Metropolitan Police

I’ll try to make these entries short and succinct. Any time spent as a copper unearths a host of stories, but the real truth is that much of police work is mundane, even boring, and in my day it was often cold wet and miserable.

Peel House, the Metropolitan Police Training Centre, then in Victoria, not that far (geographically) away from Buckingham Palace in the centre of London, was run on military lines. We had daily inspections, our heads shorn, as ridicule shouted at the air. That first morning we were inducted, issued with books, instructions and initially treated with respect.

Finally we sat in a classroom awaiting the arrival of the Chief Superintendent in charge of the training school. A fat man, whose uniform sat on him like a sack he waddled into the room, stared at us all dismissively then smashed his fist down on the desk of the young lady sitting by the door, in the front row. ‘Young lady,’ he roared, ‘Get your tits off that desk and your hands off your fanny. You are in the police force now!’

I should have followed my instincts, stood up, railed at him and walked out. My cowardice kicked in, and I sat there, accepting his tirade of abuse, but with sympathy for that poor young woman. The psychology was simple, it was that used by armed forces everywhere. Belittle and then bond. We soon formed ourselves into a protective group, struggling our ways through the 13-week initial training.

We slept in dormitories, but were given some privacy. The large open room was divided by steel partitions, about six-feet high, forming small cubicles. Each room contained a single bed, a metal locker and a small chair. That was it, home for the duration. Training droned on, and some evenings we were allowed out to the Mucky Duck (White Swan) pub around the corner to play bar billiards and drink Watneys Red Barrel. This was life?

All was set to change when I passed out as a police constable, warrant number 153486, a proud member of the best police force in the world, the Metropolitan Police. As we waited to hear where we had been posted I dreamt of walking the beat in Soho, or Chelsea or somewhere exotic. Instead I was sent to Winchmore Hill, near Enfield, with lodgings in the section house above Tottenham police station. It was to be a lonely posting.

Winchmore Hill (YW) police station saw PC 588Y Lockwood as an intruder. I was young, they were all old, many had joined the police as War Reserves, as an alternative to being turned into cannon fodder. Most were lazy bastards, and some tried to swing the old soldier routine. One even tried to make me walk a yard behind him when learning beats. He didn’t win that small skirmish. A young PC would walk the beat with an experienced officer before being let out on his own, and these older men were really only interested in guarding their tea spots, shops and friends who would shelter them from the rigours of walking the streets.

One favourite hidey-hole was at the rear of a greengrocers. In a garage at the rear of the shop was an armchair, a selection of fruit and, at night, a flask of tea! I was nonplussed when I first found this rest home for weary Mr Plods, on the one hand it was a welcome spot on a dank night, but I knew that many officers sat themselves down, and did nothing else all night, having first purloined a meal from one of the restaurants or takeaways. My keen young mind found such behaviour objectionable, I wanted us all to be out there catching baddies!

I didn’t stay long at YW. They agreed to my request to be transferred somewhere busier, so I moved to Highgate (YH) and with that came a move from Tottenham Section House to Elizabeth House, Highgate. After the steel partitions and the grotty atmosphere of Tottenham nick I found Highgate a great relief. My room was small, but on the corner of the building, looking out over lawns, with the gymnasium of Channing School for Girls just over the fence. Pure delight.

Highgate nick(YH) was fun, even though it was only marginally busier than YW. I was one of Sergeant Epps’ merry band, and he taught us well. He was strict but clever and often amusing. The regime was unrelentess and young PC’s were expected to conform, both off and on duty. Three weeks of night duty, from 10pm until 6am, often going to Tottenham Magistrates Court in the morning with arrests made during the night, were followed by six weeks of day duty: one week of late turn, one of early alternatively.

We had four days off a month, spread over to allow one weekend off each month, either a Saturday and Sunday or a Sunday and Monday. Following on from a night duty shift that was not much of a weekend, as you didn’t get up until 2pm on Sunday, and went back at work at 2pm on Tuesday. Social life could get in the way of all this, and I remember one week of early turn when I didn’t get to bed at all. Luckily I was working as a plain-clothes observer on the area car, so could sit down most of the time at work! Keeping my eyes open was a problem that week.