and ambulances were engaged on the big disasters, we managed without help as best we could - one bomb, one copper. On such a night I stood alone in one of our neighbouring streets and saw the buildings on one side eaten up by flames; then the wind changed, the flames leapt across and with a roar devoured the other side of the street, and nobody could deny the spectacle was enjoyable. These were not homes, but warehouses and shops; a publican and his wife were the only people about apart from myself, and these I got safely to a shelter. Their till had been blown open and the contents were scattered on the floor among the cigars and bottles of spirits, soon all to be consumed in the flames. From such scenes it was possible just to climb our front steps and return to enjoy the food and gay conversation of our charming cook - small wonder that policemen of all ranks took the opportunity. It then became clear that she favoured the higher ranks, in fact she was a bit of a snob - but all went well for a time. When the authorities at last gave permission for the young men to join the forces, they started to leave at once. The first away were killed almost as soon as they could be trained and put into the air, and these included Barry. There was no reason why sympathy should be wasted on people like me, and I didn't get any. An atmosphere of horror now developed, with our friends gaily saying goodbye and news of their death following almost automatically. Those waiting their turn became impatient and irritable, they complained of the cook's bossy manner, and I often reminded her that she was only in charge of the frying pan. Nobody by now was able to behave like a reasonable human being. The raids were preventing sleep, loved ones were sea ttered and homes were left unattended and exposed to destruction; married men in authority had greater worries than I, and squabbles in Section Houses were of no importance - but whenever the chance came the Catholics reminded me I was still on the Black List. The beautiful cook now took to threatening the young men that

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

she would report them to her new important friends. I told her that if she did this again I would get her kicked out; at which she laughed and snapped her fingers, and said she could get me kicked out as easy as that. In a way, this is what she did, and I am not now complaining, for what an old woman I was! I went to the canteen headquarters at the Yard, a civilian organisation, and told them of her threat; they straight away transferred her to another canteen; she refused to go and was sacked. There were gallons of tears and her admirers of all ranks fussed backwards and forwards- I was very unpopular. Later I was sorry to have caused this stir which, I had not realised at the time, interferred with a lot of people's innocent pleasure. It was high-handed of me to go over the head of all my superior officers - though I did intend to go over the heads of some. It must have been my feminine streak, and this can also be blamed for my next step on the downward path. Every morning several women crossed the river from Elephant and Castle to clean the Section House and make the beds. They quarrelled and complained, and only when they were not on speaking terms and walked with noses in the air did we get any peace. In peace time the cubicles could be kept bare and tidy, but our uniform room was now a shelter, and everything, including the war-time paraphernalia, had to be stored in the cubicles. In wet weather they were not fit for human occupation. In spite of this my Catholic superior officer insisted that I should bully the men into storing everything out of sight - though he couldn't say where. I made no attempt to do this. After a bad raid the women often failed to turn up, and when they did it could be assumed they had had a bad night and their tempers would be short. Abrahams was a young constable whose father was what is called a 'prominent freemason'. His career was assured, though he had no interest in his job. His habit was to wear his shirts, socks and underclothes until they were dirty and then to fling them on the cubicle floor. Perhaps one day he intended to take them for washing. In spite of my orders and protests, it was at last almost impossible to open the door, and the cleaner refused to make any further attempt to clean the cubicle. I could have reported him for punishment if it is possible to punish the son of a prominent freemason - but naturally it never entered my head. After appeals and orders of all grades of approach, from begging to insulting anger, I at last spitefully sprinkled disinfectant over the whole smelly pile of clothing. This 179

THIS SMALL CLOUD

could have been accepted as a sour joke in normal times - but not now. Abrahams complained to the station and they jumped at the chance so long awaited. But, typically, they first tried to kill two birds with one stone. Roger was on the sick list. To his surprise he was sent for well after midnight to go to West End Central, into which we had just moved from Vine Street. Making a dirty-minded shot in the dark, they sat him in an empty office, gave him pen and paper and said with a knowing air, 'Now we want you to write down exactly what happened with Sergeant Daley at Beak Street last night'. How silly! Poor Roger! He knew nothing about the disinfectant. He sat and thought. What had happened? He had told me I was the most irritating squash player he had ever played because of my weak backhand. I had told him that though I loved the music of The Magic Flute, it bored me stiff on the stage. I had also told him there was a long dull patch in both \\1/ar and Peace and Moby Dick which it was better to skip than be bogged down and discouraged from going further. Surely they didn't want to know this; and why not tell him what it was all about? Roger sat before a blank paper and laughed when I burst in on him. Returning to the Section House I had heard what had happened. I was responsible for seeing that no man on the sick list was out after nine o'clock, so I had an excuse for confronting the plotters. Forgetting Bollocky Bill's advice at the start of my career, I let rip in front of a witness, an influential little Trenchard recruit who could hardly believe his ears. Soon after my return to the Section House they rushed in and searched it from top to bottom - God knows what they expected to find. On their way out I tore them off another strip and felt better than I had for months. Because of the raids the charge against me was heard at West End Central and the Chief Constable came from the Yard to preside. It must have been an awful nuisance to them. I had wanted to ask the beautiful cook whether she had said she could kick me out of Beak Street as easy as snapping her fingers, but the Superintendent asked me not to waste their time calling witnesses, and added strangely, 'You seem to think we are against you- you are quite wrong'. But apparently they wanted me out of 'C' Division, and they could not have done it in a nicer manner. When I appeared before the Chief Constable it was snowing and the alert sounded for a daylight raid. They charged me with damaging 180

METROPOLITAN POLICE I

925-50

Abrahams' clothes - nothing was said about insolence to superiors or the other things which had been darkly hinted at. But the Chief Constable did remind me that the young men in Beak Street were going through an uncomfortable time, and that it was up to men in my position to try to be sympathetic and understanding. I looked across at the man who had ordered me to tighten discipline, but he didn't flicker an eyelid. The proceedings were rattled through; there was gunfire outside; a report from the Chief Inspector was read to say I was the best Section House sergeant he had ever known; a bomb dropped in the distance; the Chief Constable decided not to punish me, but to transfer me to 'V' Division; he had the grace to add that he believed it was a very nice Division. I returned to Beak Street through the strange mixture of falling bombs and snow. Abrahams and I shook hands; we both said we were sorry. He then added, 'But you were in the wrong, you know'. 'Were you in the wrong when I found you having a bath in the Section House when you should have been out on duty?', I couldn't help asking. 'Oh, yes.' 'What happened to you?' 'Nothing.' 'Was your friend Peter in the wrong when I found a girl in his cubicle?' 'Oh, yes.' 'What happened to him ?' 'Nothing.' '\Veil - I didn't really expect anything to happen to me when I was in the wrong- can't you sec that?' No - he couldn't sec that. He tried hard but he couldn't see the connection. But he was only a boy. When he got older he would have understood, as Barry would eventually have seen Mrs Fisher in the shining light which was her due. But he never got older. Like Barry he joined the Air Force, and like Barry within six months he was killed.

My new Superintendent was formerly one of the Big Four at the Yard - or was it Big Five? I could always get on with men like them, broadminded and understanding, incapable of pettiness. He welcomed me with open arms; said my old Chief Inspector had rung

THIS SMALL CLOUD

to say I was to be treated well 'because I deserved it'; said he hoped I would take over the school lectures for him when the children returned; and apologised because his only vacancy was in Wandsworth which was 'rather rough'. I assured him Wandsworth was the kind of place I liked and I was quite satisfied. During my years at Vine Street I had not met a single civilian with whom I wished to become friends. I had met hundreds of attractive people, of course, but that's a different thing. I had kept in touch with my Hammersmith friends and had entertained them at Beak Street; now I was to live in Putney Section House, within easy reach of all my friends, old and new. I was fairly pleased with my situation and it was a relief to be free from the responsibility of Beak Street. Roger turned Catholic to please his beloved Madge - which was the right thing to do. He married her and joined the Air Force and returned safely after the war. The beautiful cook opened a restaurant in Chelsea which attracted toppish American officers. Once or twice I dined there on small helpings at high prices, and found that, after all, she was as delightful as we had at first thought. I was sorry to have caused such trouble over her. I had intended to take my two beloved cats with me, but the day before my transfer they were poisoned in the good old Catholic tradition. With human lives ten a penny one was not expected to get upset over cats. As someone said, 'What arc you grumbling at? In the old days you would have got the same'. Ah well! ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

CHAPTER 29

Wandsworth was full of lively, good-looking people who thought nothing of telling policemen to go and get stuffed. Their love-making, confined to people they liked, had all to do with love, affection, humour and good-nature. They stayed out all night on Saturdays and spent Sundays in bed; and they wore brown shoes with blue suits, though they knew as well as the rest of us that this showed very bad taste. They just didn't care. It was a marvellous place and I couldn't see myself making many arrests here. The Wandsworth Police Station area was vast and varied, ranging from the riverside between Wandsworth and Putney Bridges to as far inland as Wimbledon Parkside. This took in the old-fashioned Cockney districts, sprinkled with slums, of York Road and Garratt Lane, and the big Victorian houses starting at West Hill and growing increasingly imposing until one reached the great mansions lining Putney Heath and Wimbledon Common. When I was first posted to Wandsworth not everyone possible had been driven away by the air raids, which in this district were much more worrying. It was one thing to enjoy seeing warehouses go up in flames; quite another to see happy little homes blown down and destroyed. Some Wandsworth people, refusing to go underground, remained in their homes to be killed; others ran to the surface shelters at the last moment, though even there they were not safe. One night, after a landmine had killed the twenty-seven women and children in a surface shelter, I found myself holding a handbag, heavy with congealed blood, containing a sailor's address and a note - 'If anything happen to me let my son no'. Some, of course, sensibly went underground for the night, often coming to the surface at dawn to gaze helplessly at their blasted homes and wish their sons and husbands were there to help clear up the mess. Police could easily arrange this if their menfolk were stationed in England; the War Office Department dealing with compassionate leave were themselves compassionate and, having let the men come home, would usually extend their leave if we said it was desirable.

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Children had been evacuated at the start of war, but during the phoney period had been brought back by their loving parents, encouraged no doubt by the not so loving landladies in the country. Now they were being unofficially shuttled to and fro; optimistically brought back after any reasonable lull and at the next alarm rushed to the police station in a panic, their parents imploring us to save them. This optimism and fecklessness were part of the parents, endearing character and it was no use grumbling at them, even if one had wished to do so. Soon after my transfer, however, after nightly raids so dreadful one felt at the time nobody could possibly survive, people saw the red light. The great houses were abandoned, to be taken over by soldiers and firemen, the children went away and stayed away, their mothers and the ancients followed - soon only the bare bones were left. But the bare bones of Wandsworth were well worth looking at, and, what with one thing and another, it seemed a paradise. Years later, Naples was to remind me of these early days in Wandsworth, where attractive people, many of great beauty, moved about with grace and gaiety amidst the decay and grime. The older people with their natural good manners (apart from an occasional Saturday night bust-up) treated us with friendly respect; the younger ones were independent and humorously hostile. This was as it should be, for the former were in the habit of calling on us for help and advice, and the young hardly expected their lively way of life to be approved at the nick. Policemen in these districts were usually as kind and easy-going as the public, having adjusted themselves to the circumstances during their training. Stations like these were backwaters, discouraging to ambitious men, and discipline here was even slacker than elsewhere, making an appearance only now and again when some superior officer had indigestion and decided to tighten things up. Inspectors and sergeants here were more widely experienced than those in the West End. At Vine Street specialists dealt with certain subjects - aliens and firearms for instance - and relieved the station officer of these time-wasting matters; the C.I.D., too, were numerous enough for one always to be available for callers on criminal matters. On station duty at Wandsworth, instead of summoning an expert by the touch of a bell, I had to deal with these matters myself. Like a bride following a cookery book I turned everything up in General Orders, while the waiting-room filled with impatient callers who had

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

found dogs or lost them, or with pension papers to sign, or wanting money or legal advice, or to complain about somebody. It was embarrassing for me, a sergeant for five years, to be stumped by anything unusual, especially as at these outer stations all West End coppers were looked on as big-heads. To complete the rough outline of my new station, I must add that of the nine sergeants at Wandsworth six became my friends; of the three inspectors, two were first-rate and the third, who disliked me in a leg-pulling way, was a playful villain, ex-regular Army, India and all that, and most attractive to me; and the S.D. lnspector, operating from Putney, never aimed in our direction without someone giving us a friendly warning on the telephone .

••• •••

CHAPTER 30

However often my duties took me up to the rich part of our ground, when I had the choice I always aimed downhill to York Road or Garratt Lane. There was an air of country life about both these districts, though on the surface they were the essence of overcrowded Victorian and Edwardian slumdom. York Road ran along the river and \vas dominated by factories and gasworks, and by the trams that clanked along the narrow, filthy street. But on the closer acquaintance we reached in the course of time, particularly in our night duty prowling, many delightful surprises came to light. Behind the houses, down alleys or little yards, stables full of ponies and donkeys abounded, vvith painted carts and barrows standing outside. In the backyards of the tiny cramped houses chickens and rabbits were kept, and attempts made to grow the easier country things like runner beans and lettuces. The big surprise in Garratt Lane was the two streets occupied entirely by gypsies. These were the people who sold logs all over London and happily raced their pony-carts back to \Vandsworth when they had sold out. They wouldn't in the least mind me saying that if you didn't count your logs you would get short measure: the horse manure they sold you would be mostly sawdust; and if you were not at home when they called they would pinch any odd thing left lying about. This was all part of the gypsy tradition and their sense of humour and was also the reason why, though I liked them and they pretended to like me, they would never really trust an outsider and particularly not a policeman. Near here, too, though he was quite honest, lived the man who slowly led his horse and cart, prettily laden with potted palms, ferns and ornamental trees, through the streets of Kensington and ~1ayfair, followed at a distance by his attractive though sulky and sad-looking son. Some of these gypsies were well off, but their houses were shocking. There were no back entrances: to reach the hack yards the ponies were led through the front doors and in some cases were stabled in what was intended to be the scullery. Outside the houses stood 186

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

their carts and barrows, with the lorries of the younger men. In the midst of it all, naturally, stood a grimy, derelict mission hall with broken windows. Both streets were cul-de-sacs, strangers never need pass through and, except for some specific reason, police seldom troubled the inhabitants. All the same, the hundreds of young men who played pitch and toss in the street on summer evenings always posted paid boys as lookouts and there was no chance whatever of catching them. One or two fenced yards were occupied by rich-looking caravans gleaming with brass, in which lived real Romanies. The other gypsies were travellers, as they often modestly admitted, saying, 'We are only travellers, not real gypsies - but Mrs Penfold in the caravan - she's a Romany'. Mrs Penfold was one of the famous Lee family and the neighbourhood was honoured by her presence. They treated her like a queen, whilst she in turn behaved like one; kind, wise and generous and making sure her pretty caravan was always as fresh and bright as possible. These men, too independent and unruly to work for anyone but themselves, naturally resisted conscription. The area was thick with deserters and it was almost impossible to catch them. The hundreds of people shared three or four gypsy surnames; Christian names were confined to the Old Testament - Ham, Aaron, Daniel and so on; dozens of cousins not only looked alike but bore identical complete names. How were we to be sure we had the right man even if we caught one - which I never did? But we had to make a show. As we knocked on the front door we pictured the scene at the back; the leaping over walls, climbing through windows and hiding under other people's beds. The women at the front, employing delaying tactics, were always helpful. 'Do you mean the tall boy, sir, with dark eyes and black curly hair?' Yes, we did indeed, for that was the description of every single one of them. 'Try number seventeen, sir.' There were no numbers on the doors, no doors in some cases. '\Vhich is number seventeen?' 'Right down at the end, sir.' Willing guides, eager and helpful, would lead us further and further astray until we found ourselves on the main road again and felt we might as well go back to the station. How could you help liking them? They were such bad actors and it would never enter their heads to split on each other. I don't think these men should have been conscripted. They were so different and would never become good soldiers. The things they

THIS St-.lALL CLOUD

dreaded, one would have thought, would be the discipline; doing as they were told instead of as they liked; being made to wash, perhaps, in cold weather; working and living in contact with men to whom they would always be outsiders, with no wish to be otherwise; to be separated from their own kind. But their vivid, childlike imaginations by-passed most of these things. They saw themselves with disfigured faces and mutilated limbs. They often told me, quite naturally, that they were afraid of being on a battlefield and dreaded being hurt. During an air raid I once said to a lady volunteer in our canteen, 'This is all your fault - you women weren't satisfied until you got the vote - then you put ivlr Chamberlain in because he was so nice and polite - this is the result'. To which she replied, 'But wouldn't it have been nice if all women had the vote, and had put nice, polite Mr Chamberlains in power in every country all over the world?' And now I thought how nice if all young men in every country all over the world, like the Wandsworth gypsies, could vividly imagine the useless horror of a battlefield and refuse to fight because they were afraid. People like this were naturally not very good with documents, though like the rest of us they became involved \vith them. This brought us into contact with them, and I always found them friendly and likeable. When I asked to sec the insurance certificate of a young man's lorry, he searched his house from top to bottom and then went to the houses on either side and did the same to them. It turned up in the end, long after I had decided it was non-existent. Another young man when being summoned had described himself as 'about seventeen'. To decide whether he was too old for the Juvenile Court it was necessary to know exactly, and his Identity Card could help me. Though I never succeeded in seeing it, I was glad of an excuse to call at the house, which was exceedingly overcrowded. 'How old is he, exactly?' I asked. The poor mother, always suspicious, replied, 'Oh - he's not old enough to be a soldier - another thing he's not at all well - he looks a big, strong boy - but you come round one morning and look in his pot - you'll get the surprise of your life'. His offence was interesting, carried out as it was in such an overcrowded slum area. A narrow passage near his house led to a scrubby piece of spare ground. On this unpromising space he caught wild linnets by the traditional method of luring them down by a pinioned

188

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

bird to where they became stuck to a bush previously treated with birdlime. He then sold them as song-birds in tiny homemade cages. A young constable, who had never before summoned anyone, was very upset when he saw one of the linnets sitting glum and silent in its little prison. He set it free and, learning where it came from, was determined to stop the boy's activities. In this district, where policemen arc spotted from a distance of half a mile at least, he hid and watched and spied, untypically crept and crawled, and at last caught the boy red-handed. Never were such methods more justified, and never had I typed out a summons with more satisfaction. The offence was unusual for a London police station and had to be turned up in Stone's Justices' Manual. We found that part of the sticky bush should be produced as evidence. Seldom can an exhibit in a case have caused such annoyance. It stuck to the young constable, it stuck to me, to all the inspectors and to the Superintendent; it stuck to everyone who went near it. It stuck to our clothes, then first to one hand and then to the other. It stuck to the desk, the typewriter and the papers in the case. Eventually it stuck to Claud Mullins, the magistrate, involving him in an undignified scene just as he was about to give judgment. The last I saw of the cursed thing it was stuck to the court official who was ordered to remove it. This birdlime, this substance of such incredible tenacity, the boy's mother told me was made by him over her fire by the simple traditional gypsy method of boiling down ivy leaves. One of the women in this street had fourteen children and her husband had run away and left her. She had him up for maintenance and the case was reported in 'Courts Day by Day', the Evening News humorous column which everyone enjoys so much. The names had been altered and it is true the people in places like Devon and Scotland had no idea of the woman's real identity. But her neighbours knew, the people who mattered; they were in Court to hear the case and were greatly excited when this account of it appeared in the evening paper. Not all of them could read, but it was read out several times in the pub on the corner and a good laugh was had by all. The woman's husband had again defaulted and had paid her nothing for years - four or five, I expect, the age of the youngest child - but nothing could persuade her to have him up again. 'Never again', said the poor woman. 'They twisted everything I said to make it sound comic - I'd rather work to bring up the kids than face all that again.' And that's what she did.

THIS SMALL CLOUD

By the time I knew her she had begun to reap her reward. Rosie, the oldest child, had married a bookmaker and lived in good circumstances a few streets away. Ella, the second, was courting a young gypsy who came up from Weybridge. There were a few younger boys who, though most lovably childlike and modest, were confident enough to run a log business. Their cart stood outside the front door and their pony was kept in the scullery. The rest of the family were· young children; all took after their mother in having nice manners; their home was appalling. Every year they went hop-picking; the mother didn't like it much, but she thought it did the children good. The year I first knew them she had seen a most beautiful gypsy boy in the hop-fields. He seemed to her as lovely as her own children and great was her joy when she discovered he was an orphan. She adopted him on the spot which to her meant that she took him in with her own children, fed and clothed him, and in return got called Mum. Eventually she brought him back to Wandsworth. He was a little bastard. On the Saturday evening following the return of the hop-pickers I had an off-duty drink in the saloon bar of one of those big Wandsworth pubs where everyone, dressed in their best, went to meet their friends and look at one another's clothes. These gatherings of handsome, gaily-dressed people gave me great pleasure, equivalent, I expect, to that sought by others in places like Monte Carlo and Bermuda. The crowd in the bar were uncannily alert - something had just happened. It was obviously connected with the young man who, though he stood in the centre, appeared to be isolated, like a leading dancer about to perform on a crowded stage. He was dark and beautiful, with straight back and slim figure, which at the same time bulged seductively in all the right places. His suit was tight; his hat unusually wide rimmed. With his sideboards, his shining raven locks and the lovely way he held his head, perfectly still like a tightly bridled horse, he looked down to the floor in a self-conscious pose and could have been the young Massine about to start his big dance in The Three Cornered Hat. At the same time he could have been a young bull pawing the ground before mounting a cow. I was on his side from the start. He was, in fact, the boy from Kent, dressed in the American-style clothes his new Mum had bought him with the money they had earned in the hop-fields - and he had already performed his solo. He had

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

announced himself as Kid Carlo the American boxing champion, and had turned nasty when people said they had never heard of him. He offered to fight them two at a time and had set about doing so. The important little publican, from the safety of his position, had imperiously ordered him off the premises, but Kid Carlo jumped aggressively over the counter and the publican was obliged to take refuge in the Bottle and Jug Department. Now nobody was quite sure whether they had heard of Kid Carlo or not, and it was being thought over. He didn't look old enough to be a champion, but you could never tell with these Americans. I think it was the hat that did it. Normally the Wandsworth boys enjoyed a fight, and their patience was being sorely tried; but they were in their best suits, which made them hesitate - and supposing he really was an American champion! I saw that if trouble came it would come at closing time, so I left early to avoid being involved. When I took up station duty at six o'clock on Sunday morning l was not surprised, when told there was a prisoner in the cells, to find it was the young man from the pub. After closing time a fight had started and they all fell through a shop window. The others had run away at the approach of the police, but Kid Carlo, as befits a champion, had stopped to fight all comers, police and all. Now here he was in a cell, not looking in the least like a champion, not even pretending to be one. The night before he had looked about twenty years old; now he looked what he was, an attractive fifteenyear-old boy - though we were not to know that until later. He had given the gypsy name of Smith, his age as twenty-one, of no fixed abode. He didn't like being locked up and dreaded being alone. He had also lost his new American hat, which caused him concern and he begged me to search for it. He had no idea I had seen him in the pub, but soon realised I was easy going. 'Don't be gone long', he said, when I went to look for his hat, having apparently made up his mind that I would keep him company in the cell. The hat was not in the station, nor was it found at the scene of the fight by the constable I sent in search of it. When I returned with the bad news, he did everything in his power to make me stay. 'Come on sarge - stay with us - sit down and have a chat' - cajoling, coaxing, wheedling with great charm - knocking spots off the West End harlots at the same game. When it was clear that I had to leave, he said, 'If you stay with us I'll see you all right', but what he meant by 191

THIS SMALL CLOUD

that I thought it best not to enquire. He was now so upset it crossed my mind he might be claustrophobic, so I left the cell door open and merely locked the cell passage - an arrangement strictly against orders. I decided to bail him at all costs. He was obviously a juvenile and regulations are broadminded on the subject of bail, especially at weekends. Except in serious cases bail is the responsibility of the station officer, and when prisoners jump their bail, as they do by the dozen, knuckles are never rapped. Warrants are taken out, a few enquiries made, and eventually they turn up somewhere. Nobody gets upset. Orders make it clear they would rather the station officer erred on the side of leniency. At Vine Street on Cup Final nights drunks by the score were bailed in time to catch the excursion train back to Glasgow, when there was no possibility whatever of them obeying the conditions of their bail and appearing at Bow Street on Monday morning. All the same, if the gypsy boy was as young as he now looked, we wouldn't turn him into the street without knowing something about him and having a surety. On hearing all this he confided that he had a sister Rosie, whose husband was a bookmaker, but she must not be told that he was locked up and given a shock because she was going to have a baby. He didn't know the address, but he indicated the street and it was easy to trace a bookmaker with a wife named Rosie. In no time a very nice Rosie, in an apron, plump, placid and gentle, turned up at the station - though not to bail him. Her words didn't in the least fit her appearance. Smiling and looking the essence of good-nature, she said, 'Let me lay my hands on him and I'll wring his bloody neck'. She was not his sister and she was not in the family way. Her mother had brought him back from the hop-fields and he was a little bugger; he had nearly driven them all crazy and if he was sent to prison all the better. Where is he now? Locked up - all alone? Oh! Hesitating, but slowly opening her purse, which significantly she carried in her hand 'Well - how much does it cost to get him out?' The money is guaranteed - not actually paid. So Rosie bailed the boy, and of course he didn't turn up at police court next morning. In due course she was summoned for not producing him as promised; smilingly pleaded guilty in her gentle voice; got told off by the magistrate for being irresponsible; was fined two pounds and, opening her purse as she left the dock, paid up gracefully

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

like the lady she was. Armed with a warrant for the boy's arrest, I made a few fruitless enquiries and thus became acquainted with Rosie and her Mum and her thirteen brothers and sisters. Mum often spoke of the 'lovely boy' she had adopted, but she never saw him again. She was always rather sad, and there was no way of telling if this saddened her more. But I saw him again - twice. Scotland Yard rang about a year later to say if I went to the Boys Section of Wormwood Scrubs Prison, I might identify the subject of my warrant. I was shown into a large bare room where a warder was standing beside a nice-looking boy in shorts. At first I thought it wasn't him; with his sideboards gone and no grease on his hair, he was not so dark as I remembered. But there was no mistaking that charming welcoming smile, or those naughty, black eyes. 'Hullo sarge', he said. 'Have you come about that other?' He had done several burglaries at Croydon and had at last been caught. My identification enabled the trivial Wandsworth offences to be wiped out and the warrant cancelled. A few years later I was on leave in Dorking on market day. In the milk bar I found several Dorking boys huddled up at one end of the counter, whilst in the centre of the bar, with all the space in the world, sat two roughish young men. The Dorking boys, who knew me, whispered that one of the men had ordered them away from the centre table, which he wanted. When they refused he had taken out a knife and said he had just left prison after serving a life sentence for cutting a man's throat. It was, of course, the boy from the hop-fields, and he had just given a provincial production of his show in the Wandsworth pub. Clearly he now performed it all over the place. To the surprise of the Dorking boys, we were delighted to see one another and had coffee together. He was now a second-hand furniture dealer in Croydon, and wanted to arrange future meetings with me when he came to Dorking market. The good looks were still there, flashing eyes and smashing teeth, but the black curly hair was a bit too oily, the boyish charm had gone. Now that he was older he attracted me more than ever, in a different way, and only common sense told me not to continue the association. Considering Safety First a contemptible slogan, I had gone in reverse and had led a happy life in London on the principle of Safety Last. But common sense occasionally crept in, as it did no\v in Dorking. when I pictured my mother answering a loud knock 1 93

THIS SMALL CLOUD

and opening the door to this swarthy young villain on a dark and stormy night. Making routine enquiries with my warrant, hopeless but enjoyable, l had often called at his Mum's house for a cup of tea. It was strange in this London house to have a horse neigh over one's shoulder, and to hear a child, asleep in an odd corner, cry out in a nightmare, 'Oh Mum! Oh Mum! Where am l ?' 'You're in bed, my little sweetheart', replied Mum, smiling sadly to herself, without moving or looking round. The home itself was awful, as can be imagined, but there was no feeling of disgust. For one thing the people in it were clean and healthy, and when one was offered tea, the crockery was not only spotless but pretty and of good quality, having been bought at a country sale in the good old days. This was not true of all these gypsy families. One day we had a young man as prisoner, and an amazing number of his female relations, in threadbare jackets and full pleated skirts, with lank, black, plaited hair and gold ear-rings and ornaments, filled the waiting room and overflowed down the police station steps. They brought the prisoner enough food to last a month, and their lamenting, moaning and wailing, combined with their appearance, created an almost biblical scene. When after a few hours the prisoner departed in a Black Maria, the lamentations, in which he joined, swelled to such proportions that one had to decide firmly whether to become embarrassed and laugh, or become affected and join in. But the dreadful stink they left behind, I am sorry to say, was still quite strong the following day. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

1 94

CHAPTER 31

Different from the smelly gypsies I have just mentioned was the mother of a friend of mine called Matthew. Though herself of the gypsy family of Vincent, she had married an ordinary workman. She now had three sons and wanted them to get ordinary jobs like their father. Needless by now, I suppose, to say they were all tall and lively, with good teeth, and eyes and wavy hair as black as pitch. Getting jobs was now easy, but when it came to giving names and addresses the bosses blanched at the name of Wardley Street, such was its notoriety. They said wait a minute, went behind the scenes and returned to say, 'Sorry - the job's taken - they forgot to tell me'. The mother then took the bold step of moving to York Road, which wasn't far away but sounded more respectable. Now, when I first met and liked the looks of Matthew, all was well. Father and sons all worked for the man who held the Council refuse-collecting contract, and he thought the world of them. Someone had given me an expensive set of military hair-brushes, which I didn't want. For fun I decided to present them to the man with the best head of hair in Wandsworth, which I admit was enough to make Inspector Galloway turn in his grave - to say nothing of Lord Trenchard. Matthew was my final choice. Seeing my interest, he had always given a smile, but when I came to present the brushes he as good as told me to stick them up my gearbox - he didn't accept favours from coppers. But from now on he looked at me with interest, weighed me up, and there came a happy day, or rather night, when he told two policemen, during an altercation, that all coppers were bastards, and then added as an afterthought, 'Except Sergeant Daley'. Our friendship developed, and he accepted the brushes for Christmas and got in the way of trusting and confiding in me and asking my opinions - which is how I liked it. Matthew's mother lived opposite an old-fashioned pub which had a sumptuous saloon bar. During their dinner break the men from the gasworks drank in the public bar, where they sat on forms with sawdust under their feet. But in the evening the local people, without 1 95

THIS SMALL CLOUD

bothering to dress up except at weekends, sat in the saloon bar drinking from gleaming glasses, talking and laughing with their friends amidst the plush furniture and curtains, the carved mahogany, the bevelled looking-glasses and the potted palms, all of splendid quality and everything possible with fringes, tassels and knobs on. Strangers were not welcome, and quite right too. Friends not conveniently entertained in the tiny homes could be met here and, though surely these were the people one pictured in the past at the Derby or in the Lyceum gallery, few now seemed to move far from this little colony. Leaving the early customers to the barman, the landlady put on her black silk dress, her diamond rings and ear-rings, a few fine gold chains and cameo brooches, all of which her figure carried easily, and making sure the ringlets of her hair were exactly right, rustled down rather late to stand behind the bar, matching her surroundings and succeeding at one and the same time in looking grandly common in the oldfashioned manner and a dignified person of character and quality. Perhaps it was this pub, recalling as it did the days of pony-traps and donkeys, that made me think of this part of York Road as a village. In a little house behind this pub I once arrested a deserter. An anonymous letter said he had been there for years and could be identified by his tattoo marks. After bedtime we went behind the house to a yard, like a miniature farmyard, filled with goats, chickens and rabbits, with a pony in a small stable. It was summertime and the windows were open. I knocked on the door - no response; I knocked again and again - impossible that anyone in the house could be asleep. At last a woman's voice from upstairs said, loudly and clearly, 'Fuck off'. 'Come down - we want to speak to you - it's the police.' 'Yes I know it is - fuck off- didn't you hear me?' 'Come on-open the door!' 'What, me?' Then silence again except for our knock, knock, knock. After a long time a man, not at all young, opened the door, tightening a belt round the trousers he had just pulled on. He invited us into the small dark kitchen and, lifting his arms to light the gas, asked what we wanted. At that moment the gas popped on and revealed his arms tattooed with anchors, clasped hands and the other things described in the letter. The woman whose voice we had heard now appeared, not in the least self-conscious, and a little boy in

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

a nightshirt who knelt on a chair, watching and listening, with chin in cupped hands. 'I suppose he can have a cup of tea before you take him away?' said the woman, and straight away laid cups for us all. 'There's a police van round the front - I expect the driver would like one, too', said the poor man. While we all drank tea, he told the boy how to feed the different animals and not to forget this and that. In the police van he showed his tattoos by the light of a torch. As an old soldier he had volunteered at the outbreak of war because he hated Hitler, but found himself too old to cope with the modern training. It was a strain to be 'on the trot' and he wasn't sorry to be caught and done with it. After sitting silent for a while, he said, 'I expect my sister-in-law wrote that letter - she always said she would - yet she cried like a water-cart when her own bloke was took'. After the war, a few years later, the little boy felt he would like to join the Navy, and enquired at the police station about where to write. We obligingly, and unofficially, wrote the letter for him, and almost by return of post his angry father came round to tell us he wanted the boy's help in his old metal business, and instructed us in future to mind our 'own fucking business'. Wandsworth was full of deserters and it was seldom a pleasure to catch them. Some had to steal to live, it is true, as many stole before being conscripted, and busted gas-meters often warned us of a deserter's presence long before the War Office did so. But men deserted for many reasons - fear, love, jealousy and other things, and decent non-criminal types often found themselves locked up in a cell. Respectable mothers and sisters also got involved, told lies to policemen on their doorsteps, and were dreadfully embarrassed a few seconds later when the man they had denied seeing was found standing stiff and bolt upright behind a door. The deserters, too, found they had not really made themselves invisible by holding their breath, and relaxed into natural posture and breathing with a mixture of shame and despair. Some of the less respectable deserters were more than a match for the police. When a Special Constable inspector, who perhaps himself should have been in the Army, stopped one of the happy-golucky Terry boys, the latter lightly protested he was on leave, invited the Special to his nearby home to see the pass, sat him politely in the front room and calmly walked out of the back door to freedom. 1 97

THIS SMALL CLOUD

There were nine sons in the Terry family; most had been delinquents and had experienced probation, approved schools, Borstal and prison; they deserted from the Army when it suited them. Seeing the old father in a pub with five of his sons, I thought it a pleasant sight but out of politeness did not join them. Soon the father asked if I was too proud to speak to them and bought me a drink. I remarked that he must be proud of his big family. 'Proud of them', he said. 'I should think I am - nine sons and they've all turned out well.' I saw what he meant. They were generous and good-humoured and they loved their parents -what more could one want? At Christmas one of the sons invited me to pop in for a drink if my duties took me past his house. He welcomed me at the door and from an inner room the mother called: "oo is it?' 'It's 'arry, Mum.' "oo's 'arry ?' "arry the copper.' 'We don't want any fucking coppers in this 'ouse', said ~1um. 'Oh Mum! 'arry's all right.' At which crowds of smiling sons with outstretched arms came to the door. I am aware that these large families can be feared as gangs; and having said that \Vandsworth was full of deserters, I must add the obvious, that it was also full of loyal servicemen. I am now writing of the years immediately after the war, when houses in every street were decorated to '\Velcome Home' their menfolk, and the joy at their return after years abroad was there for everyone to see. But all was not joy. One day in York Road a girl ran from a house to seek my help. A factory girl home for dinner, she had found her sailor brother lying apparently dead with his head in a gas-oven. I ran in and turned off the gas, opened the window and, finding the sailor still warm, started artificial respiration. I told the girl to telephone her news to the station. I felt sure I could bring him round and foolishly said so when the girl returned. This cheered her a bit and when her mother came in a few minutes later, mingled with the sobbing I heard her say, 'Don't worry, Mum - the policeman said he is sure he can bring him back'. I then learned that years before, when the boy's father was also a young sailor, he had come home on leave and had killed himself in the same oven. Referring to her son, the weeping woman

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

said, 'I thought he was all right - he wouldn't go out, I know, but he stayed at home and played his guitar -he seemed happy enough'. Artificial respiration was very tiring and, apart from the disappointment of getting no response, I felt I couldn't go on much longer. But mother and sister had confidence in me; though still upset they seemed to think it was only a matter of waiting. A young man from next door, a brewer's drayman as strong as a horse, now came in and offered to help. We took turns at respiration and carried the sailor out to the back yard, where the scores of overlooking windows were filled with neighbours, and a little boy was held out by his mother for a better view. The Police Surgeon was not available, but after a time a substitute doctor was found. Out of the women's hearing he said the sailor was dead and we were wasting our time on respiration. I am quite certain he said this; it was I who asked that he should be rushed off to hospital in the ambulance which was now waiting. The doctor shrugged his assent as the drayman and I pegged away at the respiration. In the ambulance they put breathing apparatus over the sailor's mouth, but when we got to St. James' Hospital there was not the faintest sign of life. We then fell into the hands of a lady doctor. I told her all about it; how with the air of an authority which I wasn't, I had assured the mother and sister that everything would be all right; and they, simple people, believed me the more because I was a sergeant. 'Well', said this calm, gentle lady, 'in that case we must pull him through, mustn't we?' Now, feeling towards her as the mother and sister felt towards me - confidence and trust tinged with fear - I watched as she set about keeping her promise. She had him put into an automatic lung and injected huge quantities of liquid into his arm, leaving now and again to attend other duties, but always returning. I need not have stayed; I should have finished duty hours before, but it was not a situation one left willingly. It was one o'clock when the sailor's sister had run from the house; now, at seven in the evening, the lady doctor and I were leaning over the apparently dead boy when suddenly his eyelids flickered. I could hardly believe it. The doctor patted his check and said, 'Come on now - let us have a smile'. No response. She again patted his check and repeated the words. The eyes stayed shut, but just for an instant the mouth moved into a smile. This was the happiest moment of my life. I nearly burst with emotion. The doctor was silent and possibly felt the same. Two days later the sailor was sitting 1 99

THIS SMALL CLOUD

up in bed and I was a visitor at his bedside. When I left, the lady doctor said to the mother, 'Who is that lovely policeman? Is he a relation of yours?' Naturally there were policemen to say, 'If it had been a girl in the gas oven, she would be dead and buried by now'. The answer being, 'Quite true; and what a good thing there are policemen like me for such situations'. The sailor was court-martialled, presumably for self-inflicted injuries, and was discharged from the Navy. He returned to Wandsworth and was polite to me rather than friendly; his mother said he had become very silent. I had done her a good turn; only he could say whether the turn I did him was good or bad. There was a sad ending after all. When I returned from my holiday the following year, the station sergeant said jovially, 'Your mate's made a proper job of it this time', referring me to an entry in the Occurrence Book. I read that the sailor had been found dead with his head in the same gas oven. He was nineteen years old. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

200

CHAPTER 32

Between the extremes of York Road and Garratt Lane, which I have described, lived thousands of people whom I really think I can say I loved. Merely watching them moving about the streets gave me extraordinary pleasure from the beginning; later, when [ knew them better, they brought me great joy. Knowing them better was just a matter of time. \Vandsworth, in common with all rough districts, was a place where people naturally took their troubles to the police station. When the system of giving free legal advice at Town Halls was started, leading to the excellent Citizens Advice Bureaux, it was claimed as a boon to the poorer public. It was an even greater boon to busy station officers at police stations in those districts, who had always given the help and advice which the new organisations were now prepared to give. At first a younger public patronised the new Advice Centres; the old-fashioned people, and places like Wandsworth are essentially old-fashioned, continued to seek help at the police station. They preferred telling their troubles to an understanding copper rather than to a brainy young woman with a hard exterior. But we had a high opinion of the services at the finger-tips of the young women, and knew it was often to the benefit of the applicant to be passed on to them. People called at the police station to take out summonses against one another and they, too, were passed on to the Magistrate's Court where the summonses were actually issued. But nothing could stop the flood; full to bursting point they always told us all about it before passing on. People who called to report things lost or found, or to complain of something, or to get pension papers signed, and prisoners being bailed and those who came to bail, all stopped to gossip and to give us the impression that we knew almost everything about everybody. When the children returned after the war I resumed my lectures to them and soon knew them all. It was hard work in these vast schools after the happy-go-lucky atmosphere of the village-like schools of Mayfair and Soho. 201

THIS SMALL CLOUD

Anyone regularly visiting all the schools in one district over the course of years, as I did, must realise that many children are getting a raw deal. Apart from private and high schools and convent schools, which I also visited, the difference between the worst elementary school and the best was quite startling; even more so when I stood in for the Putney sergeant and could compare the worst at Wandsworth with the best at Putney. It was often a question of headmasters and teachers, but the buildings and their position contributed. The worst of the big Wandsworth schools in respect to size and position, had one of the best headmasters. The poor man was sadly handicapped. His school was between York Road and the railway line from Clapham Junction, and trains passing the school windows could be seen as well as heard. School lecturing had brought me into contact with the Safety First mob, who sat in expensive offices in Grosvenor Place and thought up silly slogans. I hate slogans and had no intention of using them, though the brightly coloured posters from the same office were effective and useful. Nine hundred children were assembled in the big hall to hear my first lecture at this York Road school. I looked down at the front to rows of baby angel faces, concerned at seeing a policeman at school. At the back were boys with sprouting moustaches, eyeing the sexy girls on the other side. How could I get them all to chant 'Look to the Left - then to the Right' as the Safety First people wanted? My best chance was to talk to them naturally; hint perhaps that the babies in front were the responsibility of the young men at the back - boys like responsibility if it is noticed. Easier said than done. No sooner had I started than a train roared past the windows. I kept quiet until it had passed, then started again. Before I got far another train rumbled past - apparently passenger trains roared and goods trains rumbled. This time the headmaster came over and said it was no use stopping because trains passed every few minutes. 'But they can't hear me', I said. 'No', was all he replied, though his sympathetic eyes possibly said, 'Sorry you are wasting your time'. Poor man! He deserved the sympathy, for he wasted a lifetime whilst I wasted but half-an-hour. It was an inconvenient upheaval at this big school to talk to individual classes, and inconvenient also to my ordinary duties, from which these talks gave me no relief; but that was what this intelligent headmaster arranged after my first disastrous visit. Trains passed the 2.02

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

windows of many of the classrooms, but it was possible to hold the attention of fewer children. These children were used to noise, for trams clanked past their homes every few minutes, and all lived within hearing of the Jews Row tram depot, which operated all night. My chief memory is of their nice manners, which I found so moving, and I had an especial affection for this school. At the other end of the scale was Putney Huntingfield Road, where a first-class headmaster had a first-class school. Outside the windows were trees, lawns and singing birds, and the children lived on the new Roehampton Estate. Here I talked naturally and easily; not a fidget from the children, every eager eye was upon me, not a syllable was missed. They smiled at my mild jokes, laughed heartily at the good ones, and at the end applauded spontaneously. When I turned in surprise to the headmaster, he was hurrying towards me enthusiastically with outstretched hands and said I was welcome to the school at any time and need not wait the prescribed interval. Between these two extremes I talked to happy children with happy, intelligent teachers, and disorderly children with disorderly teachers; happy-go-lucky children at Catholic schools with apparently happygo-lucky teachers, and young ladies in convent schools being taught in peaceful surroundings by gentle nuns; intelligent children in private schools and high schools under highly efficient masters and mistresses whom, nevertheless, one would not really want to know in private life; and, unfortunately, ignorant children at small schools with ignorant teachers. At the worst of the latter type, near York Road, the mistress once said, 'I'm glad you've come - I want you to frighten Willie Martin - he's a little demon'. In spite of my cries of 'No! No!' and my restraining hand on her arm, she at once opened the classroom door and said, 'Willie - the policeman's come for you'; whereupon Willie, who wore spectacles with one eye blacked out, went deathly white and tried to hide under his desk. I could have cried with vexation. My natural instinct was to hold him lovingly in my arms, but realising this would make matters worse I could do no more than speak smilingly to all the children without paying particular attention to Willie. Angry and worried, I decided I must make friends with him as soon as possible, so I bought some chocolates and took them to his house at dinner-time. But the harm had been done. The home was very poor and Willie's mother was almost as frightened as he had been; she was too frightened to understand what I was talking 203

THIS SMALL CLOUD

about. When Willie peeped round a door and then ran for his life out through the back, I thought it kindest to get as far as possible from his home and the beastly little school. This unsatisfactory ending, which was partly my fault, worried me considerably. At some schools I was invited to come early and join in morning prayers. One day at a big school near Garratt Lane, where the gypsy children attended, the excited pupils assembled and settled down in the big hall. Then the headmistress said, 'This time you are going to listen to us for a change. We heard you like music - so we are going to sing for you'. For twenty minutes they sang- and I listened and held back the tears as best I could. I was made welcome at all schools four times a year, and enjoyed the sticky chestnut buds, the pussy willows and bluebells in the jam jars, the smell of chalk, the bright paintings from the art class and the happy bustle of desks being rearranged. The children were excited at the break in routine; the teachers also seemed pleased to see me, though the break must have been less welcome. Children cannot concentrate for long. The sound of fidgeting feet after quarter of an hour of good advice would become dangerously loud, and I would then propose telling crime stories. Immediately there would be such deathly silence as Ponselle must have experienced at Covent Garden as she moved slowly to the centre of the stage to the opening notes of Casta Diva. It was very unofficial. Without mentioning names my stories were true and local, carefully slanted to the side of law and order. One of the joys of the whole business was to watch the children grow up and to look upon them as friends. But naturally, in this sort of district, some of the boys reached the age when they suspected a confidence trick. In the long run, however, quite apart from my personal feelings, there is no doubt that the idea was successful.

From the train between Clapham Junction and Putney one could look down on a row of rotten Wandsworth houses. Each had one room upstairs and one down, and there was one lavatory to every three houses in the dirty little back yard. There were no front doors, for the railway embankment rose immediately in front of the houses and to see the trains the children had to press their faces against the window and look straight upwards. In one of these houses a woman raised two handsome daughters 204

METROPOLITAN POLICE I 925-50

and four sons, all healthy and nicely dressed - how it was done I cannot imagine. After the original hostile front which all the best people put up to policemen, two of the sons grew up to become my friends - particularly Tom who was a lorry driver. His brother John was a labourer with an exceptionally good tenor voice. It was clear and sweet and he could usually be persuaded to sing in pubs on Saturday nights, when, like Gigli and the rest of them, he sent cold shivers up and down everyone's spine with his ringing top notes. Both boys joined the Army to help preserve England for Messrs Cotton, Clore and Company from the grasping Nazis, who retaliated by dropping a bomb and blowing both the windows out of their comfortless home. From Malaya Tom sent me a few letters, uncomplaining, apparently quite satisfied with his lot; while John in England got into some sort of trouble. Before the Court Martial, his officer rang the police station to ask what we knew of him, and luckily I answered the telephone. Sticking strictly to the truth I was able to give a glowing account of John's character. 'Oh! I'm delighted to hear that!' cried the officer; his delight being quite clear in his voice. Consequently John was let off, which was small return for the happiness his friendship had brought me. In a puddle in the back yard of the hovel next door to Tom and John's, a little boy was sailing a folded paper boat. He bent down to give his boat a push and then rolled over and lay quite still in the puddle. His Granny carried him indoors and his Auntie ran for the doctor, who was busy in his surgery but promised to call later. The frightened Auntie then had the sense to run to the police station. Here she saw P.C. Lloyd, a very nice police boxing champion, typically gentle and good-tempered. He was also very nice to look at; stronglooking but light and graceful. His back was very slightly rounded, and he had only to put his foot forward and lift his fists to look exactly like an old, idealised sporting print of a prize-fighter. He had a wide face and fair curly hair, and a brow wrinkled as though he was puzzled by most of the things he saw, which was more than likely. The little boy, in fact, was already dead, but when he heard the Auntie's story this policeman without hesitation ran to her house and then ran through the streets to the surgery, hoping against hope, with the little body clasped in his arms. His route was short, but covered part of Wandsworth High Street, where some of the women 205

THIS SMALL CLOUD

shoppers shrieked with laughter at such a funny sight. Not that he minded or would even notice them, for he was singularly unable to think of more than one thing at a time. When the little boy was found to be dead, this silent, smiling constable became even more silent for several days, and in later years I often recalled him when I heard drunken scum in the Merchant Navy express their opinion that all coppers are bastards. When I called at the house to get particulars for the inquest, the room was full of noisy, hysterical neighbours all looking, particularly about the hair, as though they had just got out of bed. Granny, dryeyed, was watching them from a corner; all she could say was that 'he was playing with his yacht and rolled over', but, such was the din, even this was difficult to hear. The coroner was likely to ask for exact times; though I was unlikely to get them in this clockless house, I must be as exact as possible. At each question, casually timed to hurt as little as possible, the sound of weeping reached quite ridiculous volume, though Granny herself did not join in. Each woman gave her guess as to what had happened, until at last I was obliged to turn them all out, raising my voice to make myself heard. Soon only one hag was left, partly dressed, with dirty, tear-stained face. 'Come along madam, you must go now', I said; to which she replied, 'I live here - I'm his Auntie'. Later in the morning, on other business, it worried me that I had ordered the Auntie out, especially as her sorrow must have been genuine, and I had given her a slight push towards the door. I decided to go back on some pretext and take the opportunity of being nice to her. Now tidied up a bit she looked much younger, was pleased to see me and called me Sergeant Harry. I expressed surprise, and she said I came to her school and they always called me that. She was actually a schoolgirl - and the ancient-looking Granny, therefore, could not be really old. The conversation over a cup of tea was upsetting, to say the least. Auntie told me that, in fact, I knew the little boy's mother and had always spoken to her when I used to visit their school. I then recalled, a few years earlier, an untidy girl who, rather afraid, was pleased to stand as close to me as possible - like a game of 'dare'. It appeared that when she left school, after working briefly at several jobs, she started work cleaning buses at night in Putney Garage, but after being late several times she was called lazy and was sacked, with the gratuitous remark, '\Ve can't carry lazy people in this organisation'. 206

METROPOLITAN POLICE I 925-50

Thinking of herself as a lazy good-for-nothing, she then got work in the kitchen of a restaurant, and three weeks later she died, while standing at a sink with a plate in her hands. It was found to be tuberculosis; her lungs were almost eaten away. She had never had a scrap of medical attention, and probably very little sympathy. At some time in her brief life she had found happiness with a Polish soldier, who had been made welcome at her home, had put her in the family way and then disappeared. The much-loved little boy was the result and he, like his mother, was found to have lungs almost eaten away. As I listened to all this, Granny watched my face intently as if searching for something. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

207

CHAPTER 33

The reports of the constables added to our knowledge of the neighbourhood, everything coming officially to notice being recorded in the Occurrence Book. Thus Mrs Jones, slipping on the pavement, jumps up and says 'Quite all right - not hurt in the least - it's my new shoes - thank you' and trips lightly away. Two days later a neighbour calls her a fool and tells her about compensation; she limps round to a solicitor and a claim is made. But the Occurrence Book has a record of the condition of the pavement, whether wet or dry, all about the new shoes and so on. It works both ways, of course, but the police were careful not to take anybody at their word when they said they were all right and 'don't bother to report it'. Reports of motor car accidents were typed out in great detail on solid typewriters that responded only to two-fingered banging. It was essential that the masses of figures, times and dates should be exactly right, yet every few minutes we would look up from the typewriter to see someone at the counter waiting to start a long, long story. It was a good thing that their stories were usually human and interesting - dotty people, hungry for sympathy, not having enough sense to invent excuses for coming in, often hung about outside until a friendly face appeared at the window; then they darted in just to grin and dribble. Callers about dogs were legion, often in tears; callers about cats, those intelligent, independent creatures, almost non-existent. We had our share of fanatical Dog Lovers, haters of human beings, hangers and floggers incapable of tears, who in their imagined concern for dogs often worked in complaints against humans and took our numbers and reported us if we didn't watch our P's and Q's. I think that Dog Lovers put me off dogs in the same way that some Church Goers, mean-faced and mean-minded, pegging away obtusely and relentlessly at their only subject, put me off God until quite late in life I discovered Him for myself - or Something near enough to make no difference. It would be nice similarly to discover dogs - there are so many of them- and meet something one likes every few minutes 208

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

throughout life - which is really what happened to me when I learnt to like Scotsmen. Numberless hen-pecked men and wives with drunken or violent husbands stood at our counter seeking sympathy. Though pretending to seek advice, they knew quite well that the original bond of love and affection, still extant though rather tattered, would render useless any common sense advice from a stranger. But they were often comforted, especially if seen by Inspector Russell, one of the best men I have ever known. He had been footman to an aristocrat and was a working-class Conservative - two things I am inclined to poke fun at - but he was one hundred per cent tolerant, kind, honourable and humorous. His knowledge and understanding of humanity could only have been acquired in the police, and I remember him with a reassuring glow whenever I hear unfair criticism of the police. Scores of people called for money, often thinking there was a fund for doling out in emergencies. This was not so. We could issue Railway Travel Warrants to poor people called upon to make long journeys in unusual circumstances - to visit a wounded soldier son for instance; but all money paid out came from the pockets of compassionate coppers and was seldom paid back. Each case was dealt with on its merits, deserving cases often got up to a couple of bob, but naturally most people were refused. Cunning people deliberately asked for very small sums, knowing that one shilling in the hand is better than ten refused. Scotland Yard once warned against a man who, pretending to be deaf and dumb and stranded, fraudulently obtained small sums at police stations. Too late! He had already caught me for three and sixpence and the price of his breakfast. He appeared early one morning and signalled for pencil and paper. Partly by scribbling and partly by signs he asked to borrow his fare to Barnet, having missed the friend who had promised to take him home the night before. 'He doesn't look deaf and dumb, does he?' I said to Inspector Russell, who replied, 'No - poor fellow - it usually shows on their faces'. Where had he been all night? \Vith expressive mime he showed how he had walked about all night and was now fit to drop. Was he hungry? Was he! - he rubbed his belly vigorously. He had eggs and bacon and a wash and brush up, left a false name and address, and that was the last we heard of him until the belated warning from the Yard. Still, the performance was almost worth the money, Inspector Russell bore half the expense, and the culprit would be surprised to know we had a jolly good laugh and bore him no ill will. 209

THIS SMALL CLOUD

One evening a well-dressed woman of about forty, very cross, called at the station with a young man she wished to charge with stealing her 'valuable gold watch'. He had taken it to the jewellers for repair, she said, had failed to return it in spite of her threats to charge him, and had obviously sold it and kept the money. The young man, lustylooking and attractive, laughed as she made her accusations, which made her even crosser. Before the woman started her story he had said, 'Look sarge - I want you to write down that I came here under my own steam - you didn't have to rush out and drag me in'. Fair enough - quite true! Half an hour was wasted trying to sort out the truth. The young man said her story was nearly right, except that the watch wasn't gold, wasn't worth repairing in fact, and when he gave it back and said so, she threw it down in a temper and broke it to bits. But she stuck to her story and insisted on charging him. The deadlock was broken when the woman cried with indignation, 'How would you like it if your wife was robbed?' I didn't have a wife. Ah! A short pause before both clutched at this straw; the atmosphere cleared. The young man started to sing her praises; she was a good sport, generous, hot stuff, lovely flat at Glynn Mansions, plenty of drinks. 'To be quite candid,' he said 'I've had a jolly good time with her, but I want a change - that's what's upset her - why don't you call round and sec her?' The lady modestly hung her head and said I would always be welcome. But business before pleasure. 'Now, what about this gold watch?' I said. 'Oh, forget it, dear.' 'Did he steal it or not?' 'Of course not, silly.' How dangerous! I submitted a report to forestall further nonsense and fortunately never saw her again. But I saw a lot of Syd the Stallion of Wandsworth, which I later learned was the young man's full title. Syd had been in the Royal Marines but was now a builder's labourer. He had a good natural bass voice and in the depths of winter, when outside work was short, found it easy to get a job as Demon King or something in a provincial pantomime. His part would be a small one, and he \Vasn 't paid much, but he enjoyed the social side of it. During the six week's season he screwed most of the chorus, to say nothing of Robinson Crusoe and Robin Hood, and Dick Whittington and his Cat. Towards the end of the entertainment, dressed in red tights, he rose through a trap-door with a few puffs of smoke, 210

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

put a curse on someone and sang 'Alice, Where Art Thou?' or some such song, before descending into what smoke the man below had left over. After this nice change, as he called it, he would again be seen on a Wandsworth building site, with a roving eye and as fresh as paint. The gold watch episode reminds me of another woman willing for a man to be arrested on a false charge. One of our homeless characters was called Paraffin Kate. She was crazy on paraffin and not only drank and sniffed it ecstatically from her old quart bottle, but poured it into her boots and hat for the pleasure of the squelching and dripping. She smelt dreadful, no cell she occupied could be used for weeks, and she was usually left alone. When she settled for the night in odd dark corners, she made a moaning sound similar to that she made when sniffing her bottle. Some thought the sound was the result of ecstatic dreams of paraffin, but, unfortunately, it was more likely to be the genuine sound of sorrow and pain. One night in the black-out a man told me he had heard Paraffin Kate moaning in Boots's doorway; and there, I thought, she can stay. Boots had been bombed; the glassless windows in their deep doorway made convenient platforms for sleeping on. Twenty minutes later when I passed the doorway, having forgotten about Kate, I heard the familiar moans. Shining my torch into the doorway I saw, not Kate, but a woman being screwed by a Norwegian sailor. With clothes thrown up she lay on her back on the platform with the sailor on top of her. The sounds indeed were genuine moans of ecstasy. At the flash of my torch she shouted, 'Help! Help! I'm being attacked!'; the alarmed sailor jumped to his feet. In broken English, he said, 'Please - I just helping the lady up'. Giving his big, hard cock a smack I said, 'What, with this?' The woman trembled like a virgin saved in the nick of time and again alleged she was attacked. I pointed out that to my knowledge she had been there twenty minutes, and she changed her tune to, 'Oh dear. What ever will my son say when it gets in the papers?' In the darkness of the black-out nobody, in my opinion, had committed any offence; but I thought now we had attracted attention, perhaps they had better move out of the High Street into the churchyard or somewhere. This proved to be impossible, for the woman, though clear in the head, could not stand up. Whisky always affected her like that, she said, especially in the cold weather. She made several attempts and at last fell to the gound. 211

THIS SMALL CLOUD

I could not leave her there and, learning they had met only that evening, would not let the sailor take her to a hotel in a taxi, as he begged to be allowed to do. I sent for the van and a few minutes later, hearing a noise at my feet in the darkness, found the sailor again on top of the woman in a last attempt to finish the job, clasped in her arms and screwing away for all he was worth. Seeing no reason to mention the sexual interlude, I charged her with being drunk and incapable, for which she was fined half-a-crown. The sailor of course was not arrested, having committed no offence - but he hung about for hours for her to be bailed. For the next few weeks she made a nuisance of herself, calling at the station and ringing me up, saying she wanted to treat me to a drink for all I had done for her. Had I been normal she would still have been ruled out, after my view of her filthy underclothes; but I made a point of asking about the sailor. She had drunk with him all the evening and had willingly gone in the doorway. As for trying to give him in charge for rape when they were seen - well - smiling sweetly - she thought any sensible girl would have done the same. Had Paraffin Kate been lying in the doorway as I expected, it may seem callous of me to have thought of leaving her there; one naturally cries out that she must be cared for. Kate had passed that stage. In common with other regulars lying about, she had in earlier days fallen into the hands of sympathetic policemen, magistrates, probation officers and specialist do-gooders; but this is a free country and they had all escaped at the first opportunity. Kate would have welcomed a warm bed with a bottle of paraffin under the pillow, but would have expected to leave in the morning directly the ironmonger opened. The do-gooders could never bring themselves to arrange this, so Kate preferred to fend for herself.

In spite of the apparent lack of personal discipline, the Metropolitan Police was an extremely efficient organisation. Senior policemen would come to the station to check the books and reports. Most reports required some further action; apart from letters to be typed, nearly a thousand forms were used to disseminate the gathered information. With all this checking it was almost impossible anything could be forgotten. Ranks higher than superintendent made less frequent visits. These were often retired service officers, delighted to play at coppers as some grown-ups delight in trains. Their pensions 212

METROPOLITAN POLICE I

925-50

after five years' service were high enough to keep them sweet-tempered, so they were amiable and found little fault. They knew little of police matters and never took us by surprise, for hawk-eyed traffic coppers noticed the direction they took and phoned warnings ahead. The three inspectors patrolled \Vandsworth and Putney in a car and kept eyes on things in general. They checked the books at both stations and paid the statutory monthly visits to licensed premises -which included pubs, cinemas and greyhound tracks - and attended burglaries and other serious occurrences. Tvvo were exceptional men, friendly and kind to everyone and, it seemed, particularly so to me, picking me up in the car most days for an hour or two, apparently for the pleasure of my company. With them I paid official visits to pubs, and we refused the fawning publicans' drinks, kept our dignified distance and were treated with respect. The third, Mr Hughes, didn't like me a bit, though he attempted nothing worse than sarcasm. He was tall, straight and handsome, formerly a regular soldier, with a mischievous streak that made him most attractive to me. He associated with a small group of policemen who specialised in catching homosexuals. They hardly talked of anything else, working themselves into a non-stop giggling fit when they had an appreciative audience, sprinkling their anecdotes with 'dirty bastards' lest anyone should think they found pleasure in what they talked about so much. They were often struck off uniform duty and, slightly disguised, concealed themselves in the bushes and urinals on Putney towing path, bringing in triumphantly about once a fortnight a couple of lonely old gentlemen caught wanking one another off, and for the next month tittering and sniggering with their friends over the details. These men together, some of whom were higher in rank than me, could have given me a rough time. One had attempted it alone, but retired surprised and indignant when I told him a few home truths. I never allowed men of his type to ride roughshod over me, nor did I give them the chance of revenge for which they waited. One day Inspector Hughes stopped his car and invited me to jump in for a ride; when we parted he arranged to meet me again next day. This was a great surprise. He was not the type to waste time on compliments, and it was really something a few days later when he said stiltedly, 'In the long run one is forced to admit that because a man is different to oneself he is not necessarily inferior'. After that we got on like a house on fire; he knew I was attracted to him and 213

THIS Sl\1ALL CLOUD

pretended to be nervous when alone with me in the car. Both the other inspectors were too tactful to mention the subject of homosexuality, even in joke, and in other respects too Mr Hughes was different. He expected a drink when on official visits to pubs and made it clear to the publicans that he was doing them a favour in accepting. It was his type of humour. At the big pub where Kid Carlo had jumped the counter the publican gave him whisky and me beer. He was talking to the cringing, sycophantic publican and at first did not notice what I was drinking; suddenly he stopped and cried, 'How dare you offer my sergeant beer?' 'Sorry,' said the publican, quickly removing the beer and giving me whisky. 'I did it quite without thinking'. 'Well, I hope it doesn't happen again', said Mr Hughes sternly. Though I enjoyed his company, I am not a big drinker and would never willingly seek the company of publicans. This particular specimen was a pompous little snob, and didn't successfully conceal his distaste for us - it was enjoyable to see him discomfited. But Mr Hughes' change of front to me was a mixed blessing. One particular pub was a favourite port of call. It was kept by friends of Mr Hughes, and they didn't in the least seem to mind sitting up half the night in their private sitting room drinking and telling dirty stories after their long working day similarly employed. The potman, waiting to clear up and get to bed, was less pleased to see us and gave significant looks at the clock. One night somebody rattled the back door; the potman, after a suspiciously long absence, returned to say no one was there. Two days later Mr Hughes was tipped off that the pub was to be raided and we were to be caught red-handed. It was pouring with rain on the night appointed for the raid, and it was enjoyable to sit in a warm car and realise that somewhere in the bushes opposite the pub someone was wet and uncomfortable and in for a big disappointment. We drove past slowly once or twice to raise their hopes. Between one and two in the morning we called at Putney Station to check the books when, to our surprise, in came our Chief Inspector and S.D.1., both very wet and bad-tempered. We had assumed the watching would be done by rubber-heel, but all the same Mr Hughes couldn't resist saying, 'What a dreadful night, sir!' - to which the Chief Inspector, shaking the water from his sodden hat, made no reply. Though the situation had been enjoyable, I was sorry my chiefs were involved, for both had always treated me kindly. Accustomed 214

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

to the presence of danger, inclined to take chances, I was nevertheless glad not to have fallen by the wayside for drinking liquor I didn't want in the company of a publican I didn't want to know. It was possible the S.0.1. himself had given the tip-off. Such things did happen, connected with that strange thing called loyalty about which, cropping up throughout my life, and mostly working against me, I have never been able to decide whether it is good or evil. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

215

CHAPTER 34 One felt at stations like \Vandsworth that one was in a backwater, unnoticed and forgotten. Ambitious men grew more and more depressed; others, with a feeling of security that often proved false, got slacker and slacker in their duties and recklessly set about enjoying themselves. When I came to compare a duty commonly performed at Vine Street but rarely at Wandsworth, I saw clearly the difference between the two stations. Rich or important people in the \Vest End often had policemen on duty in uniform at their homes for special occasions. We put on our best uniforms and best behaviour, helped with the arriving traffic, usually went inside to eat and drink of the best, and finally helped the departing guests to drive away unhindered. Consequently, I occasionally found myself on duty for a family wedding or big reception at the wonderfully dark and gloomy-looking Norfolk House; or at Bath House in Piccadilly, with its courtyard and stables, for a party with Queen Mary as guest of honour, and Grace Moore, Covent Garden's film-star Mimi singing, it was said, for the traditional fee of a thousand guineas; and Robin Redbreast with his red waistcoat, the last of the linkmen, now unnecessarily holding high his lantern to light the departing guests to their carriages. Or at St. James's for the wedding feast of a newspaper owner's daughter, with papa asking questions and being delighted enough to order us more champagne on learning that we all regularly read his unlikely Morning Post. It was part of our duty to be pleasant and we played up to these situations for all we were worth. At two houses we did duty for more sinister reasons. After the assassination by Irish patriots of Sir Henry Wilson on his doorstep in Eaton Place, an armed policeman stood outside the Mount Street house of Lord Abercorn, Governor of Northern Ireland, whenever he was in London. This was a constable's duty - I merely visited. We all had revolver practice as part of our normal training, but taking one's time on a range and shooting suddenly in an emergency are two different things. Most of the constables felt that if called upon to shoot they were just as likely to hit his Lordship - not that they 216

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

let it worry them. At one of the South American Embassies a policeman was on duty whenever a certain group of acrobats performed in London. They had been originally the Something Quartet, but one of their members, the father, had been killed by a car from the Embassy, the driver escaping responsibility, it was alleged, by claiming diplomatic privilege. The remaining acrobats, their years of practice wasted, their contracts cancelled, had to start again at the bottom as the Something Trio. Bitterly, they had thrown a brick through the Embassy window. In the early days a sympathetic and courageous copper had stood aside to let them throw another; now it was understood that there would be trouble, not for the acrobats who were seeking publicity and justice, but for the next copper who let a brick go through the window. When Colonel Don Gonzalo Pena, the Spanish Military Attache, asked for police to do duty at his home on Putney Hill, a most unusual duty for Wandsworth policemen, his reason probably fell between the two categories I have mentioned. From his association with the Spanish Embassy he naturally knew of this traditional duty at receptions. But his was the last Fascist Embassy in an England directed by propaganda, temporarily anyway, to be against Fascism and, no doubt, he was concerned for the safety of his guests. In any case, instead of giving pleasant, respectful and efficient service as at Vine Street, we were rough and friendly and too familiar, eating and drinking everything we could lay our hands on, and letting the guests arrive and depart as best they could up the steep and tricky little drive. Senora de Pena, a beautiful and charming lady, was partly responsible for this. She at once waved the six of us into the servants' big sitting room, sat us in the most comfortable chairs, and gave orders that we were to be treated as guests and have everything we asked for. During the evening we asked for lobster and chicken, sherry, champagne and brandy, and that is what we had. In no time we were as tiddly as anything; the only service we gave was to entertain the Spanish servants; and the gracious Senora seemed quite satisfied. Now and again the Senora and her daughters, and several of the guests, wandered quite naturally into the servants' quarters for a drink and gossip. The servants, too, seemed now and then to stroll into the reception rooms for no particular reason, rather as they do in Russian plays. It was pleasant and we looked forward to their next party. \Vhen this took place a few weeks later, one of the 217

THIS SMALL CLOUD

constables was too drunk to go home and had to spend the night at the house. Most enjoyable of all was the third party; but we went too far and, although nothing was ever said, it was the last time the Colonel asked for police protection. At the third party we were looked upon as old friends by the Spanish servants. The cook knew our favourite dishes and there were the usual delicious drinks. We soon made ourselves at home and, I recall with regret, behaved with what must have been loutish and drunken bad manners. The attractive younger daughter of the house came into the servants' room and sang some Spanish songs. She was about to give some Spanish dances, for which we moved back the furniture, when a cold-looking British Air Force officer, wineglass in hand, appeared in the doorway and said sharply, 'Pilar! You are wanted on the telephone'. Pilar hesitated. 'It is a tr'r'rick', she said at last. 'It is not a trick - come at once.' 'If it is a tr'r'rick, there will be tr'r'rouble', growled Pilar- but that was the last we saw of her. Later in the evening we drank to 'Down with Franco'. The butler, not fully understanding English but anxious to improve, repeated our toast parrot fashion so often that at last he himself fell down and couldn't get up. For fun one of the policemen dressed up as the butler and served drinks in the drawing room, which wasn't quite the thing, especially as the Spanish Ambassador was the guest of honour. Our departure, or rather our attempt to depart, ,vas disastrous. I managed to get home because I had a bicycle and it was downhill all the way. So far as I remember, the bicycle with me aboard sailed weightlessly over the houses and found its own way back to the station. One constable fell asleep in the lavatory with his outstretched legs wedging the door; another was put to bed ill at the house; and a third took the wrong turning and broke his ankle in the rockery. In spite of all this, when later I saw the Seii.ora on another matter, this gracious lady, apparently with Pilar's cancelled performance still on her mind, told me that she had heard I liked Spanish dancing, and that if ever I went to Andalusia, her home province, where she thought were to be found the best dances, she would be pleased to arrange for me to see them. Our misbehaviour in her hospitable house is something I am not proud to remember. I hope the explanation is that everyone behaved badly and irresponsibly at this period towards the end of the war. 218

CHAPTER 35

Still, at this time, as throughout my years in the police, I would go home once a week to Dorking. Apart from loving my mother, the place had other attractions for me. I had many friends there with whom I swam in the river and walked in the woods, and I liked sitting on the slopes of Box Hill, which rose almost outside our back windows. W c also had a big garden which I wanted to make pretty for my mother's pleasure. As time went on, however, my visits home developed into a hateful pattern. We had reached the awful position of loving one another dearly when apart and hating each other's guts when together. When apart, I pictured her as a lonely, helpless old lady liable to disasters such as setting fire to herself and falling downstairs. This was the character she portrayed as, looking a hundred, she tottered a few steps from the door to wave a feeble goodbye after my usually stormy visit. How badly I ,had behaved; how bad-tempered and intolerant. How rotten that I am always good-tempered with strangers and hardly ever so at home. I long to get home again to put things right - poor old dear; I hope she will last out another week. With these good intentions I open our gate on my next leave day and give her a kiss. Exactly as on the previous leave day and every other leave day for years, her opening words, firm and bossy, arc, 'You won't do any gardening this week, will you?' 'Why not?' 'Because if you do it this week, you won't have anything to do next week.' But the garden will become a wilderness of weeds if left, so with enthusiasm slightly damped by irritation I make a start. Offended at not getting her own way Mother stands over me and supervises. 'You won't touch that lovely ivy, will you?' or 'You won't come indoors with those dirty hands, will you?' At last she succeeds in driving me out of the garden. I will sit on Box Hill instead - alone and in peace. Like a thought reader she says, exactly as she has said for years, 'You won't go traipsing over that hill, will you?' 219

THIS SMALL CLOUD

'Why not?' 'Because you're tired. I always know when you are tired - you get so irritable.' I am irritable by now, but I was not so when I first came home. I sit down. 'I shouldn't sit there if I were you - there's a draught sit over there.' She points. When it is clear I am going to Box Hill, she says with indignation, 'You won't go in that old coat, will you?' 'Why not?' As there is no answer to this she flies into a temper, goes upstairs, bangs the door and flings herself panting on to the bed trying to work up a heart attack. This is only the beginning; I don't fancy Box Hill now, so I stay at home and we have a hateful row; by midday the neighbours will probably think Cavalleria Rusticana is being performed in our house. A bit later mother produces a big lunch; all my favourite things beautifully cooked and eaten in silence until, 'You won't go out this afternoon, will you?' 'No mother.' 'You will lie down a bit, won't you?' 'Yes mother.' She is pleased to have me captive upstairs in bed, though it is not how I intended to spend my leave. I awake to find she has washed my shirt, dried and ironed it, perfectly done as was everything she did, and as a joke replaced exactly as I had left it. If I am not staying the night I leave for London, and turn back to see a sweet old lady, frail and lonely, waving goodbye with an almost imperceptible wave of her hand. Will she last another week? What a rotter I have been again. I worry in the train and hurry to the telephone when I reach London. Her voice is grateful and loving. 'I was waiting for this - I knew you would ring.' Next day I ring again, and every other day. Never learning my lesson I think everything will now be all right and long to get home again. But I open the gate only to hear her loud, domineering voice say once again, 'You won't do any gardening this week, will you ?' I had an expensive overcoat which I decided to have cleaned. The fuss this caused was unbelievable; shouts, threats, banged doors; I have no idea what it was all about. A week later she was taken ill and I was recalled from duty - how I dreaded these calls. I hurried home worried and sad. How small and still she looked; but after a time she opened her eyes and seemed to recognise me. Her lips moved as she tried to say something. 'I cannot hear you, dear.' They 220

METROPOLITAr-. POLICE 1925-50

moved again as she made a greater effort and I leant over the bed to put my ear close to her mouth. Could it be true? Yes, it was! She was saying, 'You won't send your coat to the cleaners, will you?' There was another side to the story. The years of painful climax I have mentioned were those during the war, when my brother was serving abroad and our mother was alone. Ours was a really happy home at the period when my brother David was growing up and the three of us read and discussed the same books, and enjoyed together the exciting new records that were being issued at the time - the Elizabeth Schumann lieder, the Mozart Opera and Bach Society albums, the Schubert song cycles. It was always a happy home to David, but the seed of discontent with home life embedded within me was no doubt the cause of the later troubles. But I was always aware of her quality. One winter's day I had gone out skating when there was a sudden thaw. I returned to find the pipes had burst in our home and the water was running through the ceiling. The shock of seeing her pretty house spoiled had given her a stroke and she lay helpless in the water on the floor. Looking up at my horrified face, with the water still dripping on her, she managed to say, 'I've got your dinner on - turn down the gas or it will spoil'. The doctor left her safely in bed and there she might have stayed for the rest of her life. But soon she got up against his orders and moved with difficulty about the house. The doctor shrugged his shoulders and said nothing could prevent an old lady from having her own way. On a shopping expedition to Croydon she wandered aimlessly into the local theatre and thoroughly enjoyed Shaw's You Never Can Tell, returning home bubbling over with what I can only call intellectual excitement. She also enjoyed bawdy jokes and treated the few fallen women who crossed her path, as happens in wartime, so exactly as she treated the unfallen that the difference obviously never-even crossed her mind. We often said we were glad our mother was not dithering and sloppy like some, and I suppose you cannot have it all ways. Mother did not have friends, she had enemies instead- they suited her better. One or two old girls, not unlike herself in character, were willing to come round occasionally to do battle over a cup of tea. Mrs Hicks particularly, her best enemy, often sailed up the garden path with the confidence of a battleship with a secret weapon, and scored some notable victories. Her son Bob, a charmer, had put two 221

THIS SMALL CLOUD

or three girls in the family way and one day, over the first cup, my mother had been rash enough to condemn him. By the time the pot was empty Mrs Hicks had made it clear she knew all there was to be known about me. Mother was upset and would have carried out her decision not to engage the enemy when next she sailed up the path, had not one of the unmarried mothers sued Bob, which was a chance not to be missed. Sadly I now realise this incident revealed that the cloud which hung over me must have hung even more heavily over my mother. But at the time, possibly from embarrassment, I took the side of Mrs Hicks and her beautiful Bob. During the war, as I have said, my mother lived alone. Few bombs were dropped on Dorking, but the Battle of Britain was fought partly over her head, and most of the German bombers and doodle-bugs passed over our house day and night on their way to London. The explosions could be clearly heard, and to sec Box Hill lit by the rosy glow from London ablaze was a common sight. We worried at mother being alone and took a long time to realise that she wanted no strangers in her house and no women of any sort, strange or familiar. Two ancient and lively Cockney ladies, almost strangers, some distant connection with my father, bombed and finally burnt out of their home near the London docks, turned up uninvited one day to keep my mother company, they said, and spend the remainder of the war in peaceful surroundings. This was the biggest mistake they ever made. Mother, by second nature, felt responsible for everyone under her roof; but the two old ladies had survived hell in Rothcrhithe and refused to get under the stairs merely because a doodle-bug was on its way to London. If they would not, mother could not - she being responsible for them. But one day a doodle-bug didn't pass over. It hit the side of Box Hill, blew our windows in, our chimneys and ceilings down, and covered the three old dears with broken glass and plaster. 'That was your fault', shouted mother to the two old ladies, and their fate was sealed. A week or two later they felt that London perhaps was not too bad after all, they thought they might get in somewhere, and off they went to continue their search for peace and quietness. Mother was thankful and so was I. It was worrying to see her take on responsibility for people older than herself. Soon after this my sister Annie was left a widow for the second time and I persuaded her, much against her better judgmcnt, to come and live with mother. Oh dear! Annie, of course, was a chip off 222

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

the old block. But at least the resulting hell took our minds, and those of our neighbours I expect, off the war for a few months. One day, after a night of blitz in London, I went home to find a battle raging between Annie and mother, with mother getting very much the worst of it. Turning to me uncertainly, mother said, 'It is not my fault this time'. Through her tears, just for an instant, she looked at me with the eyes of an orphanage child in distress, anxiously searching for a sign of love and understanding, but feeling fairly sure it would not be there. I knew it was not her fault and said so, but I did not put my arms lovingly around her. I wanted to do so but something prevented me- and then the moment passed. This is a bitter memory I shall never wipe from my conscience. But there soon came the happy day for us all, when Annie banged the door for the last time and mother had her own way and was alone at last. This barrier, whatever it was, this possessive interference with me, made it impossible for me to show my love. I was aware that such characters are formed when women set out alone to fight life's battles; and that all my mother's bitter early battles were fought for her children with never a thought for herself. When we were children I remember nothing but love from her, love flowing uninterrupted over all our ups and downs. We were lovingly fed, washed, and put to bed; lovingly sent off to school and lovingly welcomed when we came back. Everything we wore was spotless, and the wear and tear lovingly repaired by her skill. We took it all for granted, expected it, and were never disappointed. Somewhere, at some time, so far as I was concerned, it turned into an insurmountable barrier. I may have been the black sheep; she knew more about me than I at first thought. What I call possessiveness may have been enfolding protection. When my friend Wally, very dark with a slight defect of the lip, called in my absence, she said, 'Oh there has been a funnylooking man round here making enquiries about you', which at the time I thought a nasty sinister way to describe a friendly call. Yet how awful if she really thought my life was sinister and dangerous -which meant that hers was the same. Living alone with her thoughts, imperfectly understanding the subject and unable to discuss it with anyone, she may have shared my danger in her imagination and lived in fear. It was all very well for me to say Safety Last was my motto and I would take the consequences, but how can I have so selfishly over223

THIS SMALL CLOUD

looked my mother's feelings on this subject? Perhaps because I never thought of her as dependent on me; she always rejected help, no doubt afraid of becoming unwanted if useless and dependent. To me she was the boss, the tyrant, the authority to be resisted or defied; how ignorant and selfish of me not to see below the surface until too late. But even then I would have to break down the barrier that divided us, and I now recollect that I did try over and over again. When she was ill and couldn't possibly get up, as sometimes happened as she got older, she was nursed by my Aunt Nellie; but for her final illness Aunt Nellie was no longer available. Mother lay paralysed and helpless in bed and it seemed her fears that she would be unwanted when useless were now realised. Hospitals had no room for incurable cases. My sisters and brother and I were either unwilling or unable to nurse her, although at first we all assembled at home in holiday spirit, as is strangely usual on such family occasions. \Vhen every few minutes she slipped down in bed, one of us would lift her back into a comfortable position. We tended her between us. She could move one of her hands, so we gave her a stick to tap for help when we were downstairs. Being what she was, the stick tapped all the time. We took turns at going up and laughed about our cantankerous mother, as indeed we had often done in earlier years. We became thoughtful, however, when the doctor said she was generally healthy and could lie there for years. His very words were punctuated by the banging of her stick; the prospect seemed awful. A nurse came in, but mother was not standing any nonsense from her. 'Oh you are hurting me - you did it on purpose', she cried, when the nurse was gently lifting her. 'Let my son do it - he knows more about it than you.' Both my sisters were widows with families and were obliged to work. During their troubled lives they had received criticism and interference from mother; my brother and I had been favoured with love and interference - which of course now made a difference. Mother's great pride - one of her great prides - was her hair. Long, black and thick, it was always well brushed and cared-for, and in the old days was often 'let down' to be seen and admired. Now, still luxuriant in her final illness, it was unmanageable and had to come off. When she agreed and seemed indifferent at the awe-inspiring moment of clipping, I knew the end had come at last. The tapping on the bedstead went on and on. One day Annie went 224

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

up the stairs with an 'I've had enough of this nonsense' air, and when she came down there was silence above, a disturbing silence for several minutes. Victories have never brought me the expected pleasure, and particularly I had no wish to enjoy one now. When I went up to sit beside my mother with her shorn head, she said, like a naughty and very lovable child, 'I knew I was going to catch it, directly I heard her flaring up them stairs'. How easy it was now to hold her lovingly in my arms. The nurse departed; my sisters departed; my brother, just started at a new job, held on whilst I returned to London to persuade a reluctant Divisional Surgeon to place me sick for a fortnight to nurse my mother. Janet popped in now and again and my brother came home every evening. The old girl enjoyed being nursed by her sons, made good bawdy jokes, and no doubt hoped it was a permanent arrangement. Sometimes she lapsed into semi-consciousness and imagined she was young again, giving us moving glimpses into her early life with my father. Clearly her chief concern, even then, had been for her children. At last my fortnight was up, with no chance of extension; my brother could not get leave. Janet came in one day and steeled herself without much difficulty, at least on the surface, to tell the doctor she could stay no longer and henceforth our mother would be alone. . After duty that day I hurried down to Dorking to find my mother had been taken to hospital. While still some distance from the hospital I heard her loud, hoarse voice shouting, 'Harry! Harry!'; visiting again the next day after duty I heard the same. Had she been shouting all the time? Yes, she had, I was told. Their drugs had little effect and sometimes she shouted, 'I don't want to die here'. But she did die there a few days later and not one of us was with her. I missed a day, and on that day she died. Sometimes I told myself she didn't want love - she wanted power. But I was trying to deceive myself, excuse myself for something wrong. That was the end of a story. What happened at the beginning? as I had so often asked other people. How wonderful if, after all, the Bible turned out to be true as they taught us at Sunday-school - and in the end all our sins and omissions could be forgiven and put right. But, of course, it is not. ♦♦♦ ♦♦♦

225

CHAPTER 36

The later years of the war were, all in all, the most contented and satisfying time for me in the police. After years of cramped cubicles slightly bigger than the bed, I now occupied a vast light room in Putney Section House, a luxury building which, though now bombdamaged, had once caused tax-payers to write to the papers. Here my E.M.G. gramophone and collection of records could at last be displayed, having hitherto been kept under the bed and behind curtains intended to cover clothes I never had, having bought records instead. There were many charmers among my new companions, who were not so knowing as those at Vine Street, nor did the modern ex-guardsmen among them in the least resemble the battered reprobates I had worked with years before at Hammersmith. Always aware of the imminence of disaster, which seemed to breed kindness and affectidn, we were soon all rowing, swimming, skating and playing squash; resting from these pleasures we sunbathed on the roof and drank lemonade, and at night watched the deathly air raids. Merely by being enthusiastic, I aroused interest in classical music and gave gramophone concerts in my room, which was big enough to hold an audience. It was all too good to last. At some critical stage of the war, the young men were stirred by a genuine feeling of patriotism which they hardly had time to announce before they were off. It was different, I think, from the dissatisfaction which earlier had stirred the even younger men at Beak Street. This was not a period when time could be wasted, and it needed but one to start the avalanche; at Beak Street it had been the Air Force, here they were all for the Army. Soon it was realised that the remaining Section House residents were outnumbered by the domestic staff, and it was closed down. I continued to work at Wandsworth but, with the others, was moved about to Section Houses in Chelsea and Hammersmith, and after a year or tv:o was finally dumped at Richmond. Here a small ancient Section House with cubicles, a relic of the past, with gas lighting that flickered with a farting noise, was quickly scrubbed out and 226

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

into this we were moved. We sat glum in the comfortless building until someone broke the silence with 'I suppose we must be thankful that no one here is learning to play the piano-accordion' - at which we laughed and cheered up a bit. But here I ended my police service. During these years of peregrination I had diversions and variations in my duties which gradually led - though I am not clear how into antagonism towards me from some secret person in authority. After the war the Metropolitan Police started a big recruiting campaign. Demobilised men from all over the country stayed overnight at the unoccupied Putney Section House and next day had medical and educational examinations. Elaborate arrangements were made to impress the men with good food and beds. Sir George Abbiss, the Assistant Commissioner, presided, and I was chosen to take charge. When told of my appointment I said, 'I don't mind doing it so long as it isn't permanent'. Though said in all innocence, or perhaps ignorance, this was not the attitude they expected from one so highly honoured. But nobody told me firmly that orders are orders and that I must obey them like everyone else. They said kindly that I was the man they wanted - so I condescendingly and graciously accepted. I would never learn - it was a wonderful job and I had the time of my life. It was then decided to close this Section House, intensify the campaign, and open a permanent recruiting centre at Beak Street, my old home in Soho, which was now vacant. Sir George asked me to take charge and once more I jibbed. I told him that street duty was a great pleasure to me and I could not understand men, after joining the police, making such efforts to get off the streets into a cushy indoor number. This seemed not to displease him and, asking me to take over for two or three months to get things working smoothly, promised I could then return to Wandsworth. Once more I had a good staff job, once more I had the time of my life - and I longed to get back to Wandsworth. The streets of Wandsworth had a great attraction for me, but I suppose there was more to it than that. I expect I was unsure of myself, not really worth Sir George's high opinion, afraid he would rumble me if I worked with him too long; always on the lookout for a bit of fun I had no intention of toeing the line in the narrow sense I felt sure he expected. He was used to people jumping about in his presence, but I found him sympathetic and easy to talk to, and this in itself may have been 227

THIS SMALL CLOUD

attractive to him. Certainly never before could he have had men quibble and jrb at his efforts to push them on. One day I was joking with a group of recruits and saw him discussing me with the Superintendent of Peel House. He called me over with a smile and said, 'We were saying you were the ideal man for this sort of job - how would you like to take over Peel House?' lv1y emphatic reply was, 'I should hate it, sir'. They took it well, though it could not have been pleasing to them; both were disciplinarians and Peel House was Sir George's pride and joy. To make me station-sergeant in charge of Peel House, responsible for the catering and the big staff, and the discipline of the recruits when they were out of class, would be like standing me on a pedestal in the centre of a hostile crowd. In a few weeks I would come down with a crash - of that I was quite sure. Now and again friendly efforts were made to make me change my mind, but after an enjoyable time at Beak Street I returned to ordinary duty at Wandsworth. Putney Section House was now occasionally used for police conferences, and it made a pleasant break, enabling me to catch up with my reading, to be struck off duty for a day or two to take charge. But one day another sergeant was given the job and I was told I was not to be employed on such duties again. I asked who had given this order, but the S.0.1. refused to say. He did say, however, 'All I can say is that you have got enemies in high places'. Now on several counts my conscience was far from clear, and had not been so since my days as a telegraph boy. I was also an awful liberty taker. I was content to feel that I had at last got my just deserts - but why make a mystery of it? I was not so satisfied a week later when the Peel House Superintendent rang me direct, a most unusual procedure, to ask whether he could persuade me to change my mind about Peel House. He was as pleasant as ever; it was clear that he and Sir George were not my enemies in high places - and I never found out who were. There were endless possibilities, as I found when I checked up to see how high some of my old enemies had climbed. Later the S.0.1. decided to carry out the order to the hilt and said I was not to be considered the senior man in Richmond Section House. This was petty and unimportant except as an insult; the next senior man was a daft old constable. The S.0.1. was a strange, lonely man with persecution mania. He put the worst interpretation on every order respecting himself and perhaps had done the same for me; a well intentioned order 228

METROPOLITAN POLICE I

9 2 5-50

from Sir George respecting my duties may have been nastily interpreted. I didn't think of this soothing, and probably wrong, explanation until much later and meanwhile I was worried and annoyed. The next event made my position even more confusing. \X'andsworth Borough Council, a go-ahead body, decided to devote a week to glorifying the Borough, with fetes and music all over the place and a big exhibition at the Town Hall. Scotland Yard were invited to have a stand at the exhibition and were pleased to accept, being anxious to encourage a new spirit of trust and co-operation between public and police; and to my surprise, after recent snubs from enemies in high places, I was appointed to be in charge. The public dawdled past the models of housing estates, the photographs of old \X'andsworth, the demonstrations of social services and day nurseries, but when they came to my stand, tucked away on a bend, they came to a full stop - though I say it as shouldn't. The crowds were terrific. Most of them, of course, were pleased to ask sensible questions; but some lively Wandsworth people looked on a captive policeman as something to be teased and baited. I gave as good as I got and thoroughly enjoyed it. What with this entertainment for the disorderly, the gentle old ladies plucking up courage to use the police telephone, the queue of children stretching away endlessly in the distance waiting to be handcuffed, and the Black Museum bits, a good time was had by all. All except the other stand holders, who were very cross and kept shouting 'Keep them on the move - it's not fair'. A great deal of good was done; the Yard was pleased and I was thanked - but I was still not allowed to be senior man at the dingy Richmond Section House and this annoyed me beyond endurance. I did not like living at Richmond in any case; it was uncomfortable and too far from Wandsworth. Why don't you transfer to Richmond then? Because I don't want to - I got quite crusty. The schools began to worry me, too. After all these years it was difficult to think up something new and interesting about safety first. It was all very well to love them and tell them crime stories, but I knew this was not quite what the authorities intended. I got rather careless and reckless on duty and took more and more liberties. What with one thing and another I was far from satisfied with myself. I felt it was the Christina Alberta business working round again - only a matter of time before I was expelled. Someone had once said that men join lousy jobs like the police only because of the pension. This I had 229

THIS SMALL CLOUD

denied in surprise, never having thought of my pension~ but even as I spoke I realised that in six years time I would have served twentyfive years and become entitled to one. How strange! Now those six years had slipped by and I was actually entitled to about five pounds a week. At thirty years service, which I intended to do, I would get a much bigger pension. But in my present self-revelatory mood I couldn't sec myself lasting another five years. During my happy life as a copper I sometimes regretted never having travelled. I thought the Merchant Navy might have been, in a different way, as enjoyable a life as a copper's. Ah well! One cannot have everything. Now quite casually a merchant seaman said to me, 'Had a good trip last time- made friends with the Master-at-Arms - makes all the difference you know - he used to be a copper'. Oh was he? If he can become a Master-at-Arms, then so can I. It suddenly seemed most desirable to become a merchant seaman. True, the missionaries had now completed the holy rite to which God had called them, and had put trousers and bloomers on all the natives, however remote, throughout the world; but there were other things still worth seeing - the Bay of Naples and the mosques of Istanbul, the harbours of Sydney and San Francisco, the apes of Gibraltar and the donkeys at Port Said. I knew from experience that if one wanted a thing badly enough one could get it, but I got this wish sooner than expected. I put out but one feeler and was prepared to wait. About a fortnight later, on 21st May 1950, I went on duty as usual when, halfway through the morning, a shipping company telephoned for me to go at once to Tilbury Docks to sign on as Master-at-Arms on the liner Oceania. I was supposed to give a month's notice to the police, so I took my problem to the S.D.I., the lonely, persecuted man who, like so many of these non-forthcoming people when appealed to direct, moved heaven and earth to help me. He telephoned the Yard, the holiday due to me was taken into consideration, and I was told to sign on my ship and return to the Yard, by which time my release would be arranged. So right to the end I have nothing but praise for the way the police authorities treated me - and their reference said my 'conduct had been exemplary'. After the rather sheltered life I had led, it required much thought before going off to sea at the age of forty-nine. Could I bear to leave my friends? Could I manage without the joy of music on my gramophone? My cat Mary? - perhaps I could take her with me. Could

METROPOLITAN POLICE 1925-50

I again face the moment when new bosses, friends, workmates and lookers-on, possibly hostile, realised I was homosexual? The whispering, the sniggering, the leg pulling, the shouted insults, the cold shoulder? Yes, on the whole, I thought I could bear all these things.

231

AFTERWORD: HARRY DALEY AS AN HISTORICAL WITNESS Harry Daley was a contradictory character. In many ways he appears the model of the old-style bobby; he found 'street duty ... a great pleasure' and liked 'to stand in the street in uniform for people to spot [him] and come for help'. Yet very few policemen ever get round to writing an autobiography; and Daley had a reckless streak which would never be regarded as typical, or desirable, in the model bobby. When a young police constable at Hammersmith and involved with the Bloomsbury set he made no secret of his homosexuality; his indiscretions led E.M. Forster to fear that he would get them all arrested. 1 His decision to retire from the police at the age of forty-nine to see the world as a merchant seaman may be described as romantic, though some might equally call it rash. The autobiography itself has some significance by the very fact of its being by a man on the fringe of the Bloomsbury set, and while Daley makes no mention of these friendships in the book, it is clear that they played an important role in his intellectual development. But the importance of the book for the historian of the twentieth century lies in its evocation of a childhood in the fishing community of Lowestoft, a youth at 'the tail end of the Edwardian world' in rural Dorking and, above all, for its picture of different quarters of London and its description of the Metropolitan Police during the second quarter of the century. Daley's portrayal of the earthy yet innocent working class of Lowestoft may have been coloured a little by nostalgia, yet the family in which he grew up appears typical of the East Anglian fishing communities of the early twentieth cenrury.2 \X'hile in the first decade of the twentieth century the fishing industry centred on Lowestoft and Yarmouth was booming, the fishermen's trade remained hard and dangerous. Trawlermen, like Daley's father, practisd the most risky kind of fishing; their death rate from marine misfortune was three and a half times that of driftermen, and seven times that of the inshore fishermen. Yet in spite of their hard lives the Lowestoft fishermen 232

AFTERWORD

were warm and caring towards their families; neither the stereotype of the remote, stern Victorian father nor of the drunken, violent parent was the norm in this community. The evidence suggests that, even though the father was away for long periods, the families were tightly knit. When home from the sea, the father would often take the children out on visits by himself, and he was invariably the centre of family fun and recreation. The absences of the father meant that mothers often assumed much of the responsibility for disciplining the children and administering correction with corporal punishment; Daley recalled his mother with 'an alarming quick temper and [she] hit to hurt'. Most policemen's autobiographies have been written by men who achieved high rank and/ or were involved in the pursuit of major criminals. Daley never caught a major criminal, and probably the nearest that he ever got to one was being on duty in Hammersmith Police Station the night that the celebrated bigamist, philanderer and murderer, Alfred Arthur Rouse, was arrested. 3 In the radio talks which Daley gave as a result of his friendship with J.R. Ackerley, he commented that burglars were few and far between and that he had never caught one. He recalled his first, solitary night patrol: 'how noisy my footsteps sounded in the deserted streets. "If I keep walking", I thoug~t, "my footsteps will drown the noise of the burglars, and if I stand still they may burgle the other end of my beat." ' 4 But failure to catch a burglar was unlikely to have been either because of the noise of Daley's boots, or because of a lack of vigilance on his part since contemporary research suggests that, whatever the popular expectations, 'a patrolling policeman in London could expect to pass within 100 yards of a burglary in progress roughly once every eight years - but not necessarily to catch the burglar or even realise that the crime was taking placc'. 5 Daley's description of the difficulties experienced by the Hammersmith police in catching the man responsible for breaking into and robbing shops by night is a valuable illustration of the problems involved in dealing with such crimes; what Daley docs not mention here is the fact that, on 14 January 193 2, he received a commendation for his part in the eventual arrest of the thief. 6 There has been a tradition among most historians of the English police to emphasise the supremacy of the English 'Police Idea' which has provided a model for civilian police forces (as opposed to paramilitary gendarmeries) in many countries of the world. These 2 33

THIS SMALL CLOUD

historians have concentrated on portraying the English police as a steadily evolving institution; they have made little reference to the workforce within the institution and to their mundane, day-to-day tasks. They have concentrated on the administrative and organisational reforms such as those introduced by Lord Trenchard, when Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police between 193 I and 1935, designed to get 'officer material' into the force. Daley provides a valuable antidote to police history as institutional history because of his proximity to policing at street level; his story concentrates on the ordinary policeman and his, generally unfortunate, clicntclc. By the same token Daley's reminiscences arc a significant counterweight to those social historians and sociologists who have portrayed the police solely as a pressure on the working class. While the issue has been little explored by historians, especially historians of the twentieth century, it seems clear that the police station served as a welfare centre for many. Help in finding lost children or animals, help with writing letters, the occasional shilling for the gas meter, all probably combined to give the police a degree of legitimacy within the poorer districts during the late nineteenth century and in the first half of the twentieth. In terms similar to Daley a Liverpool policeman looked back from the 1970s to the old police station where he had begun his police career: At Rose Hill, they'd call in and ask the man on duty to phone somebody for them; they couldn't use the phone many of them - they wercn 't used to it. Or, if it was an official they were phoning, they felt the bobby would do it better. They'd pay the tuppence or whatever, and he'd give them a receipt for it. There was a constant stream of late-night callers to look at the station clock to set their alarms. There was another constant stream for gas shillings, and certain bridewell sergeants would keep a special bag of them for the convenience of these folk. They always referred to it as the 'gas shillin' ', whether it was for the electricity meter or not! 'Have yer gotta shillin' for der gas, sair ?' First aid was another thing: kids falling down and cutting their knees, dog bites, coming in and getting bandaged up .... All sorts of things. They would come in to settle arguments - abstract thing~ nothing to do with the police. Who won the Cup the year before the war. Questions like that. They used the police as their general information and general assistance center. 7

There are 'perks' in most jobs, and for the policeman there have always been opportunities for earning a bit extra on the side, or 2 34

AFTERWORD

for picking up tips or 'Christmas boxes'; sometimes these perks have bordered on illegality, sometimes they have been unquestionably illegal; nearly always they have been directly against orders. Daley notes the tips which might be got for helping to park a car, the free drinks which some men received in pubs, the greater scale of corruption in the C.I.D., as well as the opportunities available for men involved in the Vice Squad. Sergeant George Goddard of Vine Street was suspended in November 1928 and subsequently convicted of attempting to pervert the course of justice. In addition to the regular cut which Daley insists he received from prostitutes, Goddard also received large sums from brothel and night-club owners; two of the latter were convicted alongside him in January 19 29. 8 Goddard, whose expensive house and car were almost bound to draw attention to his behaviour, was an example of corruption on the grand scale; most perks or illicit handouts were far more modest. Probably the most widespread petty corruption in the Metropolitan Police during Daley's service stemmed from the links between policemen and bookies. In 1906, on a rising tide of belief that gambling was fostering idleness and having a generally detrimental effect on the working class, Parliament passed the Street Betting Act. The street had invariably been the most convenient place for members of the working class to place their bets, but8 under section 1 of the Act it became an offence for: 'Any person [to be] frequenting or loitering in streets or public places, on behalf of himself or any other person, for the purpose of bookmaking, or betting or wagering, or agreeing to bet or wager, or paying, or receiving or settling bets'. Police attempts to enforce the Act led to the street bookie and his runners becoming folk heroes. But the total suppression of the offence was impossible, while the Act itself appeared increasingly anomalous as commercial developments provided new opportunities for working-class gambling through organised football pools and greyhound racing. Most ranks of the police seem to have contained men who, rather than seeking rigorously to enforce the legislation, were prepared to make accommodations with their local bookies. Daley's description of police - bookmaker arrangements in Hammersmith is paralleled by Arthur Harding's recollection of events on the opposite side of London. In every division the police had two men whose job it was to take the bookmakers in ... they'd come round quite polite and say, 'Albert, stick 2 35

THIS SMALL CLOUD

a man up tomorrow, we're having a raid'. \Xlell, all he had to do was to find a man who was hard up - any Tom, Dick or Harry - and say, 'Here's a chance to earn yourself a couple of quid', and they'd say, 'Oh blimey, yes'. They'd stand in the street, and then the plain-clothes men would take them in, and charge them with illegal betting. That way the bookmaker wouldn't have a record against him . . . . Jimmy Smith was the man who straightened up the police. The street bookies gave him the money to share out among the different sergeants and inspectors, and they relied on him to keep out strangers ... the police trusted him and the bookies trusted him . . . . Uimmy Smith] used to settle up with the police every month, on behalf of the bookies, and all the police in Commercial Street station. A police constable got a shilling a day, sergeants and inspectors got more and at Christmas time they all got a bonus, sometimes a crate of whiskey .... 9

It is difficult to know how a quantitative assessment of such corruption could be made, especially since certain of the relevant Metropolitan Police files in the Public Record Office remain closed. Daley was probably right to argue that the men on the beat often took their cue for corruption from their superiors; the evidence of Daley, the policeman, and Harding, the criminal, suggests that many superiors were prepared to give that cue. But it was not corruption in the police which most vexed workingclass activists and left-wing politicians and intellectuals during the inter-war years. The police were regularly accused of political bias against the left. On occasions the Metropolitan Police, and other constabulary forces, did act aggressively towards strikers and demonstrations by the National Unemployed Workers' Movement; and senior police officers and Home Office personnel had no time for complaints coming from the newly-formed National Council for Civil Liberties. 10 Daley, however, never appears to have been involved in any of the baton charges against the N.U.M.W., and while he draws attention to young policemen wearing black shirts when off duty and a singularly unpleasant example of anti-Semitism, he suggests a degree of sympathy shown by ordinary police constables towards the unemployed and hunger marchers: 'we marched so often with the unemployed that at last we identified with them'. Activists hoped to cash in on such identification as well as the discontent resulting from the decision, taken in the light of the country's economic plight, to cut police pay by 10 per cent. In November 1932 the men

AFTERWORD

in the section houses of Commercial Street and Arbour Square Stations, both in the East End, received printed handbills through the post: AN APPEAL TO THE POLICE \V/e, the unemployed workers, are fighting for Bread, for Work, Against the Means Test, for No More Economies. You London Police know what the Government's Economies have meant for us. As you walk the streets you see on every side of you the hunger, the misery, the bitter suffering forced on us and our families. You also, do not escape. To-day you are faced with another pay cut .... Yet these same people rely on you to smash our fight against starvation.

The 'appeal', senior officers of the district were happy, and probably relieved, to report, fell on deaf ears. 11 The most likely assessment of police behaviour towards demonstrations during the 1930s is that they were keen to preserve public order, as they perceived it, whether the threat came from the left or the right. 12 Towards the end of the thirties the principal threats came from the British Union of Fascists and the police responded accordingly. In the spring of 19 3 7 a series of complaints were sent to the Home Offic_e to the effect that the Metropolitan Police were soft on the Fascists. Forwarding a report of the trouble surrounding L.C.C. elections in Limehouse, Sir Stafford Cripps commented that it seemed 'to show that the police are still not protecting the people of the East End from Fascist violence'. However the subsequent investigation carried out for the Home Office shows the police as considerably over-stretched at the time of the main disorders; furthermore some of the complaints had become distorted as they passed from mouth to mouth, Fascist assailants could not be identified by their victims, and the existing laws did not provide for the kind of strong action which police critics demanded. 13 If it was the East End which suffered the most from Fascist violence during the thirties, one of the best-known examples of such violence occurred on the western side of the city. As one of the 762 Metropolitan Poiice officers detailed for special duty on the day, Daley witnessed the fringes of the B.U.F. meeting held at Olympia on 7th June 1934. He was not alone, as a policeman, in deploring the way in which black-shirted stewards assaulted anvone who dared to heckle Sir Oswald Mosley. The police found themselves in an awkward situation ;

237

AFTERWORD

The black shirts worn by young policemen at Vine Street when off duty and their anti-Semitism, the baiting which Daley experienced from some colleagues for his homosexuality, the expectation that policemen would cover up for each other when in trouble and P.C. Morris's officious and brutal arrest of the man at the tram stop, are probably best considered as part of the 'copculture' of the Metropolitan Police during the twenties, thirties and forties. This form of sub-culture is an area which has been popular with contemporary sociologists and has been revealed in studies partly financed by the police themselves when concerned about their relations with the community. 15 As yet the area has been little explored by historians. However, aside from these accentuations of the least pleasant aspects of masculinity and ethnic pride, one aspect of 'cop culture' during the period of Daley's service appears to have been the belief that the British bobby was a different kind of policeman from most others in the world, that part of his role was to help people, that he had to be unbiased, non-political, and work within a peculiarly English legal framework. This attitude permeates Daley's autobiography however much he also draws attention to the warts on the Metropolitan Police. While the rule of law and the impartiality of the police may be derided by some as complete fictions, it is clear that men like Daley had faith in such ideas. and that these beliefs influenced their actions. Four months before Daley resigned from the police that archetypal English bobby Dixon of Dock Green made his first appearance before the public in the film The Blue Lamp. In its review of the film The Times lamented that the central characters, including Dixon, 'are not policemen as they really are but policemen as an indulgent tradition has chosen to think they are'. 16 But if some policemen believed, at least in part, in this tradition, then the myth must have begun to develop a degree of reality. Daley's autobiography is one man's story and obviously cannot be taken as a guide to the way that all policemen felt and acted, but as one man's story it brings the reader closer to 'policemen as they were' and as they perceived themselves and their role during the second quarter of the twentieth century.

Clive Emsley

2

39

NOTES r. P.N. Furbank, E.M. Forster: A Life, London, Secker and Warburg, 1978, Vol. 2, p. 157.

Trevor Lummis, Occupation and Society: The East Anglian Fishermen r880-r9r4, Cambridge University Press, 1985, provides the basis for this paragraph. 3. Rouse, a commercial traveller, was arrested at Hammersmith bus terminus on 7 November 1930. He was subsequently convicted and hanged for the murder of an unknown hitch-hiker. His wife earned an almost saint-like aura as the stories of Rouse's philanderings unfolded in court. His confession was published in the Daily Sketch, 11 March 1931. 4. '"Not a Happy One"? My Day's Work by Harry Daley, Metropolitan Policeman', Listener, 27 March 1929. 5. R. Clarke and M. Hough, Crime and Police Effectiveness, London, Home Office Research Unit, 1984, p. 7. 6. My thanks to the Metropolitan Police for authority to see, and to make use of information from, Daley's Central Record of Service. 7. James McClure, Spike Island: Portrait of a Police Division, London, Macmillan, 1980, p. 167. 8. The prosecution of Goddard, together with Kate Merrick and Luigi Ribuffi, was fully reported in the press; see, inter alia, The Times, 22-30 January 1929. Goddard's personal fortune at the time of his trial was estimated at close on £18,000. What made the case even more distasteful, and certainly less flattering for Scotland Yard, was the revelation that Sergeant HoraceJosling had been forced to resign from the Metropolitan Police in 1922 after reporting Goddard for corruption. 9. Raphael Samuel, ed. East End Underworld: Chapters in the Life of Arthur Harding, London, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981, pp. 180-1. ro. See for example a Home Office report of June 1937 which denied that the N.C.C.L. was non-political, commenting 'its modus operandi is to vilify the police on all possible occasions, the favourite charges being that the police consistently abuse their powers and infringe the liberty of the subject and that the police and the Government show partiality towards the Fascists in the anti-Semitic campaign which is being carried on by the Fascists in the East End of London'. [Public Record Office] Mepo 2/3II2 fol. 14. 2.

NOTES

r r. Mepo 2/ 3066. The .May Committee which reported in July r 9 3 1 recommended economies in the public sector involving a 1 2½ per cent cut in police pay. In August the cut was reduced to 10 per cent which was to be implemented in two annual stages of 5 per cent. Sir Herbert Samuel, the Home Secretary in the new coalition government, promised to limit the cut to the initial 5 per cent, but this promise was rescinded when Samuel resigned from the Cabinet in September 19 3 2. 12. John Stevenson and Chris Cook, The Slump, London, Jonathan Cape, 1977, pp. 241-2. 13. Mepo 2/3109. 14. Mepo z./4319. 15. See, in particular, David J. Smith and Jeremy Gray, Police and People in London, London, Policy Studies Institute, 198 5. 16. The Times, 20January 1950.

aley's grandfather (left) and his father (right) My father was an orphanage boy from Poplar ... . When still a child he was apprenticed to he fishing smack Shepherd, of which my mother's father was skipper.' owestoft harbour in 1907 I was always attracted to sh!ps, warehouses, wharves and sheds; at the least excuse I delivered y telegrams on a route through the dock area.'

Daley's mother as a young parlour maid in Great Yarmouth and in later life in the garden of her home in Darking ' ... all my mother's bitter early battles were fought for her children with never a thought for herself. When we were children I remember nothing but love from her, love flowing uninterrupted over all our ups and downs .... Somewhere, at some time, so far as I was concerned, it turned into an insurmountable barrier.'

Harry, on the right, with Joey and Janet 'Except that the girls were treated more impatiently than the boys, we all had love and care in abundance and knew none of the insecurity I now know many children felt.'

Harry aged about fifteen in Dorking ' ... my adolescence ... would have been happier had I known earlier that what I sought so despairingly was hiding round the corner and just waiting for an invitation to jump out.'

'~--'"-~-- /

_____ .f

Daley on point duty in Hammersmith Broadway 'Hammersmith Broadway was th e pleasure centre of this end of London in the same way that Piccadilly Circus was supposed to be for London as a whole.'

Some friends of Daley's, mostl y out of work 'There was littl e money about in th e late twenties. Young men in places like Hammersmith scraped and pinched to buy gay clothes, then stood about like peacocks, with empty pockets, possessing nothing but what th ey stood up in, and not at a ll down-hearted. High spirits were th eir cock ney inheritance.'

Daley with a young friend at the swimming pool 'With rising anger I then and there decided to make friends openly with the people to whom I was attracted, irrespective of job, class or criminal record and bugger the consequences.'

•

Friends of Daley's, photographed by him after he had arrested them 'As gaoler I often had to lock up my friends and acquaintances not so upsetting as it sounds. They were from families where such things are no disgrace, and had usually committed trivial :, offences, with the prospect of early bail and a small fine.'

Daley (centre) with two friends 'When off duty my critics were always sensibly clad in blue serge suits and black boots. Referring to the fact that I wore no hat and to my flannel trousers ("now you can see what he is") they often slightly intimidated me by foretelling trouble when the S.D.I. saw me.' Daley in sergeant's uniform 'The old-time lawbreaker bore no grudge against police. He hoped not to get caught, but he was doing wrong and knew it was the duty of policemen to catch him if they could.'

(Left ): Vine Street police station, where Daley worked from 1935-41 'Vine Street was not the oldest London police station; that honour belonged to Bow Street just along the road through Covent Garden; but 1ts name was romantic enough to make it no disgrace among the rich to have been run in and charged there.' (Below): Wandsworth police station, where Daley ended his service 'Wandsworth was full of lively, good-looking people who thought nothing of telling policemen to go and get stuffed .... It was a marvellous place and I couldn't see myself making many arrests here.'

A portrait of H arry Daley by Duncan Grant, painted in 19 3 1. In his only, veiled, reference to his in volvement with the Bloomsbury scene, Daley writes 'Social life in th e late twenties and early thirties was gay and all-embracing; everybody gave parties and I was invited with the rest. Many people were kind to me when there was no earthly reason why they should be; some got fond of me and one or two even fell in love - though 'love' seems hardly the right word to describe the spite and back-biting it all involved all that was asked was that I should give up all my former friends, acquaintances, hobbies and interests, and sit waiting at home until my lovers found time to call - and on no condition tell a nyone I knew them ,'