Chapter Two - That Voice

A small note before we settle in… this chapter touches briefly on sudden death and police experiences, and includes one or two moments of strong language where they belonged to the story.

Big Skies and Small Ponds – Chapter Two - That Voice

If words matter… then perhaps the way we speak them matters too.

In this chapter, Drew reflects on voices — the ones we hear, remember, trust… and sometimes carry with us for years afterwards.

From standing beneath Lincoln’s Stonebow as a young police officer… to learning how calmness, humour, kindness and pause can shape human moments… this is a gentle and deeply personal reflection on finding your own voice, and discovering what it can mean to others.

Because sometimes a voice is more than sound.

Sometimes… it becomes reassurance.

Transcript

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SPEAKER_01 0:09

Hello and welcome. Each week I'll be sharing stories, stories drawn from real life, from people I've met and moments I've witnessed. Sometimes remembered as they were, sometimes softened by time, but brought to you with kindness and care. Welcome to big skies and small ponds. A gentle warning. Today's chapter does contain adult language and discusses adult themes, including sudden death and threat of violence. Chapter two That Voice. If finding the right words for a funeral ceremony is one of the most important parts of my work, then how I deliver those words must be the other side of that coin. Finding the correct pace and rhythm, knowing when to use pauses and humour, and being able to read the room and adopt the tone of what you're saying. It's one of the reasons that I never have a word-for-word script in front of me when I stand up to speak. I have all the factual information I need on paper, but after 21 years I've developed a sort of sense of how to use that framework of facts and then to add the human element. Because for me, a service is so much more than words on paper. You have to bring the words to life, and in doing so, summon up the character of the person whose life story you're telling, giving voice to the story. Well that's my job. But the voice I have, this voice, why is it that others hear it differently to me? You see, in my head and to my ears, my voice is quite ordinary. Yet many have taken the time to comment on it in a positive manner, from it being a comfortable, warm voice to being somehow reassuring. Well, you're listening now. What do you think? I mean I guess the question in my head is this can my voice be more than just an extension of my natural, warm, humble character? Yes, steady on, Andrew. Modesty at all times. Well, with any voice, perhaps it's how you use it that really matters. I didn't learn to drive until I was in my mid-twenties. Well I didn't need a car. I lived within walking distance of work, the pub, and the chip shop. As a young police officer, one of the great joys of not being able to drive was that you knew you were always going to be on foot patrol, and I loved that. No panda cars for me. Hang on, are you old enough to remember panda cars? The name originated in the sixties when police cars were often painted black and white, and the country was mad for Chi Chi and Anand, the giant pandas in London Zoo. What pleasure they gave. But panda cars for me came not with pleasure, but with added pressure, rushing all over the place from job to job, domestic dispute to road, traffic accident, horses loose on the road or a stolen bike, no no. I do my fair share of that after I pass my test. But I much preferred to hear my sergeant saying PC Baxter, you're on three and four beats today. Perfect. I'd happily walk any footbeat going, but three and four beats meant strolling down the high street into the main shopping precinct in Lincoln and positioning yourself under the famous stone bow and becoming that Bobby. The one people could ask anything, maybe for directions or advice or even a photograph. Tourists loved a picture with a proper British Bobby in his helmet. Standing there I was on occasion the voice of calm and reason. Don't worry, madam, we'll find little Jimmy. He's probably just took himself to the pick and mix in woolly's. I could be the voice of authority. No riding bikes in the precinct, please. The voice of whatever you needed to be in all the situations you found yourself. And it was about the tone of your voice more than volume, I think. In fact, I believe some of my best work as a police officer was through the quiet, calm voice, rather than being loud and aggressive. More George Dixon, less Jack Regan. There came a day standing in the summer sun in my favourite spot, watching the world go by, and seeing an elderly couple walking up the steps to the nearby bank. On the second step, the gentleman stopped and then fell backwards, his head connecting sharply with the concrete slabs of the precinct. It would transpire the poor man had suffered a massive stroke. I ran over, and after calling for an ambulance, I knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. It was very weak, and the man was not moving. He was totally unresponsive. I cannot tell you how glad I was that a lady passerby came to kneel next to me. I'm a nurse, she whispered, and I felt a wave of relief pass through me. I moved out of her way and began to offer what comfort I could to the man's very distressed wife. Radio messages confirmed an ambulance was en route. I asked the lady her name and the name of her husband, and we chatted, and I held her hand as we spoke, and she calmed a little. Will he be all right? she asked. I glanced at the nurse, and I could see by the look on her face that the gentleman had in fact died. I didn't say anything to his wife. We continued chatting, and I reassured her that the ambulance was coming, and in short order it arrived, and she and her husband were both taken to the hospital. Even as a police officer, with all the powers we supposedly had, you could on occasion feel somewhat helpless. But in hindsight there was nothing more to be done, other than to be that calm voice, offering reassurance, maybe a little hope, false hope, as it turned out, but doing something you hoped helped a little.

SPEAKER_00 8:26

Big skies and small ponds with Drew Baxter.

SPEAKER_01 8:33

Much later in my policing career, and whilst out on patrol one afternoon, I received a call to back up some other officers at a violent dispute. Upon arriving, I discovered this had developed into a full-blown hostage situation. A young man wielding a large knife was holding another man captive and was refusing to come out. I wasn't first on the scene, so it was a colleague who was in charge and planning what to do next, and his idea was to storm in, batons in hand, and hopefully subdue the offender before he could stab his hostage. Hopefully, was doing a lot of heavy lifting. I never was and never will be an action hero, and I was always reticent to use violence as a first response unless there was no other choice. But here there clearly was another choice, so I took it. I started talking to the lad with a knife, at first through the closed door, then through a crack as he opened it a little, and then from inside the room, where he stood with his knife, looking really quite scared. Around thirty minutes later I was walking with him to my panda car. He was under arrest, and his hostage was safe and unhurt. I remember the young man's name, it was Richard, and we spoke many times after that first day, and there was the root of the problem. This was somebody who had nobody in his life to talk to him. Nobody who saw him, who listened to him. I know that some of my colleagues were very disappointed they didn't get to beat the crap out of him, but that was one of those days when my approach to policing and theirs were in stark contrast. And before you think I'm telling stories to make me look good, that isn't my intention. Although it does seem to be a nice added bonus. A van load of us to a local estate where there were reports of a man rampaging through the streets with uh with a samurai sword. We'd all gotten out of the police van and were individually searching for the suspect, and you can guess whose lucky night it was. Yes, mine. Because there he was, standing about thirty feet away, sword in hand, illuminated by the pale orange glow of the street lights, and you just think to yourself, What shall I say? So I broke out the calm voice. Come on, son, drop the sword, please. Now it turns out that the calm voice was on this occasion not the answer. He didn't drop the sword. In fact he raised it above his head and took a step towards me. I had my police issue truncheon in my hand. Not much use against a samurai sword, I thought, but I raised it above my head, so he could see I was not without some defence. Then I spoke again, in a somewhat louder voice. Don't be a twat, drop that fucking sword. Now this was most unlike me, and I'm sure I sounded totally unconvincing, as I did just now, but to my surprise and relief, the man turned on his heels and started to run in the opposite direction. Maybe I thought, maybe I would survive my birthday after all. I gave chase, and as I did so I thought, what the hell you gonna do if you catch him? He still got that bloody sword. But I didn't need to worry. He rather recklessly ran out into the road without checking, and a passing van did for him. Oh he was fine, bruised and dizzy and now minus his sword. He sat there and he started to cry. And you know who was there to put an arm around his shoulder and offer a consoling and comforting word? Not me not for that twat.

SPEAKER_00 13:31

It was my birthday. Big skies and small ponds with Drew Baxter.

SPEAKER_01 13:41

I am sorry about the bad language. Sometimes the younger version of me pops up in these stories, and I'll be honest, I'm not always pleased to see him. Life, experience, seeing and sharing the stories of so many other lives, it does bring you a chance to contemplate your past. But as I often remind myself, these days I see the world through kinder eyes, thanks to the people who helped to change that view, including the people I met through acting and theatre. The very first play I appeared in as an adult gave me a chance to show my mastery of accents. Well, maybe mastery isn't the right word, but I think my cod Italian accent went down well enough. My next foray into the world of accents came when I was cast as Goldberg in the birthday party. It became a standing joke in our household that after that performance every accent I attempted ended up with a Jewish twang. Next came Albert the Horse in Wind in the Willows. He was a somewhat lugubrious fellow with a strong black country accent, and I garnered some quite nice reviews for that performance. When we staged a production of Under Milkwood, I needed a Welsh accent. I deployed accents for Macbeth, Scottish, one flew over the cuckoo's nest, American, Close the Coal House Door, Geordie, and a sort of Middle European playing Jura No. eleven in Twelve Angry Men. I haven't really acted for many years now, but you know what? You should never say never. And how much richer might my characterisations be after hearing so many real life stories? Given the chance, I might like to have a crack at one more Shakespeare before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Jques, perhaps, the philosophical observer of life in As You Like It, he gets to make that speech, you know, all the world's a stage. I won't recite it all, but there is that section, my section. The sixth aid shifts into the lean and slippered pantaloon, and his big manly voice, turning again towards childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound. Time for me to whistle off. I do hope you've enjoyed what you've heard, and if you have, may I gently invite you to subscribe to the podcast, to like and even share this chapter. We have more stories coming up soon on big skies and small ponds. And you'll be very welcome the next time we meet. Until then, enjoy writing and living your own story.