by Donald West
A worrying time followed the closure of the antiques shop. Pietro had no job and the future looked uncertain. Luckily, through shop customer contacts, he had been asked from time to time to give lectures on ceramics and this led in time to being taken on by a private art history school that used the Victoria and Albert Museum as a venue for talks on objects displayed there. With this experience, and taking advantage of some certification obtained from the college in Italy where he had studied art history, he then secured a post as lecturer at the University of Stoke-on-Trent, working in a Department that specialised in decorative arts and was equipped with workshops where students could develop practical skills. This suited Pietro, who was adept at pottery and jewellery making and had become a registered silversmith. I still possess odd bits of his works as well as a set of glasses made by his students at Stoke in imitation of the styles of different periods.
Pietro rented a tiny cottage in the Peak District near Stoke, spending many hours driving from there to Cambridge and Hampstead so that we could spend time together. This was exhausting and was brought to an end following a minor driving accident on the way into London when he was found to be over the alcohol limit – not surprising in view of his drinking habits. With the help of a glowing reference from Stoke he obtained a lecturing post with Christie’s Education, a private art history school for adult students run by the famous auction house. Many of its students were ladies of leisure from the moneyed classes, others were training for careers in art business as curators, dealers, appraisers etc. Pietro missed his students at Stoke, but proved equally enthusiastic and not at all over-awed by either the students or the staff at Christie’s. Indeed, I heard that at an office gathering he had made some typically forthright comments to none less than Lord Carington, the Chairman.
In 1983, shortly before retirement from full time employment at the Institute of Criminology, I sold the house in Hampstead, that we had inhabited for over a quarter century, to the owner of the business that was occupying the space left by the defunct antiques shop. Together we took a lease on a basement flat in Kensington, near his new place of work, while I continued to live in Cambridge at the cottage in Milton.
ENTERING ACADEMIA
Initial Culture Shock
The interview with Professor Radzinowicz in the Athenaeum that led to joining the newly-formed Institute of Criminology took place in 1959, while I was still at Maudsley Hospital and helping with the antique shop. The long saga of fateful relationships with ‘undesirables’ was yet to come, and the academic career about to unfold went ahead against a background of an outwardly settled domestic partnership punctuated by episodic emotional turmoil, hopefully unknown to colleagues at work.
I arrived dutifully at the Institute on 1st January 1960. Radzinowicz had declined a request for slight delay to give time for handing over patients to my successor. The premises in Scroope Terrace were in a row of Georgian houses, reminiscent of Tavistock Square. There was snow on the ground, the building was shut, the doorbell unanswered, and I had nothing to do but to return to London. A few days later Radzinowicz granted me an audience, discussed what research I might undertake, and showed me a large ground floor room that was to be my office. It was not long, however, before I was relegated elsewhere. Indeed, over the years I sampled every grade of room from an attic to the Director’s office. After a month or two I discovered that Radzinowicz, who was renowned for not allowing regulations to impede him, had invited me to commence work without the authority of the university’s appointments committee. It took six months before any pay came through: fortunately, it was made retrospective. The academic staff at the outset consisted of five persons, each directed individually by Radzinowicz, who did not encourage us to discuss our projects with each other. Contact with him was by periodic, unscheduled summonses issued via his secretary. His professorial style was known to be autocratic and use of surnames was the rule. On a visit to the US an American law professor quizzed me about how Radzinowicz addressed me. I joked that he did not appear to know that the English upper classes commonly used their servants’ first names. That story got around.
Some Cambridge habits were disconcerting to a newcomer. Degrees from other universities were not recognised (Oxford and a couple of others excepted). To become a Cambridge academic one had to acquire a Cambridge MA. This was done by becoming a member of one of the Cambridge colleges, institutions that treasure their semi-independence of the University, who would then propose the conferment of a titular MA. Responsibility for initiating the negotiation rested with the head of department and Radzinowicz asked which college I should like to try to join. Knowing nothing of the system I suggested Trinity, which was familiar to me by name as one of the most renowned of the colleges, and also on account of its historic connection with the founders of the SPR. Radzinowicz, being himself a Fellow of Trinity, was able to arrange this. Accordingly, by way of introduction, I was invited to dine at the high table in the great Elizabethan dining hall beneath the domineering portrait of Henry VIII. I had been there before and enjoyed a friendly reception as a guest of one of the Fellows, the philosopher C.D.Broad, sometime President of the SPR. The Senior Fellow, at the head of the table, was Professor Gay. I was placed at his left, with the Praelector, responsible for introducing me, on my left. When a choice of wine was announced the Praelector expressed a preference for the white. Striving to be helpful, I chose the same. It was a trap. The white wine was considered unsuitable and there was an embarrassing pause while it was being sent for. After sampling it, Gay pronounced loudly “execrable!” and promptly poured it into my glass up to the brim, so that I had to bend forward to sip it. As soon as I had got the liquid to a safe level, Gay poured in more, and this continued throughout the meal.
It became clear that newcomers in the category of Senior Members, not elected Fellows, were not automatically integrated into the community. Derek McClintock, who had been for some time working as Radzinowicz’s research assistant, and like me had been made an Assistant Director of Research in the new Institute, was similarly placed. We were both awarded limited rights to dine at Trinity and Radzinowicz urged us to take this up, presumably because this might increase our faint chances of being invited to become Fellows. We spent some embarrassing evenings at high table dinners, sitting together in order to have someone to talk to. Two further incidents come to mind. We were parading out of the dining hall after the terminal grace, when once again I was close to Professor Gay who murmured something – though murmuring was not characteristic of him. I responded with “Pardon”, whereupon he proclaimed loudly “Since my remarks were not addressed to you, it is of no consequence you did not hear them”. My new status was a matter of pride to my ageing father who was delighted to attend the formal induction and be shown round ‘my’ college. Trying to take a photograph of me in my new academic gown, standing in Trinity Great Court, he stepped back onto the grass that is forbidden to all but Fellows. At that very moment the Master, Lord Adrian, happened to be crossing the lawn and approached my father to reprove him. Cowardly, instead of explaining and apologising to the Master, I turned my back until the confrontation was over. Of course those were early days, but times have changed, I have since enjoyed many pleasant occasions at Trinity and now I appreciate having had an affiliation to this great institution.
Becoming a Teacher
By the time I joined the Institute of Criminology, gay rights and the proposed decriminalisation of homosexual behaviour had become acceptable topics of public debate. Leaving psychiatric employment, where exposure of one’s homosexuality could have been disastrous, and becoming an academic might have been expected to make life easier in that regard. I was soon to be made aware that despite Oxbridge’s historic reputation for homosexuality in high places, discretion was required. The sociologist John Martin, who was about to move to the Institute from London School of Economics, offered to give me, as a newcomer, some hints on academic life. The Institute, although multi-disciplinary in its work a
nd personnel, was within the Faculty of Law. Martin warned me that a particular member of the Faculty was rumoured to have been found “in a compromising position” with a male student, so one should be cautious about associating with him.
In 1967, when preparing a revised edition of Homosexuality, I was again reminded of the need for discretion. I sent some drafts to Glanville Williams, a distinguished criminal lawyer and a member of the Cambridge Law Faculty. He made commendatory remarks, but coupled with a warning. I had included a description of a visit to the famous DOK gay nightclub in Amsterdam. He advised me to make clear my visit was ‘professional’. In the published version I left the description without further comment, feeling that to ‘protest too much’ would be dangerous.
Sometime later, I was invited to talk on homosexuality at a medical conference. A gay liberation protest group attempted to blockade the venue because they thought they should have been represented among the participants. The Chairman eventually agreed that some of them could attend. After my talk one of them made some disparaging comment and added: “We know him he’s an old ‘queen’ of the establishment”. My anxiety at being singled out was allayed when a protester suggested that another speaker, the psychiatrist John Bancroft, later to become Director of the famous Kinsey Institute, whose wife was with him, might also be gay! After the meeting a newspaper reporter approached me for a reaction to the ‘accusation’. I responded that one was used to students’ silly provocations. Nothing appeared in the press.
When the Cambridge University students’ Gay Group asked me to become an officer (the regulations required student societies to have a representative from the teaching staff) the then Director of the Institute of Criminology, Nigel Walker, advised me privately to decline on the grounds that they would be better served by having a married man. The Gay Group were in luck as John Robinson, the Dean of Trinity, then agreed to help.
Research was always my main interest, but teaching was a prime duty of all academic staff at the Institute. My experience of delivering lectures and conducting seminars was, to say the least, limited, and although I knew about psychological theories of anti-social behaviour my knowledge of other aspects of criminology was primitive. The Institute’s range of courses is now greatly expanded, but at first teaching was confined to a one year course for graduates leading to a Diploma in Criminology, later changed to a Master’s degree. A wide range of topics was covered, including sociological and psychological theories of criminal behaviour, the formation and application of criminal law, the operation of the criminal justice system (police, courts, prisons, probation) official statistics of crime, correctional and therapeutic regimes, and provisions for mentally abnormal offenders. Forensic science, (from fingerprints to ballistics and autopsies) often equated with criminology in crime fiction and TV dramas, was deliberately omitted. The Institute’s students were mostly lawyers and sociologists with a smattering from other humanities.
My remit was to talk about psychological and psychiatric ideas on crime. Apart from taking part in the Diploma course, Institute staff were called upon to provide lectures for law undergraduates who had opted to take a paper on criminology in their Law Tripos examination. My lectures included one on my favourite topic of sex offences, during which I innocently remarked: “Turning now to exhibitionists, one thing stands out.” The unfortunate phrase seemed to pass unnoticed, but it was picked up and reported in a student magazine.
Tutorials had to be arranged for these law undergraduates, meeting them in small groups of three or four to discuss matters from their lectures. My ignorance about criminal law and court procedures meant that occasionally I had to tell them to look up the answer for themselves. On mentioning this to Radzinowicz, his authoritarian sensitivities were aroused and he told me never to admit to not knowing an answer. In practice, the tutorials were not as demanding as might have been expected, for the students’ commitment to the subject was often quite low. Some had chosen criminology as light relief from their mainstream studies. One of them told me he was too far away to attend at 9.0 a.m. He came from Jesus Lane, less than a mile away.
Keeping up with the teaching involved much reading and listening. Having to make notes and learn quickly, I conceived the idea of summarising the material in a popular book: The Young Offender, published in 1967 as my third paperback Penguin. Most of the opinions therein I still hold, but its authoritative tone was scarcely justified by the depth of knowledge I had by then acquired. However, what the publisher, Lord Horder, had called my vulgarisation ability paid off. The book sold well and attracted mostly favourable comment. The picture on the cover showed a leather clad youth dangling a belt in his hands, a thuggish image at odds with the gentler approach to juvenile misdemeanours inside the covers. This was remarked upon by the Guardian reviewer. It was not until many years later, when Horder was prosecuted for trading indecent photographs, that I suspected the image came from his specialised collection.
Over succeeding generations commentators have remarked upon the worsening behaviour of the young, although present day youth are unlikely to be any more of a threat than they were in the past. Taking advantage of statistics showing that convictions of juveniles decrease rapidly with increasing age, and that only a small minority of juvenile offenders graduate to persistent or serious adult criminals, the book sought to paint a less dismal picture. The maxim ‘depraved because I’m deprived’ was commended and evidence was cited pointing to the need for tackling ‘causes’ of crime and for the use of probation and schemes of rehabilitation being often more effective than incarceration. None of this was wrong, but it could have been more nuanced and less brash. Sadly, recent decades have seen a contrary trend, with many more prisoners per head of population than in other European countries. Legislation in recent decades has made sentencing more prescriptive and severe. As political parties have vied with each other to demonstrate their toughness on crime there has been a consistent favouring of punishment over supportive measures.
The optimistic tone of The Young Offender did not prevent the inclusion of an account of research revealing the minimal and occasionally negative effects on recidivism of some well-meaning treatment schemes. For a time the mantra ‘Nothing Works’ took hold of criminology. Fortunately this seems to have been replaced by the more reasonable question ‘What Works?’ Expectations that simple measures indiscriminately applied would secure massive improvements have been disappointed. Established patterns of behaviour are difficult to change. Many schemes, impressive on paper, lack the intensity and consistency of application necessary to achieve results. Even small reductions in anti-social behaviour, dismissed as trivial, can achieve significant cost benefits for the community.
Sex in Cambridge
Some may believe Cambridge a haven for gay adventures, but I did not find it so. With one isolated exception, there was no sex contact whatsoever with any of the multitude of handsome undergraduates and hordes of other young people milling around the town. After all, I was already thirty-six on arrival. During my first few years in Cambridge I used to visit, basically as a voyeur, a gay-friendly bar in the centre of the town. It has long since closed. One evening there, unusually for me, I was drawn into talking and drinking with a small group of young men. Pietro was in London and I invited them home for more drinks. Sex play began and, while disinhibited with drink, I offered no resistance when a young man began to unfasten my flies. He was an undergraduate with whom I subsequently exchanged greetings when passing by in the street, but that was the limit to any further contact.
There were groups of gay dons who knew each other, at least by reputation, but for some years I was unaware of their existence until a gay American academic, who was visiting the Institute of Criminology, introduced me to one or two of them. This was the start of some purely social friendships, leading to Pietro and I being from time to time invited to dinner parties where the guests were all gay men. There was sometimes salacious conversation, but never any orgies! These gentlemen gen
erally conducted themselves with admirable discretion and there was never any public scandal that I heard about, save for one incident when someone attracted unwanted attention through being stabbed by a young man, presumably gay, whom he had invited back home.
The behaviour of one distinguished scholar with whom I became friendly was exceptional. Sidney, as I shall call him, was a bachelor of my own age, now deceased, who resided in elegant rooms in one of the older colleges. He was in the habit of importing rent boys from London, often having them stay overnight. Like me, he had a weakness for making friends with some of them. They would drop in from time to time to enjoy his amusing company, his alcohol, and perhaps some sex. When visiting Sidney’s rooms one day I met there a well-spoken, attractive young man he was about to take with him for a week-end in Bournemouth. The following Monday Sidney telephoned me. It seems he had retired to bed, leaving the young man at a disco, dancing, drinking and sniffing volatile liquid. What exactly was supposed to have happened I don’t remember, it was something to do with a cigarette lighter and a bottle of inflammable liquid, but the outcome was that the young man was sufficiently burned to be taken to hospital. He was bandaged and not in a state to return wherever he was supposed to be. It would be too embarrassing to house him in Sidney’s rooms, where colleagues, students and college staff were in and out during the day, so Sidney asked if I could put him up for a few days. As Pietro was working in Stoke that week, I was glad to oblige. Now dubbed the ‘burnt chicken’, the young man recovered swiftly and was able, before leaving, to proffer his services gratis.
Sidney was prominent in college affairs and well known in his field of expertise. It was remarkable that he could get away with such a life style. He must have sometimes attracted official attention, because a fellow of his college, who knew we were friends, suggested I might have a quiet word with him as there had been talk of students using drugs in his rooms. I suspected it was other activities that were the real concern. A long time after this, when I had stayed talking in Sidney’s rooms until rather late, a college porter had to be called to conduct me through the locked exit gate. I wondered if he might make some snide remarks about Sidney’s visitors, but although he was very chatty it was only to tell me that Sidney was “a gentleman of the old school” and a very fine man. Sidney’s grand manners, suave self-confidence and membership of the establishment must have been an effective shield.