Ghost Train

I moved to Toronto over half a century ago and remember all the hubbub surrounding the city getting a subway system in the mid-1950s. Yet, when I think back to London’s massive underground, with its almost 300 stations on 11 different lines, Toronto’s piddling effort pales in comparison.

Having spent my childhood in a smallish town some 9 miles outside of London and then serving in the Far East during wartime, I wasn't at all familiar with the vast and confusing “Tube” when first put out on the street as a young police constable in 1947.

By that time, London's underground rail system had been around for so long that many of the original stations had already been replaced, or rendered useless after the introduction of new and improved subway lines.

One such station was St. Mary's on Whitechapel Road, which was on my beat in the east end of London. It had originally opened in the late 1800's and was eventually closed up a year or so prior to WWII after being deemed superfluous.

Closure didn't signal the immediate demise of St. Mary's though, as during the war the platforms were utilized as an air-raid shelter.  I've often thought that while subway air-raid shelters certainly saved lives, they weren't always the safest place to be, especially if the enemy's target was the railway line!

One event kept from the general public until after war's end was the shelter tragedy at Bethnal Green tube station in March of 1943.

Well over a thousand people were crammed on the platforms when panic ensued after an “explosion” was heard. Unbeknownst to the crowd, it was merely an anti-aircraft rocket. The masses swarmed the stairs and one person's stumble caused a ripple effect with several people falling one on top of another, resulting in nearly 200 being crushed to death.

As for St. Mary's, I've never heard of any fatalities during its use as an air-raid shelter, but the street level station was hit by a bomb during the blitz and severely banged up.  A temporary replacement was quickly put up, which was also hit within weeks. That was finally the end of the line for St. Mary's altogether.

After the war was over, people still managed to make their way down to St. Mary's abandoned platforms and one night I was sent to investigate.  My task was to hustle out drunks seeking a spot to sleep it off, juveniles intent on exploration, couples in the darkness involved in romantic trysts and  homeless souls who had set up residence.

Mind you, I was told leeway was usually given to a certain elderly married couple who were living on the streets by their wits, relying on the largesse of street vendors for food, sleeping in the park and taking to St. Mary's for refuge once the bad weather set in.

When I made my way down that night and reached the platform it was easy to imagine the station in livelier times. Dusty and faded coloured adverts remained plastered to the walls – a jaunty sailor asking for "Player's Please" and a child beckoning the winged symbol of "Robin Starch" come to mind.

A grimy penny vending machine stood on the platform, although I didn't see any Nestle's chocolate bars left in the slots.  Immediately adjacent to that was a coin-operated weighing scale where you could use your next penny to see the effects of all those chocolate purchases.

Except for the sound of scurrying rats, it was eerily quiet as I shone my flashlight around the dark, musty platform. That is until I heard a familiar, yet very confusing, sound - the rumbling of an oncoming train!

The noise became ever louder and I couldn't help but peer into the tunnel anticipating the train's light, even though it was obvious the tracks had been long in disuse.

I shook my head a few times trying to make sense of it all. That's when I noticed the floor shaking beneath my feet as the invisible train approached and then rushed by causing dust to rise up from the platform, with the hairs on my neck following suit.

That was it for me. I’d had enough and ran up the station steps two at a time and out into the street.

I didn't relate my tale of the phantom train to anyone for fear of being mocked (or locked up). It wasn’t until later after some research that I discovered one of the newer tube lines had been built right alongside a portion of that old rail line.

So, it was the noise and effects of a speeding train directly on the other side of the bricked-up wall of the St. Mary's platform I'd been standing on that had me scratching my head and scurrying out in terror.

 Blimey, what a relief to know I hadn't lost the plot after all.

Putting One Over on the Sarge

Other than nabbing a suspect, there’s nothing more satisfying to a young constable than putting one over on his sergeant.  For me, one particular night comes to mind.

I was walking the beat in the Borough of Tower Hamlets in London’s east end.  It was a fairly typical London night - foggy with drizzling rain.

While my helmet kept my head dry and I was clad in the traditional black police cape (no sissy raincoats for us) I still felt damp and rather bored as not much was happening. It appeared the criminals had more sense than to venture out on such a miserable night.

I trudged along until I reached the corner of Spitalfields Market and Commercial Street where the imposing Christ Church stood in all its glory.

This church was built for the seriously religious as you had to climb 149 steps just to get to the entranceway. I decided it was worth the effort to get out of the rain and take a little break in one of the hidden alcoves behind the large pillars. I could still see what was going on below and, importantly, keep an eye out for my sergeant.

Christ Church had a reputation for being haunted, which isn’t surprising considering over 1,000 victims of The Great Plague are buried in the graveyard in the rear of the church.  Of course I didn’t believe in such nonsense and readily hunkered down in my handy shelter from the elements.

Given that it was a particularly gloomy night, I was surprised to see a civilian climbing the steps of the church, looking over his shoulder the whole way.

Now, he could have just decided it was an opportune time to worship or perhaps be seeking shelter himself, but there was always the chance he had a more nefarious intent in mind.

Which brings me to the lost art of male public urination.  Perhaps it was a British phenomenon, but there seemed to be the mindset that rather than pushing through patrons to the loo at a pub, it was easier to go outside and relieve oneself on the pub wall. Or, if you were stricken with the urge on the way home, take advantage of an alley gate, someone’s garden or the back of a public building.

As sacrilegious as it may be, the corners of a church might even be at risk, which I thought might be the case in this instance.

I thought of my friend, Pat, who had been visiting New York and was onboard a train awaiting departure.  Instead of traveling through the compartments to the restroom, he decided to hop off and empty his bladder against the side of a fence.

To his chagrin, Pat was approached by a police officer while performing this function. The officer took out his notebook and demanded the offender’s name.  Ever quick-witted, Pat responded “Walter Faucet” and as the policeman pondered the seemingly appropriate name, Pat jumped back on the train and was on his way.

These thoughts were interrupted when I saw my sergeant approach the church and also start trekking up the steps. Not wanting to be caught in a state of idleness, I decided to present myself to the civilian and inquire what he was up to.

In hindsight, I must have cut quite a harrowing figure in my black cape as I suddenly stepped out of the shadowed alcove into the fog like a shrouded apparition of death.

The civilian let out a shriek and sprinted down the steps at a lightening pace. I thought to suggest he should consider training for the upcoming 1948 London Olympics.

About halfway down, he encountered my sergeant who was on his way up. The sergeant must have been taken aback by the look of terror on the civilian’s face.

The sergeant lifted his eyes to the top of the stairs and peered through the misty haze at the shadowy figure in the shimmering cape, then gave a shriek of his own, and beat the civilian down the remaining steps before disappearing up the street.

I met up with the sergeant a little later that night.  He had now caught his breath and I’m pretty sure he’d put two and two together, but didn’t know if it was process of elimination or that my sly smile gave me away.

Not a word was exchanged as he squinted at me, then acknowledged my presence with a dignified nod.  I returned the nod and we went our separate ways, but I can tell you I didn’t wipe that smile off my face for the rest of my shift.

Comical Street Copper

 

Commercial Street, East End London

Newly graduated from the Hendon UK Police College in late 1947, I was anxious to forge ahead and procure my first arrest.  Alas, like all green constables, I was immediately put on duty directing traffic.  This was a daunting task, as never before or since have I seen such monstrous traffic jams equaling those of post-war London.

After that stint, I was assigned to Commercial Street, which I secretly called “Comical Street” for reasons which will be apparent later. Before long an opportunity came along to make an arrest.

They say a policeman never forgets his first arrest and I’m no exception.  In fact, it took a couple of years to live it down.

I’d been approached by a concerned citizen and informed that a couple was fornicating in a bus queue.  My investigation determined that the claim was not exaggerated and, after separating the culprits, I marched the intoxicated duo down to the station house.  My first arrest having been made, I now looked forward to my first appearance in court.

Given the circumstances, I was embarrassed to see a female magistrate would be hearing the case.  After answering her query as to the details of the disorderly conduct charge, she snorted “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t have sex standing up!”  There was a moment of deafening silence before the courtroom erupted in riotous laughter.

One of my fellow graduates also had an inauspicious start to his career.  He was walking the beat in the area where it was well-known a number of women had perished at the hands of Jack the Ripper several years prior.

Feeling an eerie presence, he spun around to see two bright green eyes staring at him through the fog only to discover it was a cat. Having unconsciously stepped on the cat’s tail, the feline let out an ear piercing screech. By now frustrated, the young constable flung his Billy club at the beast, but the truncheon bounced off a wall and went straight through a plate glass window.

Fearing the total loss of his first week’s pay packet, he negotiated a fair replacement price for the window with the shopkeeper. BUT, there was a condition. The merchant insisted on keeping the offending truncheon. I wonder if it’s still in some family member’s display cabinet.

The fact we lacked sensitivity training was brought home in those early days on the job.  In one instance, my partner and I were sent to investigate the report of a missing couple.  On entry to their apartment, we were greeted with the gruesome sight of their bodies hanging in the doorway in an apparent suicide pact.

After composing ourselves from the shock, we went to the landlord to inform him of the tragedy.  My partner opened the conversation by complimenting the apartment building and expressing his desire to rent a unit.  When the landlord told him there were no vacancies, my partner rather callously informed him, “There is now”.

Post-war London, especially the notorious east end, was not only where young constables were sent to learn the ropes, but also a breeding ground for disenchanted youth and bitter returning servicemen who lamented the lack of paying work. They were quick to learn the skills of thievery from larcenists who’d been plying their trade before and throughout the war.

Most I came across were unashamed of their chosen profession and would, when brought into the station for questioning, answer “Burglar” with a mixture of pride and defiance when asked their occupation.

On a more innocent note, we were told to keep an eye out for escapees of the institution officially named The National Association for the Reclamation of Destitute Waif Children, and more commonly known as “Dr. Barnardo’s".  While some of these young kids seemed intent on securing their freedom to make their own way in the world, there was a pair of habitual runaways who never ventured very far and pretty much hid in plain sight.

The couple was an adolescent girl and younger lad she’d taken under her wing.  I came to the conclusion they considered their short escapes more of an outing than anything else and knew they looked forward to a trip down to the station house for a cup of cocoa and biscuits before being escorted back to the home.

Knowing the time between visits would be short, we made sure the biscuit tin was always full.