‘Right, you nip up to your room and unpack your case while I let Bob Turner know you’re here.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Section house sergeant and that’s his office just behind you. He likes to show the new ones round and tell them the rules and regs at the same time. He lives in a big room on the top floor so I’ll go and let him know you’re here.’
Jane’s room was only slightly larger than the one she’d had at Hendon training college in the women’s only tower block accommodation during her initial training, and not as comfortable-looking or big as the one at home. The single bed and side cabinet were on the left as you entered; to the right behind a sliding door was a small metal washbasin and mirror with a strip light, toiletry shelves to one side. Under the sink there was a white towel on a rail.
She put her case on the unmade bed and opened it. Not knowing how much storage space there would be she had not packed too many clothes. She looked in the far section of the wardrobe for some hangers. Inside there was a chest of drawers, the top of which she noticed had a pull-out section that could be used as a desk. Nifty, she thought to herself.
As she unpacked Jane realized she would have to get used to doing her own washing and ironing. She put her clothes in the wardrobe and placed her alarm clock on the bedside table, then put the empty case under the bed. She opened the window at the end of the room to let some fresh air in. Her room overlooked the rear courtyard of the building, which she was glad of as the rooms at the front of the building overlooked Mare Street, which was a main through-road and always noisy and busy. She was about to unfold the bottom sheet and start to make the bed when there was a knock at the door. She opened it and saw a balding, dark-haired and rather portly man in his early forties dressed in a white T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and slippers.
‘Tennison?’ he asked bluntly without a smile and said he was Sergeant Turner.
She put out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise. Follow me, please,’ he said with a limp handshake and gruff manner.
As they walked along the landing the first thing he told her was that men were not allowed on the women’s floor and vice versa, unless there was a valid reason, and anyone wantonly caught breaking the rule would be asked to leave.
He pointed out where the ladies’ toilets and bathroom were and opening a door opposite he showed her the small ironing room with two irons and boards.
‘Is there a launderette nearby?’
‘One downstairs in the basement next to the gym. Two front-load washers and a drying room with clothes racks next to it. We’re hoping to get some tumbler-driers in the near future. There’s a dry-cleaner’s round the corner for your uniform. He accepts police chits and you can get them at work or from me. Canteen opening hours are marked up on the main noticeboard outside my office.’
Jane couldn’t get over his abrupt, monotonous way of speaking: there was a total lack of emphasis to his words.
‘My room is very comfortable and nicely decorated,’ she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
‘Adequate, yes, nicely decorated, no. You can put posters up using that new Bostick stuff, no nails, and no pins.’
‘Blu-tack?’ Jane enquired.
‘If it’s blue and sticky then that’s it.’
The tour of the section house was pretty straightforward, and Sergeant Turner said little else other than to point out the TV rooms and canteen. Feeling rather pessimistic, Jane returned to her room. She finished making her bed and neatly arranged all her toiletries before going to the canteen for lunch. It was very different from the police station’s and actually looked like a proper restaurant. She was very impressed but couldn’t help noticing that there were just six people dining and only two of them were sitting together and obviously about to go on late shift as they were in half-blues. She didn’t recognize anyone from Hackney Police Station, but wasn’t surprised as some of the hundred and twenty residents worked at other stations in East London.
She felt very shy sitting alone and no one appeared in any way interested in making her acquaintance. Jane perused the menu, which had a choice of starters, mains and desserts, all of which were appealing. Ten minutes had passed when she saw a large black lady dressed in a Met Police catering outfit come out of the kitchen swing door. Jane raised her hand and the woman, who looked to be West Indian and in her fifties, walked over with a big smile.
‘Yes, dear, what can I do fer yer?’ she asked in a friendly way.
‘Could I order the shepherd’s pie with mixed veg, please?’
The woman started to laugh loudly. The sound was so infectious and happy Jane felt herself grinning and wanting to laugh herself.
