My dad used to be a policeman and when I was growing up in the 1970s, we moved around a lot. We were always within fairly close reach of extended family, but half a dozen house moves before you turn sixteen is fairly rare, not to say interesting if a little disorientating. For two or three years before either me or my sister were old enough for school, we moved to a village called Wetley Rocks and lived in a house that could be defined as a police substation. It had a cell but I don't recall anyone ever being put there. Occasionally me and my sister would play in it but most of the time you almost forgot it was part of the house. As well as the cell with its unbelievably heavy door painted regulation grey with the spy hole that I was too small to see through, was a fire red siren. We were told that it wasn't a toy and we weren't to play with it but one day, one innocuous long summer afternoon with not much to do, we thought we'd try and turn the handle to see what happened. My big sister and I joined forces, and just about got it to turn a few turns. As it got going it started to make a noise, that noise, that low, buzzy hum of a noise that I learned later was the sound of the four minute warning. The sound was amazing, the undulating pitch, the wah-wah that was sending out a clear signal to anyone within earshot that things were afoot. We were told never to play with it again - I think some people got a little scared at the sound.
One object that I have taken with me throughout my own moves up and down the country, is a copy of the Police Manual of Home Defence. Presumably, my dad was given a copy of this restricted document on the proviso that should the bombs fall that he'd need to know what to do; civil unrest, radiation doses, disposing of the dead, shock waves, radio codes and chains of command. Information charts outlined damage levels:
"A nuclear explosion in the megaton range creates a huge white-heat fireball which lasts for about 20 seconds and gives off tremendous heat. The heat is so intense that it can kill people in the open up to several miles away. It could also burn exposed skin much further away. Striking through unprotected windows it could set houses alight many miles away."
Through my teen years it made for morbidly thrilling reading with school mates but quite how I managed to take ownership of the booklet I'm not entirely sure. Maybe my dad forgot I had it, maybe he'd even forgotten that he'd shown it to me in the first place but it's still in pristine condition, produced by Her Majesty's Stationery Office. Pure typographic functionality on the outside mirrors the blunt realities on the inside. The word "restricted" printed on the front cover still makes feel a little uneasy about having the thing in my possession.
Nowadays when I go home to visit my folks and there's half a reason for a detour past the substation I make sure I take it but it doesn't look like a substation anymore; it's been modified, normalized, neutralized. Now it just looks like a house.
