Authors: Paul Britton
As a cadet I had almost no role in these events but I remember the telex machine clattering non-stop and sergeants who hadn’t been out from behind a desk in ten years suddenly on the move. When they released the first photographs of the wanted men a few days later, I stared at the faces of Bruce Reynolds, Charlie Wilson and Jimmy White and I thought, they look so ordinary. They could have been someone I grew up beside or the father of a friend or local businessmen, shopkeepers, taxi drivers, school teachers … anyone except train robbers. I found myself asking, ‘What happened to these ordinary-looking men which made them become who they are? How did they get here and what other choices did they have?’
The Kray twins were the same. I remember seeing early photographs of Ron and Reggie, wining and dining with sports stars and celebrities in East London. They looked like perfectly ordinary, successful men. Only later, when the photographs became more selective and people learned of their murderous careers, were they made to seem sinister.
Part of my job as a police cadet was to take meals from the cafe next door to people in the cells. I’d knock on the metal door and hand the tray through the slot. ‘Hello, Paul,’ said a familiar voice one night. It was someone I’d been to school with, a few years ahead of me. Now he was locked up in the cells. What happened to him? I thought. What made him different from me?
I left the police force after a year but these questions stayed with me and were possibly part of the reason I became a psychologist. In the meantime, I began the first of a myriad of jobs - too many to remember, let alone name - that ranged from the shop floor to the boardroom and everything in between.
Although living at home, I enjoyed the freedom of earning money. When I bought my first pair of jeans - against my stepfather’s wishes - it was more than a fashion choice. I’d earned the money and the right to choose what I wore. ‘My house is full of teddy boys,’ he said, sighing in disgust.
Occasionally, I went to local dances and I remember one in particular towards the end of 1963 at the Locarno Ballroom in Coventry. A young lady seemed quite keen to dance with me all night and I didn’t take much notice of the band or its rather strange, gawky lead singer who kept jumping off the stage and running through the hall. It was Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones.
A few weeks later, on 27 December, a former schoolmate convinced me to go to another dance at the Court School of Dancing in Leamington where Woody Allen and the Challengers were playing. I wasn’t very interested but he lent me a coat and I tagged along.
It was noisy and crowded inside but two girls stood out from the rest. I’d been to school with one of them, who’d become a nurse, but I didn’t know her friend. Tall and slender with dark brown hair, she wore a belted tartan pinafore dress and long sleeved white blouse. I couldn’t take my eyes off her and she blushed when I asked her to dance.
Afterwards I walked her home to the opposite end of town. It was a crystal clear night when the footpaths and hedgerows sparkled with frost. Outside her gate, she gave me a very shy peck on the cheek and I walked six miles to get home. With every step I told myself that I’d found the girl I was going to marry.
The wedding was in early June, 1966, and we honeymooned in Tenby in Wales, staying at a guest house on the coast and traveling by train. Then we moved into the first floor Victorian flat that I was renting in Leamington. Marilyn was a personal secretary at the University of Warwick and I continued my migratory job swapping, even spending time as a croupier in a casino in Birmingham until a policeman ‘advised’ me that it wasn’t a sensible career move for a young man.
When Emma arrived - and Ian two years later - we had a mortgage and a small three-bedroom semi which we both thought was wonderful. Any dreams of going to university were put on hold as I sometimes held down two jobs to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Marilyn dealt with everything at home. I earned the unenviable distinction of having only woken up twice during the night in the combined childhoods of both my issue. When I sleep, very little can wake me.
By the autumn of 1972 I was working as an export liaison officer at Automotive Products, an international motor car components company and the largest employer in town. My job was to ensure that my designated customers had the parts available when they were needed. It certainly wasn’t ‘a career’ and I could see the treadmill of working for someone else stretching out beneath my feet. I would never really take responsibility and could only hope that after forty years I would have enough to see me through retirement. I’d done all manner of jobs, some of them demanding but none fulfilling, and I knew that I had to find a career that would captivate and motivate me; something I would want to do for the rest of my life.
With Marilyn’s support, I enrolled at night school to do my O levels with the aim of going to university. It meant coming home from work, having a meal and then peddling my bicycle to ‘Thornbank’, the Mid-Warwickshire College of Further Education, to be there for 7.00 p.m. I’d come home at 9.30 p.m., start the study assignments and get to bed at midnight or one o’clock.
I sat the exams in the summer of 1973 and immediately began thinking about doing my A levels. Unfortunately, I discovered there were no evening classes at Thornbank for my subjects. I’d come too far to turn back, I was going to university to change things, so why not change them now, I thought. Making an appointment to see a senior director at work, I explained that I wanted to go to college during the day and asked if I could please have a job on nights.
I became the night clerk, working 8.00 p.m. to 8.00 a.m. four nights a week. The plan was to go to class during the day and then catch a few hours sleep before work and at weekends. At worst, it would only be for a year, I thought. But having changed my job, I went to Thornbank to enrol and discovered that the A level courses were taken over two years.
There was no point in arguing. I asked for a list of textbooks, went back home and began teaching myself during the day. My aim was to start university in October 1974, which meant sitting the A level exams within seven or eight months.
By January, I’d been provisionally offered a place to read law at Oxford and medicine at Birmingham, but both would mean moving house and getting a new mortgage without a job. The University of Warwick on the outskirts of Coventry, twelve miles away, emerged as a more attractive option; if they would take me.
*
‘Can I help you?’ asked the secretary, looking up from her typewriter. She had long straight hair and a perfectly horizontal fringe.
‘I’m looking for the admissions tutor, Dr Samuals,’ I said.
‘I think he’s probably having morning coffee but you can try his office. Turn left, along the corridor, the third door.’
She watched me go and I felt mildly self-conscious. I seemed to be the only person on the entire campus at Warwick University who was wearing a suit.
Pausing at the door, I settled myself and knocked. There was no answer.
‘Are you looking for Jim?’ A short, balding man had appeared from somewhere. ‘He’s having coffee, I’ll get him for you.’
‘It’s OK, really. I’ll wait,’ I said.
‘No, no, he’s had long enough.’ Just as quickly, he disappeared.
In spite of having worked all night at Automotive Products, I didn’t feel tired. Today was too important. I’d arrived home at 8.00 a.m., just in time for breakfast and to wave Emma off to school. Then I’d bathed, shaved and polished my shoes, put on my suit and caught the 517 Midland Red bus to the outskirts of Coventry.
A man was approaching along the corridor. He looked to be about my age or perhaps a little older and wore neatly pressed slacks and a V-necked jumper. I could see him thinking, Who’s this? I don’t know him. He’s too old to be a student and he’s wearing a suit.
‘Can I help you?’
‘My name is Paul Britton and I’d like to join your course.’
Slightly perplexed, he said, ‘Oh! I see. Well, you had better come in then.’
Although I’d never been into an academic’s room before, I could have imagined this one. It had a well-used desk, several chairs, a large blackboard and hundreds of books lining the walls.
‘Have you made a formal application?’ he asked.
‘Ah, no.’
‘Well, that’s normally the procedure; otherwise, I’d have dozens of people waiting outside my office door.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought…’
He looked mildly amused. ‘Well, you’re here now. Why do you want to study Management Science?’
I was ready for the question, knowing it had to be asked. I told him that I wanted to be a psychologist and that Management Science at Warwick was my best hope because a third of the course focused on behavioural science. Coupled with this, I had lots of real work experience and the university was close enough to home that we wouldn’t have to move. He listened and occasionally asked questions, cocking his head to one side as if afraid to miss something.
‘You’re a bit older than the average student, Mr Britton,’ he said uncritically.
‘I’m twenty-seven. I have a wife, two children and a mortgage.’
‘So much! I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand why you’ve turned up at my door. It’s not normally the way we do things.’
‘It just seemed important to come and see the person who makes the decision … the main man.’
He laughed loudly and I felt more relaxed.
‘I’m no stranger to hard work. I’ve had full-time jobs for the past ten years - all sorts of things. I’ve been going to night school to do my O levels and now I’ve started my A levels.’
‘That’s a two year course. You’re talking about coming here in October.’
‘I’m going to sit the exams in May.’
‘Four months from now?’ He couldn’t hide the doubt in his voice.
‘I know, but I can’t wait. I’m older than the other applicants. The clock is ticking. I’ve got a family to support.’
He leaned forward. ‘Which brings me to my next question. How are you going to cope financially with three years of full-time study, Mr Britton?’
‘I’m hoping to get a student grant.’
‘And what if you don’t?’
‘I’ve discussed that with my family. This is the most important opportunity we have; one way or another, we’ll see it through.’
Dr Samuals leaned back in his chair, weighing up his words.
‘There’s quite a lot of quantitative understanding required in the sort of courses we do here at Warwick. What are your maths like?’
‘I got the top grade at O level.’
‘Oh! We normally look for A level maths.’
My heart sank.
‘Well, let’s check it, shall we?’ He stood at a large roller-board and used chalk to draw the axis of a graph, labelling one ‘x’ and the other ‘y’. Then he wrote an algebraic equation beneath. ‘Can you plot the course of this equation on the graph?’
Hell’s bells, I thought. I knew the form of the calculation but was far too nervous to go through the detailed arithmetic. Instead, I used my finger to draw the classic curve for the equation in the dust on the board.
He smiled. ‘That’s right, although it should start about half an inch lower.’
Back at his desk, he clasped his hands together and pressed them to his lips; The long silence grew uncomfortable.
Finally he spoke. ‘If I were you, I would concentrate on getting A level economics. You’ve only got a few months. If you can get a grade D or above, we’ll guarantee you a place.’
I felt like punching the air in jubilation.
‘You don’t know how much it means to me,’ I said.
He laughed again. ‘Oddly enough, I think I do.’
For those next four months, I spent every spare moment studying. However, a far more worrying concern arose. Ian was diagnosed with a debilitating hip disorder which caused him tremendous pain and meant that he couldn’t walk and had to be carried or taken in a pushchair everywhere. The lubrication in the hip joints was inadequate, leading to erosion of the ball and socket.
Orthopaedic surgeons and medical experts looked at him and eventually decided to take him into hospital and put him in traction. Marilyn would get Emma off to school and then get to the hospital early in the morning and I’d come straight from work and sit with Ian during the day. It went on for weeks and was an awful time.
I managed to sit the exam while all this was going on and then had to wait for the results that would decide if all the hard work and family sacrifice had been worth it.
By mid-August I was still waiting to hear and had gone to the hospital to sit with Ian. Marilyn joined me and we spent most of the day there. Most of the nurses were known to us by now and, late in the day, one of them asked me what I did.
‘I might be going to university,’ I said. ‘It depends on…’
‘Oh, the results,’ said Marilyn. ‘They came this morning. I forgot.’
I looked at her, hardly daring to ask.
She smiled. ‘You got an A.’
Even with a student grant, we lived frugally for those next three years. Fortunately, I’d married a woman who could cook amazing meals even if the cupboards looked a little empty. She gave me the space and the support to keep studying.
Within a month of starting at Warwick, a separate psychology department was established and I was able to immediately transfer across from Management Science. It didn’t take me long to realize that I’d found my future career - psychology offered me the chance to not only satisfy my own curiosity but also to repair people’s lives.
The human mind is still largely uncharted. Its parameters are so broad they encompass everything we do and say; all that has gone before and is still to come in our understanding of the world. How is it that three or four pounds of grey sludge in our heads can produce everything that we think we know and understand? When Mozart wrote his symphonies, when Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel, when Hitler ordered the Final Solution, when a teenage mother abandons her baby in a rubbish bin, when a crime victim is too afraid to walk out the front door, when a couple torture and murder young girls … it doesn’t matter how significant the event or utterance, it all comes back to some aspect of human behaviour and interaction - to that three or four pounds of porridge that make up the brain.