A Uniformed Response

My lasting recollection of Christmas 1962 was that of a truly white Christmas. Throughout southern England, and particularly in the county of Kent, the entire countryside lay under a thick carpet of snow which was to form the base for many subsequent falls that were to continue, almost unabated, for a further three months. This was to cause disruption and hardship for all of the people who struggled to maintain their usual way of life. Train services were severely disrupted, roads were regularly blocked by new snowfall and abandoned vehicles. Many people were unable to go about their normal day to day activities whilst temperatures remained stubbornly in the blue. It was in these numbing conditions that I was to commence pounding the beat and a thirty year commitment to public service. Was the public going to be ready for me? Several months earlier, I had turned my back on a future in professional photography and went to my local police station at Margate for a job application form. Now as winter stretched its claws upon the downland and Weald of Kent, I had, modestly successfully, completed my initial three month training as a raw 19-year-old probationary police recruit. A local induction course had been undertaken at the Kent Police Force HQ at Maidstone, where I had been taught about the measures and procedures and By-Laws that were to be complied with at my new posting. At the end of this induction, about eight of us were bussed down to the Magistrates Court in Maidstone, where we were duly sworn in by the chief magistrate and told that we now each held the rank of Constable in the Kent County Constabulary with all the powers and responsibility attached to that ancient title. Back at headquarters, it was rather disappointing to have been told by the training school sergeant that I was to be posted to a town called Dartford, which I had always thought was a part of London. I had grown up on the Kent coast, at Margate, where the sea air was fresh and bracing. I knew the area and had many friends and acquaintances that I was not happy to leave and had been hoping to get a local posting where I could keep my friends and make use of my local knowledge. When the details were read out to us, and after speaking with my more geographically-aware colleagues, I realised that Dartford was the most distant posting within the county that it was possible to have. So it was, on Thursday the 27th December 1962, that I arrived at Dartford railway station carrying my suitcase and wondering how to find the town’s police station. The winter sun was trying its best to make an effort to brighten the scene and I considered, rather inappropriately, that Dartford was quite an attractive town, covered as it was by a carpet of deep snow and with the pale yellow rays of the afternoon sun reflecting upon the lock-up shops along Station Approach. A change of mind was to overtake me when the thaw set in several weeks later. There was little traffic on the streets as I dragged my belongings to Highfield Road where I entered the front door of Dartford “nick”, to be welcomed by a friendly old station officer whom I got to know as Jack. Jack had a full head of silver hair and displayed a long row of colourful medal ribbons across his chest. I was to learn a lot from Jack in the weeks to come. “Bring your bag in and go and make a brew,” he said, directing me to the small kitchen at the end of the corridor behind the front office. “And you had better make a full pot, because the Chief will want one as well”. I opened the door from the public entrance hall and entered the working area of my first police station. It was warm and smelled of floor polish and stale cigarette smoke. The woodwork was brown varnish, the floors were brown linoleum, the ancient table and chairs bore a dark brown patina that had obviously been built up over a great many years. The overflowing cabinets were brown, as were the lampshades, but that was because of the nicotine staining. Apart from Jack, seated behind the main counter with his glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose, the police station appeared to be deserted – and very brown. “Where is everyone?” I asked. “Who were you expecting?” he countered. “I was told that Dartford was a busy town, so I expected to see more police officers here.” “It is a busy town, lad,” said Jack. “That’s why no-one’s in ‘ere.” Thus firmly put into my place, I followed Jack’s directions to the kitchen and walked down the dark brown corridor and past an open office door where I saw the chief inspector sitting at his desk. He looked up at me as I passed and said, “You the new bloke?” to which I replied that I was, and politely identified myself to him. “Two sugars then, lad.” He said informally, and went back to his book. I continued down the corridor where I found a small kitchen area with the essentials for a work environment – a kettle and a tea caddy. I immediately felt that a life of being a copper would be OK after all.