‘During work time, officer? Surely there was some paperwork you could do? We’re always hearing about how much paperwork there is these days.’
I confidently told him, ‘All my paperwork was up to date, sir.’
He looked surprised.
The woman on the panel looked down her nose at me and said, ‘What exactly were you knitting, miss?’
I hated being called ‘Miss’.
‘Baby clothes, ma’am. For a friend. One of my colleagues, PC Fenelli, joked I was knitting willy warmers but I wasn’t, it was a baby cardigan.’
The older man on the panel woke up and said, ‘Willy warmers? What are they?’
No one answered.
I filled the uncomfortable silence by adding, ‘I was knitting the sleeve of a baby cardigan, sir. It can become tiring on night duty when you’re posted to the front desk. Nothing much happens past two in the morning during the week but we still have to man the front office. I hadn’t had a refreshment break and you can’t really expect to be relieved for an hour by another officer when it’s so quiet indoors and they are busy out on the streets. I sat and ate my sandwiches and did some knitting at my desk during what would have been my break.’
That must absolve me, surely?
I was wrong.
The lady of the bench glared at me. ‘Could you not read law books? You don’t know it all, officer. There are plenty of updates and changes in policy and law to become familiar with, I am sure.’
My quiet protestations of, ‘But that would well and truly put me to sleep!’ were ignored.
They had me.
I was given words of advice and told that in future I should read Blackstone’s police manuals during the nights when I was bored.
And to think, I’d given that family our last packet of biscuits. That’s gratitude. It put me off knitting, too. I never did finish those willy warmers.
A few days after the willy warmers’ incident I was back on day shift and still station officer. I made the tea and coffee, checked my handover files and offered to do some typing for one of the dyslexic blokes on shift who was bogged down with his paperwork. I liked to do a good turn and as a quick typist it earned me a few favours in the bag.
I hoisted the manual typewriter onto the counter and swept to one side the bundles of flyers and vouchers that littered the front desk. These comprised the usual advice leaflets for those who find themselves homeless, for domestic violence victims, plus some small street maps and handouts for new restaurants and fancy cafés that enticed customers with generous discounts in return for reviews. Theatres did the same to fill seats at preview shows. A pair of tickets for a West End show cost just a pound. It wasn’t a gratuity because these offers were given to all offices, hotels and shops around the West End and were meant for all to enjoy the perks, police and public alike.
A flyer for Vidal Sassoon salon in Mayfair fluttered down to the floor. I picked it up. ‘Models Wanted. Free haircuts.’ It sounded perfect as I was thinking I could do with a new style for the new job. I phoned and booked my free cut for Thursday, 3.30 p.m., after the early shift finished.
Thursday was uneventful on the front desk and I arrived keen and eager at the hairdresser’s. I signed the consent form, rather chuffed to be having my hair cut at a place I would never usually be able to afford. I skimmed the small print and sat down, unconcerned. It’s only hair, right? It grows back.
My hair was shoulder-length with layers of rotten half curls, hanging limp at the ends. It was time to shed the remnants of a shaggy perm. I needed a new look. Being out of uniform meant no more pinning it up beneath a police hat and it could fly free.
Hairdressers from all over the world came to Vidal Sassoon to be trained and to learn new techniques. A male hairdresser from Chicago was assigned to me, under the guidance of Gideon, his tutor.
‘Perfect!’ said Gideon. ‘And you’ve agreed the terms? That we can do whatever we like? And take pictures to use in advertising if we so wish?’
‘Oh yes, I’m quite looking forward to it,’ I smiled.
He didn’t smile back. ‘As long as you’re prepared. There’s no going back. And no suing us.’
‘Absolutely,’ I nodded, a tad too trusting.
The two men tugged and pulled my hair and entered a technical discussion that was beyond my ken. I started to feel a bit concerned as they discussed how my hair needed treatment to gain back lustre.
I glanced to my left and saw a beautiful girl in her early twenties with long blonde hair and symmetrical features. She could have been a model. Might have been a model. A real one. I felt a tingling creeping up the back of my neck when I saw her hairdresser take a razor to her head. She was being scalped! It was only then it dawned on me that I wasn’t going to be given a conventional cut. Oh dear. Could I take my leave?
When I came back from an intense conditioning treatment, my pretty neighbour was all-over bald. I could have cried for her. I couldn’t understand why she was smiling. Maybe she wanted a total change. Maybe she had been given a modelling job, or was an actress that needed a bald head for the part? Maybe she had cancer and wanted it cut off before it fell out?
I felt uncomfortable as I glanced away and out of the window. I noticed two of my uniformed colleagues talking to a motorist who did not look happy. I shrank further down in my chair, hoping they wouldn’t glance in and see me.
A rumpus erupted outside and the suspect ended up with his arms behind his back, handcuffed.
My hairdresser picked up his scissors and watched the commotion. ‘I see cops are the same on both sides of the pond, honey,’ he drawled.
‘Mmm.’
‘Too many innocent motorists getting popped when these guys should be out catching real criminals,’ he said, chopping a wedge from my hair.
‘Mmm!’ I didn’t like the way this conversation was going.
‘At least your cops don’t have guns, like ours.’ Chop. Chop.
‘No, that’s a good thing,’ I agreed, glad of something positive to say.
‘You’d think they’d have better things to do than hassle people parking for too long. Not as if he’s an armed robber, is it?’ Chop. Snip. Hack.
I bit the inside of my lip. Who knew what they were arresting him for? He might have committed murder for all we knew.
‘Who would do a job like that? Sick in the head if you ask me.’
I didn’t ask him but maybe I was sick in the head – for agreeing to be a patsy for a hairdresser from a fancy salon.
‘So honey, what is it you do?’ he asked.
Wide-eyed and impotent, I looked back at him from the mirror in front of me. I tried not to notice my depleting locks. ‘Oh, I work in an office. Just around the corner. Boring, nothing exciting,’ I spurted out, coward-like and quivering.
‘Let’s see if we can liven up your life a little then, yeah? I think a streak of purple at the front with a long fringe hanging to the side. Short at the back.’
I tried to avoid looking out of the window. I didn’t want anyone to recognise me and wave. I didn’t fancy being a baldy or having any other revenge cut by someone who loathed the police.
I was relieved when I saw the van pull up and take the prisoner away. I relaxed a little,