Extract taken from my Novel - The Compost of Memory

Chapter 3

Bulled Boots and Cocoa

I forgot to mention that prior to me disgracing myself at High school I’d applied for the position of Police Cadet. Why such an institutionalised career choice I hear you ask? After all I have already confirmed (ad-nauseum) my status as a free spirit who doesn’t care to have all his burgeoning creativity and free-will snuffed out. If truth be known I thought the uniform might improve my love life, and the fact that nearly half of the 30 strong cadet troop were women.

The selection procedure was surprisingly rigorous and involved 3 separate interviews, a series of psychometric and I.Q tests - 165! (I asked for a recount) as well as a detailed background check. This was the only bit I was worried about. Did they have the resources to uncover my milk-money scam or worse still, when I pretended to be another paper boy in order to get all his Christmas tips? For whatever reason, these petty crimes were overlooked and I was accepted as a Staffordshire Police Cadet.

I moved out of my cosy bedroom on the 16^th October 1979 and into one of Seigfried House’s 3 bed dormitories. It was situated at Aldershot HQ, right next to the Police Dog Kennels and just to the left of the mounted division. To this day, if I catch a whiff of Jeyes fluid or steaming horse manure I’m instantly transported back to Baswich.

My two roommates seemed ordinary enough. Steven (Doc) Holiday was a lanky, strong jawed individual who rarely spoke. Dave Williams sported the full Mod regalia of bulls-eyed parker, pork pie hat and drainpipe jeans. A mop of blonde curls and rosy cheeks belied a brittle demeanour, underlined by the home made H.O.T.E. and L.A.V.E tattoos on both knuckles.

I chose to file my poetic sensitive side away under ‘M’ for much later on, and re-invented myself with a more masculine, rugged persona. I loved sports (big lie), was veritable fly-paper for females (bigger lie) and adored heavy metal (straight to hell!). The trouble with this new and improved me was his propensity for overlaying lies and exaggeration one on top of another. Good and convincing liars have a well-rehearsed script and excellent recall. I fluffed my lines and forgot everything.

In less than a week I was rebranded as wanker and weirdo by Steve and Dave. It took almost two years to convince them otherwise

In the initial meet and greet, Superintendent Jones mapped out our duties, responsibilities and educational curriculum for the year ahead. From what I could fathom, this consisted of three more ‘O’ Levels, loads of P.E and hours of drill practice. There wasn’t a sign of any police based activities until the second year when we were seconded to various police departments such as forensics, firearms and Scenes of Crime. In the third year (if we hadn’t resigned or been dismissed) we’d get the opportunity to observe a fully functioning police station close up.

Each year brought with it a different coloured lanyard to separate us from the regular police force - first red, then blue and finally gold. To emphasise our role further, these colours were also duplicated on our bus-inspectors hat bands. So, all my dreams of a bobby’s helmet and shiny black truncheon soon evaporated. Probably for the best really, as none of us wanted the stress or responsibility of the real deal.

The job of teaching us to square bash fell to a formidable ex-guardsman, Sergeant Sweet. I never saw his eyes, which were hidden by a sawn-off cap peak that rested on the bridge of his nose at 90 degrees. For a little man he had the loudest voice I’ve ever heard. It was a shout of two parts - starting with a low guttural growl, and ending in a blood curdling scream. During the explosion his jugular vein stood out like a liquorice snake and anyone within five yards was showered in spit.

By day we were drilled, exercised and schooled to virtual collapse. By night, an element of public school cosseting crept in, in the shape of an optional supper treat. Mountains of cheese and pickle sandwiches and jugs of steaming cocoa were left on the shuttered serving hatch in the dimly lit canteen every evening at 7pm. At first, it was a great success. We used the time to let off steam, tease the girls and gorge ourselves on dairy products. Gradually though, the novelty wore off and the numbers waned. 

Maybe people got tired of the unchanging menu, or perhaps they preferred to sample smuggled in contraband (beer and crisps). I kept coming, mainly because I loved the peace and quiet of the place. The humming freezers and foodie aromas made me think of home. Sometimes I’d glance at the wall clock, shut my eyes and let my mind find Mum, all aproned-up in her galley kitchen, stirring cauldrons of boiling jam or tomato chutney. In the lounge, telly tuned to Match of the Day was Dad - virtually horizontal, nodding in his armchair with two chubby hands anchoring a tumbler of whisky to his rolling chest. In her tiny bedroom, bent under the beam of an ancient angle poise lamp sat Sam, revising about terminal moraines or the Jurassic plates. My old bed probably held a pair of cats, curled up like young ferns, in amongst bin bags of stuff waiting to be stored in the loft.

The only other staunch supper addict was Mickey Rice, a close friend and fellow weirdo who could talk for England, with a quirky sense of humour not unlike my own. His father was an inspector and everyone assumed he’d used his influence to secure a place for Mickey. We’d jabber away to each other about nothing in particular, playing a sort of verbal paper chase with neither of us knowing the route or eventual destination. I loved this free flowing banter, devoid of rules and conventions. There were animal impressions, jokes, armpit farts, and best of all sandwiching eating contests. As soon as the seconds hand hit 12 we were off, grabbing and stuffing like starving refugees. The trick was to keep chewing and swallowing, and definitely no talking. Mickey nearly always ignored the rules cramming, speaking and then disgorging his soggy ball of bread and cheese onto the table in a fit of giggles and streaming eyes. Occasionally, we’d both cram at the same time and stare goggle-eyed and hamster-cheeked at the other until somebody buckled and coughed up.

A year after leaving the cadets, I learned that Mickey had stolen a police vehicle from his father’s station and gone for a drive around Stafford. With several jam butty cars in pursuit Mickey bottled it on a bad bend near a low bridge and hit one of the supports at 90. He was killed instantly – aged 20. Rumours about drink and drugs filled the local papers, but nothing was confirmed. The force of the impact caused a fire, destroying most of the evidence.

I went to his funeral, as did a lot of the other cadets. When it came to the ‘ashes to ashes’ part I waited till everyone had sprinkled their handful of dirt and wandered away. I checked the coast was clear before reaching inside my coat pocket and pulled out a rather dented cheese and pickle butty, wrapped in Clingfilm. It hit the lid with a soft thud and I smiled to myself hoping that Mickey was watching nearby, giving me a double thumbs up and crying with laughter.

During my three years as a police cadet I never attempted to make a name for myself or try for the coveted cadet ‘baton’. This was handed out to sporty arse-lickers who were 'likely to succeed'. I was likely to slip into complete anonymity if I became any more disinterested. Joey Walsh, the rugby loving PE instructor loathed me with a passion. He took every possible opportunity to sweat some sense into my pallid, pensile frame with endless shuttle runs and punishing cross country runs.

      

        “Come on Daniels, you bone idle fuckwit!” he’d shout, as I ran straight into the box during gymnastics. I suffered many sleepless nights’ merely contemplating gymnastics. Most of the other cadets loved it because it gave them a break from mindless circuit training or commando sevens. It also gave the sporty arse lickers another chance to shine. My body coped with the run up fairly well, but as soon as the box loomed into view my imagination took over and that was that.  Every possible variation of spinal paralysis flashed before me. I even pictured Joey setting fire to the box with lighter fuel and cackling as he kicked the crash mat across the floor.

I did pass my Duke of Edinburgh’s Gold Award, much to the surprise of Joey and my family. Mum was chuffed to bits when I asked her to accompany me to the palace and rang everyone in her address book to boast. The awards ceremony took place on the hottest day of the year, and it was a Buckingham Palace production line, but at least I’d achieved something.

Sadly, my transition from police cadet to police constable never happened, following an examination catastrophe at Ryton Training school and a pernicious final report. Years later I discovered that Joey Walsh was responsible for writing it and according to a reliable source he didn’t pull his punches. While part of me was a little disappointed at my persistent lack of career ambition, the pragmatist in me felt relieved I’d been prevented from becoming a proper policeman. I wouldn’t have been a good probationary constable because I was much too soft to book old ladies for defective tail lights or wait in pub car parks for drunken drivers. I’m sure I’d have made lots of friends, but accrued zero Knock Offs.

(c) Simon Daniels