29th March 1993 (six years earlier)
’Take that smile off your face, Bunting!’
It was, I have to say, not as I had expected. I had waited all my life for this moment and I was finally here, standing motionless in my brand new uniform on a freezing cold and wet drill square with ten other recruits. I certainly wasn’t smiling. My first day at West Yorkshire Police training school had started.
He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his smart appearance was dominating. The crease in his trousers appeared to be razor sharp and his boots shone like glass. His flat cap was placed so far down his forehead that you couldn’t see his eyes. Every step he took echoed around the square. I knew that I would have to look like this one day, and soon. I still dared not move. I was intimidated by his presence, but this feeling temporarily subsided to relief, as occasionally Sergeant Wright would allow his emotionless face to show a smile. He walked behind the line in which I was standing and as he went out of sight, I closed my eyes tight. I felt his pace stick thud down onto the top of my helmet. The noise was deafening. ‘Stop smiling!’ he bellowed as he came nose to nose with me. I couldn’t understand this; I wasn’t smiling. I tried not to move, but I felt my helmet falling from my head and so I instinctively tried to catch it. ‘Bunting, stand still!’ His voice was penetrating and I immediately rose to attention as my helmet bounced off into a puddle. I had only had it about an hour and already it was filthy. It would be spotless again by the following day; it would have to be.
The initial training period was to be residential. One bed, one wardrobe, one sink and one metal bin were all that filled my tiny, lifeless room. I noticed a Bible purposefully placed on the pillow. I sat on the bed. My suitcase filled the only remaining floor space. I stood up and I saw myself in the full-length mirror. I could hardly believe what I saw. I was only nineteen years old and the uniform seemed to highlight my tender years.
One of the other recruits walked into my room. Richard was older than me but we’d queued for our uniform together and we were already relying on each other for support. ‘Do we go to lunch in full uniform?’
‘I think we’d better,’ I replied cautiously. I had one final look at myself and then looked down to each button on my tunic. I had to make sure that the Queen’s crown was perfectly upright on them all. It was the very first thing that Sergeant Wright had told us and I wasn’t going to forget.
Richard approached me and pinched my back. ‘Hair,’ he muttered, as he held his index finger and thumb up to the window for a closer inspection of a stray hair.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I replied, knowing that he had just saved me from another reprimand from Sergeant Wright.
We all congregated in the television lounge on the landing. There was an uncomfortable silence, but that was only to be expected. We didn’t know each other and we had all just spent four hours on a cold and wet drill square. This had come as a shock. After all, we had been on ‘civvy street’ at breakfast time. I had felt the effects of this massive change the moment I put on the uniform. I can’t describe the feeling; it was just surreal.
The silence continued as we walked across the yard to the canteen. I thought we all looked immaculate. Before today, I had only seen groups of police officers like this on the television; now I was part of one. I smiled. My dream was coming true. This was all I’d ever wanted since seeing my dad in his uniform for the first time when I was about four. I remember he’d come home for a few minutes on Christmas Day to see my sister and I open our presents. Letting the neighbours see that you were a police officer wasn’t as much of a problem in the seventies.
As we walked into the canteen, I immediately noticed the noise of the clanging cutlery. I joined the back of the long queue. No one else was wearing a tunic or a helmet. I noticed several groups of officers looking over and laughing. I realised that tunics and hats were not required in the canteen, yet I dared not remove mine. I looked into the eating area. It was full. I noticed a raised platform with tables on it. There were neatly arranged flowers, jugs of fresh orange and baskets of bread on these tables. A dominant picture of the force crest hung precariously on the wall. I figured that this was the area for senior officers, as the other tables simply had a jug of water on them. With extraordinary curiosity, my eyes wandered around the room. I saw a large portrait of the Queen. This was strikingly significant. She seemed to be staring at me even when I moved. It was as if the picture had been put there deliberately to make me realise where I was. I was now a servant of Her Majesty. A large gap had developed in the queue as the person in front of me strode on. I had to make a conscious effort to close my mouth. I was in awe of everything. I was living my dream, and it was impossible to hide the fact that this was my very first day as a policeman.
When I sat down to eat, I noticed that even the serviettes proudly displayed the force crest. I opened mine out and stared fixedly at it. I noticed that one or two others in my group were doing exactly the same. I began to eat and contemplated the forthcoming afternoon. We were due in the classroom at 1.30 p.m., but I didn’t know what to expect. It was only twelve o’clock so I wanted to take advantage of the bit of free time. I needed to unpack my suitcase, the one my mum had packed. Mum seemed miles away now. I was on my own, about to enter the real world.
Despite these intentions, I didn’t manage to do my unpacking. The free time was consumed by my stupefaction at my surroundings. I also knew that I needed to ‘bull’ my boots and press to perfection my trousers and tunic sleeves. I had already realised that impressing Sergeant Wright wasn’t going to be easy, especially at seven o’clock in the morning, which was when we were next due on the square.
I sat in my room and carefully took off my uniform. The aloof authority around the place made me feel wary of creasing it, even when I was on my own with no one looking. I opened my boot polish and put some water into the lid. I took my cloth, wrapped it around my finger, dipped it into the water and the polish so I could shine my boots. As I did so, I listened intently to every noise. I could hear distant laughter from other rooms and, at this moment, hearing it was very daunting to me. How could anyone dare laugh here?
Richard knocked at my door and came in. ‘We’re all in the telly room, Mick. Doing our boots together, mate.’ I picked up my boots and polish and walked the short distance down the corridor to join them. I was a shy nineteen-year-old and had been out of school for less than a year. The others were older than me, and just joining in with their conversation was unnerving. I would have preferred to stay in my room but that