The medical school itself being a mixed time emotionally, I engineered other ‘escapes’. We are talking the mid to late 50s here, not the 60s. Coffee bars in Soho, rather than binge drinking and drugs. I was a very temperate and rather inhibited young woman, I guess, even for the time.

So, when I wanted to try and get more experience outside the narrowness of the medical school by doing some voluntary work, I didn’t know how or where to start, but did the best thing—I asked my mother. She, as usual, understood well and suggested some form of voluntary social work. However, this within medicine was still very rudimentary, with almost unseen ‘Lady Almoners’ in hospitals to help the poorer patients financially: a hangover from pre-NHS days. My mother said, “Why not find the local probation service; they’ll probably have some ideas.”

Good thinking. The following week, I skived a boring pathology lecture and visited Bow Street Magistrates Court, telling myself, remarkably accurately, that they were likely to know what a probation officer was and introduce me to it. The various court officials looked at me a little oddly and directed me to a maze of shabby corridors in an adjacent building. The staff there looked at me a little oddly too and suggested I waited and spoke to the Chief Probation Officer.

When she came, Miss Mary Hamilton didn’t look at me oddly at all but roared with laughter. In our friendly conversation over a cup of tea, I gathered that it was most unusual for anyone to seek out probation officers of their own accord and I wasn’t at all like the usual clients of the department. At that time, these were obviously working-class, obviously villainous and few of them spoke at all like me. Nowadays, of course, it’s different. Crime and antisocial behaviour are much more egalitarian. Then, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Mary was tickled pink at my approach and decided to undertake my education in crime and deprivation personally, by taking me on as an unpaid helper. All this was unofficial; no talk of health and safety, no vetting or paperwork. She often introduced me to colleagues in the pub—where I seem to remember we did a lot of our networking and case discussion—laughing even more. She told them that I was the only member of the public ever brave enough to come into the probation web of my own free will.

Mary was a tall, handsome woman in middle life, tweed suited, single, chain-smoking, with many years of experience in work with criminals. None of the villains, wide boys, thugs, layabouts, drunks and loafing no-goods she dealt with could put one over on her or fool her for an instant. She knew the worst of life and of people and had a strong moral compass. But she was also completely uncynical and one of the most compassionate and warm-hearted people I have ever known. It was a very unusual combination. I now realise, looking back, that she had a huge influence on me and I loved her very much. I hope she sensed it.

Totally ignoring my Thursday daytime medical studies at the Middlesex Hospital, I thereafter spent every Thursday at Bow Street Magistrates Court or on its business, as well as other odd times out of hours. I was to get my comeuppance a couple of years later when I failed my finals and had to retake them, but it proved a far better basis for my later career in psychiatry than the missing bits of pathology and other essential, but boring (to me), things I had to painstakingly fill in later.

At first, I would sit in Court for the morning while the magistrates dealt with a sad procession of drunks, prostitutes up for soliciting, unsuccessful petty criminals and other shabby characters. Mr Blundell was—rather as his name sounded—blunt, practical and swift. Sir Laurence Dunne was tall, thin, with an aristocratic profile, a cultured voice and a shrewd, all-seeing look.

Under these and other magistrates, I learned the oddities of men who loitered around parks with holes cut in their trouser pockets. “I could see, m’ Lud,” the stolid policeman would drone, “that he appeared to be handling his person.” And yet another minor perv would be named, disgraced and fined.

One Thursday morning, Mary had gone out for some reason, leaving me sitting on my own in the wooden pew, engrossed as usual in the dramas unfolding before me. Sir Laurence Dunne looked across the crowded courtroom and said, “I see Miss Hamilton is absent but her assistant is here. Can you give me a report on this case?” As they say, I could have died. I staggered to my feet and managed to make some promise of consultation on her return and was allowed to resume my seat. He looked at me thoughtfully.

A little while later, the Clerk of the Court took me aside at the end of a session and said, “Excuse me, Miss. Sir Laurence would be very grateful if you would take tea with him.” I remember Sir Laurence’s pale, long-fingered hands with the papery skin of old age as he poured the tea into bone china cups. He was a charming host. I still don’t really know why he wanted to meet me, but he drew from me my hopes of becoming a psychiatrist and hence my interest in his Court. I don’t think he had much of an opinion of psychiatrists, perhaps justifiably. He said, “I recommend that you do not become a psychiatrist. You will be able to do much more good by not being one.”

It was another thing that made me think more about what I was doing and why, even though I did not take his advice. I have occasionally wondered whether he was right and what else I might have done. 

Some of my work was to go on errands of mercy for Mary, to support elderly people who had shoplifted or helplessly fallen foul of the law in other ways. They were always poor and often a little mad. Most had symptoms of dementia, too early to qualify for care, but too developed to cope with life’s demands. I would check how they looked, whether they appeared to have food in the cupboard, were eating, or were in any sort of distress and trouble. I would report back, saving a little of the team’s time and learning valuable insights. I would take people occasionally to appointments, surgeries, or bring them in to report officially to the office if they couldn’t cope with coming themselves. Once I took a lady back from leave to the Psychiatric Hospital at Virginia Water. I regarded that as a treat, but was a little disappointed not to be shown around, as an interested party.

One of the most striking cases was an elderly woman who had been put into a mental hospital under a Mental Health Order. Mary suspected it was because her son wanted to get his hands on her money. In those days, apparently, if someone was in hospital compulsorily but escaped and wasn’t caught in over a month they were automatically free. To be honest, I’m not sure if that was the law—I have never thought to check it out—but this old lady believed it to be so and had escaped from the Asylum in late spring, shortly before I met her.

She had lived rough in a little triangle of woodland between busy roads and close to shops in the Home Counties for well over a month, sleeping under a hedge in an old blanket and raiding dustbins nightly for food. When she was caught, she had frostbite of her feet and legs and one of my tasks on visits was to check that it was healing. She was a sweet, slightly confused but sane old lady and she had been established in a little bedsit, where she managed well enough, courtesy of the Probation Service. 

This and other cases were excellent life lessons for a young girl like me, brought up in relative wealth and comfort. I don’t even recall this lady’s name, but I often remembered her when I came to work in psychiatry. She taught me the importance of accurate diagnosis and of respect for the individual. Also, how alert you should be not only to the ulterior motives of some relatives, but to the risks of unthinking collusion with them.

As someone well-versed in the discomforts of camping, even with all the proper Girl Guide equipment, I was also much impressed by her example of how to survive in wild suburbia. I wasn’t tempted to try it.