5 On the Milltown beat

In the West Yorkshire police force, a posting to Milltown is seen as a step down the career ladder. A punishment for past misdeeds, perhaps, or a tranquil semi-retirement for traumatised coppers who can no longer hack it in the city. In this crime-fighting backwater, a policeman’s ambitions can atrophy in a matter of months.

What we have in Milltown isn’t a crime wave so much as a crime ripple, with our criminals, too, having modest ambitions. A local cat-burglar writes a regular column for Practical Housebreaking magazine. Car-tax dodgers drive with exaggerated care. Every few weeks some fruitcake, maddened with guilt, gives himself up to the police for having done something bad in a past life. We have health-conscious shoplifters who only nick organic produce. And when they restock their freezers, they conscientiously keep stolen and paid-for items apart.

No serving police officer had ever volunteered for the Milltown patch; well, not until Sam, anyway. Five years ago Sam Bickerdyke was just another copper on the beat. Pounding the city streets. Upholding the law. Filling his little black notebook with incomprehensible squiggles. But when Sam tried to learn the off-duty jargon known as canteen culture, he found plenty of canteen but precious little culture. In short, his face didn’t fit.

A more astute recruitment officer might have realised that Sam was temperamentally unsuited for police work. But Sam’s father had been a policeman, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather too. A stern, unsmiling portrait of a man in uniform had been a constant reminder, throughout Sam’s childhood, that policing would be his lot. And, to judge from the expression on the bewhiskered face in that sepia-toned photograph, not a particularly happy one. It would have taken more courage than Sam could muster to be the one to break the link in that dynastic chain. No-one ever asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Policing wasn’t one of many options presented to him. It was the only one.

It seemed, at first, that Sam might have some of the qualifications to be a good policeman. He was tall. He was perceived (wrongly, as it turned out) to be none too bright. He did as he was told. And, conscious of the weight of family expectations, he always tried his best. Predictably, his best was never good enough. Sam found it hard to walk in his father’s footsteps. And in his father’s boots too; they were at least one size too small for him. Comparisons are odious, of course, but it became painfully obvious to his superiors that Sam wasn’t half the policeman his father had been.

His dad was, in fact, the only person who saw a viable future for Sam; he imagined a speedy promotion to the Serious Crime Squad. The rest of the force, their opinions unclouded by nepotism, were thinking more in terms of the Humorous Crime Squad. Sam, bless him, actually thought a police informant was a colleague who would give him a tip for the 2.30 at Kempton. Many a behind-the-scenes discussion began with the vexed question: “What shall we do with the lad?” So it was a relief all round when Sam decided to jump before he was pushed. The Milltown posting came up, Sam applied and - in the absence of any other candidates - got the job.

The previous incumbent was a fat, disillusioned copper of the old school, all fags and fry-ups. He was fed up with having to play 'nice cop, nasty cop' on his own: first in uniform, banging on the table, then - after a quick costume change - in loud Hawaiian shirt, offering sympathy and cigarettes. It was a charade that was unlikely to fool any felons who were out of short trousers. Milltown folk aren’t daft. They take the Guardian... at least they do if the newsagent’s attention is distracted and they can slip a copy down their trousers.

It’s proved to be a good move for Sam. By remaining in the police force, he is doing nothing to disgrace the good name of the Bickerdyke family. And by choosing out-of-the-way Milltown, he ensures that his shortcomings as a police officer go more or less unnoticed.

Parked in front of the police house is a compact hatchback. Five years on, it still looks brand new; Sam doesn’t do a lot of mileage. It’s got a siren and a little flashing light, but he would feel too embarrassed to use them.

On the wall is a notice board warning Milltown residents about the hazards of Colorado Beetles, the wisdom of checking the credentials of unannounced callers and the need for protective clothing when dipping sheep. It’s all good advice, especially the bit about the sheep-dip. Having spent too much time dunking sheep in noxious chemicals, some of our local farmers suffer from migraines and sudden lapses of memory (especially around the time when they should be filling in their tax returns).

Sam can still hardly believe he’s getting paid to wander round town, keeping an eye on things. It’s not like work at all. Little old ladies ask him the time; some of them ask him what year it is too. As he patrols the streets he sees things that other, busier people fail to notice, such as the dipper that flies beneath the old packhorse bridge. And when things are quiet in Milltown, Sam takes every opportunity to slip away into the nearby woods and cloughs. His trouser pockets are full of acorns and conkers. Inside his jacket is a well-thumbed field-guide to mosses and liverworts. In the leather pouch where his walkie-talkie ought to be is a compact pair of binoculars.

He was glad to get rid of the walkie-talkie. It made him feel self-conscious, and the antenna used to jab him in the eye. No-one ever called him up anyway. Unless Milltown is suddenly overrun by mobsters, or cash-strapped farmers decide to diversify into cannabis cultivation, there is a tacit agreement at divisional headquarters that Sam should be left to his own devices. Indeed, the only contact with his Chief Inspector is a monthly phone call - merely to check that Sam is alive, well, and keeping Milltown’s crime figures down. This is fine with Sam, and keeps paperwork to a bare minimum.

These days he fills his little black notebook with observations about the birds and animals he sees. And, with the elastic pulled tight, he can press wild flowers flat in a matter of days. There’s always a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. Whenever he looks at the glories of nature, he feels humble. Mind you, he could look at a box of stale biscuits and feel humble too. That’s Sam Bickerdyke in a nutshell: he’s just a humble kind of guy.

Previous Next

Email John Morrison