LITMIR.BIZ

       Up the junction

      To be authorised to drive a police car you have to pass a police-driving course. This meant six weeks of intensive training, at the end of which you had to pass a final test. This was far more advanced than a normal driving test. It was exhausting, hard work and rigorous, with a lot of theory to learn.

      In the Metropolitan Police, the driving school is based at Hendon Police College, now known as the Peel Centre. Each course would have five or six teams of three officers posted with an instructor. We would work all day driving fast and strategically in unmarked cars through country lanes, in towns and on motorways. We had a day on the skid pan, which most of the guys loved, a day driving a double decker bus on an airfield, and a day changing tyres, fan belts and learning about other mechanical things.

      I took great care and concentrated hard but it didn’t come easy to me. My head spun every night of every day of the course. It didn’t help that my instructor, Frank Parrot, wasn’t a very nice man. He was a civilian trainer and fancied himself as a cop. He also had old-fashioned ideas and asked me why I wasn’t at home looking after a husband and some children. He said he didn’t understand a woman wanting to do a man’s job.

      ‘Unless you’re one of those lesbos? Are you?’ he asked me on the second day.

      I didn’t reply. He said many objectionable things. I didn’t agree with his views, and he had many, but I kept my mouth shut. I wanted to pass the course.

      One of the guys in my car, Laurie, was chatty, a bit of a wide-boy, which was okay because he kept the instructor talking and I didn’t have to say much. The other guy was Rhys. He was Welsh, about my age, married and a bit quiet. He was lovely.

      We were in the fifth week and it was a baking hot day. The rapeseed was vibrant yellow and the air pungent as we drove through the country lanes of Essex. My eyes were fuzzy and I thought I might have a touch of hay fever to add to the fatigue.

      I’d driven about a mile when the instructor told me to put my foot down and drive faster. I was already doing sixty. I wasn’t familiar with the roads and I wasn’t that confident. He was encouraging me to do an overtake I didn’t feel safe making. He prodded me in my ribs, sharp and hard.

      I gasped.

      ‘Are you an excessive overeater or just naturally fat?’ he said.

      ‘What? What?’ I couldn’t believe what he’d said. I tried to keep focus on the road. I was furious. How rude. How nasty. I wasn’t even fat! My face burned bright red. The sun glared into my eyes as I drove around a blind bend, and I sneezed.

      Up ahead I saw an indent in the road, a farmer’s track or gateway. I pulled in and stopped the car. I got out and slammed the door. I didn’t want to but couldn’t help crying at this point. Hot tears spilled down my face. I’d had enough of being baited and bullied by him, pushing me to fail. I knew I would fail. He didn’t like me and he’d make sure I didn’t pass. He made no disguise of the fact he thought women couldn’t drive. I knew I made silly mistakes and he made me nervous, which made it worse, but I wanted to pass so much. I needed to, not just for the station but for me, so that I could go into surveillance because you had to have the driving skills for that kind of work.

      I could see the instructor laughing in the front passenger seat. Bastard!

      Rhys got out of the car. ‘He was out of order. I’ll back you if you want to make a complaint,’ he said.

      I was heartened. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I’m not getting back in that driver’s seat. Not with him.’

      ‘It’s okay, I’ll drive.’

      We stood a few minutes longer. Rhys climbed into the front seat and I took his place in the back. Frank said nothing and neither did we.

      Once back on the motorway, Parrot looked at me through his rear-view mirror. ‘Over your little tiff now?’ he said.

      I ignored him and looked out of the side window. I was still flushed, still furious, and determined never to drive with him again.

      When we got back to the training school I gathered my things. I had to carefully consider my next move. I was young in service. I couldn’t and didn’t want to refuse to go back. My shift needed me to pass this course because we were short on drivers. And I wasn’t a quitter.

      I went back the following morning and asked to see Sergeant Thomas, the officer in charge. He was also an instructor and his team were getting ready to go out.

      I told him what had happened the previous day and on other days during the previous five weeks. He listened, nodded, made sympathetic noises. I had the impression I wasn’t the first person to complain about Mr Parrot.

      Sergeant Thomas told me my instructor hadn’t given me good weekly reports. He said he was surprised because he’d seen me driving on various days and thought I was doing okay. He was a man down in his car because one of his students had gone off sick with chicken pox so he said I could go with him.

      I had the best drive ever. Sergeant Thomas said he was impressed and there was no reason why I should fail. Yes, I was a careful driver, but I didn’t hesitate or hold back.

      The next morning Sergeant Thomas took me to one side before setting off for the drive.

      ‘Rhys came to see me last night. He’s backed up what you said. You’re in my car for the rest of the course and I’ll be taking you for your test. You can make a formal complaint if you want to, Ash.’

      I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t because it would be difficult. I’d be branded a troublemaker, labelled as a grass, someone who couldn’t take a joke. I’d been allowed to change instructors and was beginning to believe I could pass the course. If I complained it would mean internal discipline for Parrot. He would deny it and then what? Perhaps naively, I hoped this would be enough for him to not do it again. I didn’t want to drag Rhys into it either. I had no idea what Laurie would say but I had a feeling he wouldn’t want to get involved.

      ‘I spoke to Frank Parrot,’ Sergeant Thomas said.

      My body slumped.

      ‘He said he was putting you under stress, making you drive under pressure, because on the streets you have to be able to keep calm while driving fast police cars with the blues and twos on. You might have to deal with an urgent assistance, or a robbery in progress, or something high tension and he said he wasn’t sure you could handle it.’

      ‘Really? You really think that’s what he was doing?’ I said. ‘He knows nothing about me or how I do my job. He’s plain nasty. He was doing it because he could, because he thought he could get away with it. Is that how you teach your pupils, sarge?’

      The sergeant shook his head. ‘Err … no.’

      Nothing more needed to be said. We both knew the truth of it.

      I didn’t make a formal complaint. Today, I probably would, but I’m older, wiser and less intimidated. Back then, I was just grateful to pass the course. And I did. One up to me and one down to Parrot. I guess I was triumphant because it wasn’t just about passing the course: it was a turning point. Sometimes you have to fight to realise that nobody has the right to make you feel like that but they will if you let them. It was good for my confidence to win that round and move on.

      I wasn’t the first and I wasn’t the worst affected. Lots of women, and some men, had it harder, harsher and it wasn’t fair. Thankfully the police service has come many miles since those days.