(_By Special P.C. XXX._)
We have three, each with its nuances of attraction, its delicately
different disadvantages. They are known as the Oil Wharves, the
Generating Station, and the Sewage Station. A wise decree from Scotland
Yard leaves us uncertain up to the very last moment of each evening as
to which will be our allotted beat. A gambling element is thus provided
to stimulate us.
The Oil Wharves gloom on a _cul-de-sac_ of nocturnal emptiness. Scarcely
does a human footstep come to rouse the petroleum-sluggish echoes. A
padding pussy makes a note of cheery liveliness in the lukewarm monotony
of the night-watch.
But against that dreariness must be set the four wooden chairs which the
Oil Magnates (blessings upon them and upon their children's children!)
provide for our comfort. Technically, it may be undignified for a
Special Constable to sit down. It is possible that a penalty of three
days in a dark cell awaits the transgressor. We do not know, and we do
not enquire. In that deadliest hour beyond the dawn, when the street
lamps splutter out and the ruthless morning light reveals us to one
another unwashed, unshaven and horribly all-nighty in appearance, it is
indeed a grateful relief to sit down on the wooden Windsor chair and
wait the six o'clock of release in blankness of mind.
The Generating Station, we are given to understand, does some magic with
electricity. That is not our concern. We are there to pace up and down
outside its walls, and watch for the man with the bomb. It has the
advantage of being a bulky building; therefore a long beat. Up to
midnight it looks over to a blank wall which forms a London lovers'
lane. We speculate on the progress of courtship. The Generating Station
is not odorous, and therefore is accounted the picked beat by the
æsthetes among us.
The Sewage Station, on the other hand, is very lively with odours. They
dominate our meals for at least twenty-four hours after duty. Some
attribute them to a candle-factory opposite, labelling them as warm
decomposing tallow. Another school of thought places them as the outcast
_débris_ of a sugar-factory. A scientist amongst us claims that they are
saccharine which has taken the wrong turning. To myself the taste
suggests mellow Limburger cheese.
They raised a classic law-suit a few years ago, taken up to the House of
Lords. On the one side a string of tough sturdy bargees testified that a
few whiffs made them totally unable to face their dinner. On the other
side an array of sanitary experts claimed that they were not only
pleasant and invigorating, but a potent factor in local longevity.
The machinery of the Station has hitherto been idle. Its borough
officials apparently do nothing but fitfully polish brasses. It seems
that these lucky sinecurists only work in times of violent storm, once
every few months.
The neighbourhood may be odorous, but it is full of human possibilities.
One midnight, two ladies started a scrap. A Special Constable, raw and
without experience of militant femininity, blew his police-whistle. The
whole slum-district turned out, dressed or half-dressed, like a fevered
anthill. It took the regular police half-an-hour to clear the streets,
the original cause of tumult vanishing in the swirl. In this
neighbourhood, we are informed, it is etiquette to blow a police-whistle
only when someone is being "done in."
We were also informed, in discreet whispers, that the "Guv'nor" of the
Station "had it in for us." His grievance was this: that while a rival
show across the river had been accorded a military picket by the War
Office, he had been fobbed off with a mere guard of Special Constables.
To date of writing, his wrath still smoulders.
Our hours of duty are filled with dulness, but we live in hopes. That
speeding motor-cyclist in the yellow oilskins--is he the mysterious
rider who has already shot down a round dozen of our number on lonely
beats?
He shuts off power. He stops. He gets off and fumbles with a lamp. Is it
a bomb in disguise? Our hands creep towards the truncheons concealed in
our trouser-legs. The Hour has struck, and England expects...!
Alas, he is only a belated cyclist, reputable and harmless. We console
ourselves with visions of 1915, when we hope to be mobilised, packed off
to the Continent in motor-buses, and assigned to beats in Berlin
(possibly renamed Berlinogradville City), while the Congress are
rearranging the map of Europe.
"Yes, madam, this is Unter den Linden. Straight on and fourth turning to
the left for the Siegesallee.... Oui, Monsieur, l'auto de luxe pour
Petrograd part à midi.... Nein, mein Herr, es ist verboten. Broadly
speaking, alles ist polizeilich verboten. You will be quite safe in
assuming that anything you yearn for just now ist strengstens
polizeilich verboten. Passen Sie along, bitte!"
* * * * *
Illustration: "NOW THEN, TOMMY--GOT SOME GOOD NEWS FOR ME TO-NIGHT--EH?
WHAT?"
"YES, SIR: KITCHENER WANTS ANOTHER RECRUIT."
* * * * *
"The Women our Shield."