How I Learned to Love the Police3

In the late sixties M and I were living in West Hampstead, London. Most of our friends were left-leaning artists, but one evening we found ourselves at a party of a more radical tone. I chatted to a young woman who told me she worked with the Black Panthers. I said I’d thought that the Black Panthers would not accept help from a white person. ‘That’s their problem!’ she replied. I was impressed by this, and on parting I told her that if ever I could be of use, to give me a ring – and then, no doubt, I forgot about the matter.

A few days later came a telephone call. It seemed that on the previous evening the police had raided the Mangrove, a Caribbean restaurant run by a civil rights activist in Notting Hill, and a number of black customers had been arrested and charged with possession of cannabis. Would I please come to Marylebone courthouse tomorrow morning and help bail them out? I had no idea of what this entailed, but I promised to be there. It was raining heavily as I hurriedly dressed to leave the house next day, and at the last moment I threw on the most waterproof item to catch my eye: a second-hand policeman’s cape.

The foyer of the courthouse was packed with an excited throng, nearly all black. Tough-looking young men were gleefully showing each other newspaper photographs in which they figured. At intervals around the walls policemen were leaning, heads down, avoiding eye contact, but showing off their biceps. Two tall, bowed figures stood in a corner as if they were pretending to be pot-plants, keeping their backs to the press photographers; I recognized Vanessa and Corin Redgrave. After some time, those offering to stand bail were called for. I found myself in a long queue moving steadily forward through two glass double doors and up the central aisle of the courtroom, as bail terms were agreed for one after another of the accused. I had some banknotes in my pocket, but I couldn’t see what was going on ahead and had no idea of what would be expected of me when my turn should come. Fortunately someone ahead of me in the queue forestalled me by standing bail for all the remaining accused. I felt momentarily disappointed; I believe I had indulged a brief fantasy of being conducted down into the dungeons of the courthouse, shown the caged prisoners, and saying, ‘I’ll take that one.’ Instead, we superfluous ones turned about and began to file out of the court. Policemen politely held open the two glass double doors for us.

But no sooner was I past the first pair of doors than they were slammed behind me and the second pair slammed ahead of me, and I found myself in a glass cell, as it were, with a belligerent policeman. He pointed at the damp bundle under my arm: my policeman’s cape. Where did I get it? In Portobello market, I replied. He studied me closely, asked what I did. ‘I’m a freelance technical illustrator,’ I said. He suddenly bellowed, ‘Does that mean you work?’ I stood on my dignity: Yes, I did work, and there was no need to shout. ‘Well, I’m just trying to make you out,’ he grumbled. He looked frustrated; it was clear that he had no more idea than I had as to the legality of my possession of a second-hand policeman’s cape. He soon gave up, and rapped on the door ahead of me. It was flung open, and I was spat out, into freedom.