Heaven: A Prison Diary Part 11

DAY 140 - WEDNESDAY 5 DECEMBER 2001.

10.00 am The punishment should fit the crime according to Mr W. S. Gilbert, and I have no quarrel with that. However, shouldn't all inmates be treated equally, whatever prison they are incarcerated? Which brings me onto the subject of wages.

The practice at NSC is just plain stupid and, more important, unfair, because it discriminates in such a way as to be inexplicable to anyone. I have only become fully aware of the disparity because of my twice-weekly contact with the labour board, who not only arbitrarily allocate the jobs, but also decide on the wages. For example, as orderly to the sentence management unit, I am paid 8.50 a week. The library orderlies receive 9.40, the gym orderlies 11.90, reception orderlies 10.50, education orderlies 8.40 and the chapel orderly 9.10. However, a farm worker, who starts at eight in the morning and is out in the cold all day, gets 5.60, and a cleaner 7.20, whereas the prison barber, who only works from six to eight every evening, gets 10 a week.

It's no different in any other prison, but no one seems to give a d.a.m.n.

Seven prisoners come through reception today. Two of them have been sent to NSC with only eleven and nine days left to serve.

Why, when moving to a new prison is a disorientating, frightening and unpleasant experience?13 Why not appoint to the prison board carefully selected prisoners who could tell the Home Office one or two home truths? Here at NSC there are two inmates with PhDs, seven with BAs and several with professional qualifications, all of whom are as bright as any officer I've met, with the exception of Mr Gough, who is happy to discus Sisley, Vanburgh and John Quincy Adams rather than the latest prison regulations.

2.00 pm Carl takes over from me at SMU because I have a theatre visit. By that I mean that the two people who are coming to see me today are the theatre director David Gilmore, and the producer Lee Menzies. David Gilmore ( Daisy Pulls it off) is just back from Australia, where he's been directing Grease, and Lee is about to put on The Island at the Old Vic.

Currently I'm an investor (angel) with both of them. Grease, which is on tour in the UK, has already not only returned my capital investment, but also shown a 50 per cent profit. This is not the norm, it's more often the other way round. I have 10 per cent of The Island, which hasn't yet opened. David Ian (who had to cancel his visit at the last minute) has several shows in production in which I have a share: The King and I (London and tour), Chicago (tour), Grease (tour), and he's now talking about a production of the successful Broadway musical, The Producers. Once David and Lee have brought me up to date on everything that's happening in the theatre world, we turn to a subject on which I feel they will be able to advise me.

Mr Daff shouts out in his best Sergeant Major voice that it's time for visitors to leave.

Where did the time go?

8.30 pm Doug tells me that his wife visited him today.

She confirmed that he will be offered the haulage job, and therefore I can become hospital orderly next week. I'm going to have to decide which course to take should Spring Hill offer me a transfer.

10.00 pm Life may be awful, but after watching the ten o'clock news and seeing the conditions in the Greek jail where they've locked up eleven British plane spotters, I count my blessings.

DAY 141 - THURSDAY 6 DECEMBER 2001.

4.45 pm After a day of no murders, no escapes, no one s.h.i.+pped out, I meet up with Doug for supper. We sit at a corner table and he brings me up to date on his interview for a job. Having applied to the advertis.e.m.e.nt in the Boston Target, Doug was interviewed in the presence of Ms Tempest. He was offered the job and begins work on Monday as a lorry driver. He will ferry a load of steel coils from Boston to Birmingham, to March, before returning to Boston. He must then report back to the prison by seven o'clock. The job will be for six days a week, and he'll be paid 5 an hour.

Just to recap, Doug is doing a four-and-ahalf-year sentence for avoiding paying VAT on imported goods to the value of several millions. He's ent.i.tled, after serving a quarter of his sentence if he's been a model prisoner, and he has to seek outside employment. This is all part of the resettlement programme enjoyed only by prisoners who have reached D-cat status.

It works out well for everyone: NSC is getting prisoners out to work and in Doug they have someone who won't be a problem or break any rules. Although he has a PSV licence, he hasn't driven a lorry for several years, and says it will be like starting all over again. Still, it's better than being cooped up inside a prison all day.

DAY 142 - FRIDAY 7 DECEMBER 2001.

9.00 am I'm asked to report to sister in the hospital for an interview. As I walk across from SMU, I have a moment's anxiety as I wonder if Linda is considering someone else for hospital orderly. These fears are a.s.suaged by her opening comment when she says how delighted she is that I will be joining her.

Linda's only worry is that I am keeping a diary. She stresses the confidentiality of prisoners' medical records. I agree to abide by this without reservation.

10.00 am Mr New confirms that Mr Clarke (theft) has been reinstated as SMU cleaner. What a difference that will make. Carl can now concentrate on the real job of a.s.sisting the officers and prisoners and not have to worry whether the dustbins have been emptied.

2.00 pm Do you recall the two prisoners who were caught returning from Boston laden with alcohol? One attacked an officer with a torch so his friends could escape. The escapee, who managed to slip back to his room and thanks to a change of clothes supplied by a friend, got away with it because it wasn't possible to prove he'd ever been absent. Today, the same prisoner was found to have a roll-on deodorant in his room not sold at the canteen. He was s.h.i.+pped out to a B-cat in Liverpool this afternoon.

6.00 pm I spend an hour signing 200 'Toad' Christmas cards.

8.15 pm Doug is having second thoughts about giving up his job. The thought of driving eight hours a day for six days a week isn't looking quite so attractive.

10.00 pm I return to my room and finish The Diving Bell and the b.u.t.terfly by the late Jean Domi-nique Bauby. It is, as my son suggested, quite brilliant. The author had a ma.s.sive stroke and was left paralysed and speechless, only able to move one eyelid. And with that eyelid he mastered a letter code and dictated the book. Makes my problems seem pretty insignificant.

DAY 143 - SAt.u.r.dAY 8 DECEMBER 2001.

8.00 am Normally the weekends are a bore, but after a couple of hours editing Sons of Fortune I start moving my few worldly goods across to the hospital. Although I'm not moving in officially until tomorrow, Doug allows me to store some possessions under one of the hospital beds.

1.00 pm Among today's letters are ones from Rosemary Leach and Stephanie Cole in reply to my fan mail following their performances in Back Home. Miss Leach, in a hand-written letter, fears she may have overacted, as the new 'in thing' is blandness and understatement. Miss Cole thought her own performance was a little too sentimental. I admire them for being so critical of themselves.

I receive seventy-two Christmas cards today, which lifts my spirits greatly. The officers have begun a book on how many cards I'll receive from the public: Mr Hart is down for 1,378, Mr New 1,290 and Mr Downs 2,007. I select three to be put on the ledge by my bed a landscape by that magnificent Scottish artist Joseph Farqueson, a Giles cartoon of Grandma and a Bellini painting of the Virgin Mother.

2.00 pm Highlight of my day is a visit from Mary, James and Alison, who between them bring me up to date on all matters personal, office and legal. William returns from America next week, and, along with Mary and James, will come to see me on Christmas Eve. Mary will then fly off to Kenya and attend my nephew's wedding. Mary and I have always wanted to go on safari and see the big cats.

Not this year.

DAY 144 - SUNDAY 9 DECEMBER 2001.

9.00 am Doug has an 'away day' with his family in March, so I spend the morning covering for him at the hospital.

2.00 pm A visit from two Conservative front bench spokesmen, Patrick McLoughlin MP, the party's deputy chief whip in the Commons, and Simon Burns MP, the number two under Liam Fox, who covers the health portfolio.

They've been loyal friends over many years. I canva.s.sed for both of them before they entered the House, Patrick in a famous byelection after Matthew Parris left the Commons, which he won by 100 votes, and Simon who took over Norman St John Stevas's seat in Chelmsford West where the Liberals had lowered Norman's majority from 5,471 in 1979 to 378 in 1983.

'If you felt the Conservatives might not be returned to power for fifteen years, would you look for another job?' I ask.

'No,' they both reply in unison. 'In any case,' Simon adds, 'I'm not qualified to do anything else.' Patrick nods his agreement.

I'm not sure if he's agreeing that Simon couldn't do anything else, or that he falls into the same category.

We have a frank discussion about IDS.

Both are pleased that he has managed to downgrade the debate on Europe within the party and concentrate on the health service, education and the social services. They accept that Blair is having a good war (Afghanistan), and although the disagreements with Brown are real, the British people don't seem to be that interested. Patrick feels that we could be back in power the election after next; Simon is not so optimistic.

'But,' he adds, 'if Brown takes over from Blair, we could win the next election.'

'What if someone takes over from IDS?' I ask.

Neither replies.

When they leave, I realize how much I miss the House and all things political.

10.15 pm This is my last night on the south block. Despite a football match blaring from next door, I sleep soundly.

DAY 145 - MONDAY 10 DECEMBER 2001.

3.52 am I wake early, so write for a couple of hours.

6.00 am Pack up my final bits and pieces and go across to the hospital to join Doug, who's carrying out the same exercise in reverse.

7.30 am I will describe my new daily routine before I tell you anything about my work at the hospital.

6.00 am Rise, write until 7 am.

7.00 am Bath and shave.

7.30 am Sister arrives to take sick parade, which lasts until 8 am.

8.00 am Deliver 'off work' slips to the north and south blocks, farm, works, education and the front gate.

8.20 am Breakfast.

9-10.30 am Doctor arrives to minister to patients until around ten-thirty, depending on number.

11.30 am Sick parade until noon (collecting pills, etc.).

12.00 Lunch.

12.30 pm Phone Alison at the office.

1-2.00 pm Write.

3.00 pm Prisoners arrive from Birmingham, Leicester, Wayland, Lincoln or Bedford, all C-cats, to join us at NSC. They first go to reception to register; after that their next port of call is the hospital, where sister signs them in and checks their medical records. You rarely get transferred to another prison if you're ill.

I check their blood pressure, their urine sample for diabetes, not drugs; that is carried out in a separate building later their height and weight, and pa.s.s this information onto sister so that it can be checked against their medical records.

4.30-5.00 pm Sick parade. Linda, who began work at 7.30 am, leaves at 5 pm.

5.00 pm Supper. If anyone falls ill at night, the duty officer can open up the surgery and dispense medication, although most are told they can wait until sick parade the following day. If it's serious, they're taken off to Pilgrim Hospital in Boston by taxi, which is fifteen minutes away.

5.30 pm Write for a couple of hours.

7.45 pm Call Mary and/or James and Will.

8.00 pm Read or watch television; tonight, Catherine the Great I'm joined by Doug and Clive (I'm allowed to have two other inmates in the hospital between 7 and 10.00 pm).

10.20 pm After watching the news, I settle down in a bed five inches wider than the one in my room on the south block and fall into a deep sleep. It is, as is suggested by the t.i.tle of this book compared with Belmarsh and Wayland heaven.

DAY 146 - TUESDAY 11 DECEMBER 2001.

5.49 am I am just about getting the hang of my daily routine. It's far more demanding than the work I carried out at SMU. I hope that Linda will be willing to teach me first aid, and more importantly give me a greater insight into the drugs problem in prisons.

7.25 am I'm standing by the door waiting for Linda to arrive. I prepare her a coffee; one sweetener and a teaspoonful of milk in her pig mug.

The five doctors all have their own mugs.

Linda has worked in the Prison Service for over ten years. She has three grown-up children, two sons and a daughter. She was married to a 'nurse tutor', Terry, who tragically died of skin cancer a couple of years ago at the age of fifty-three. She works long hours and the prisoners look on her much as I viewed my prep-school matron a combination of mother, nurse and confidante. She has no time for s.h.i.+rkers, but couldn't be more sympathetic if you are genuinely ill.

8.15 am After sick parade, I carry out my rounds to the different parts of the prison to let staff know who will be off work today, before going to breakfast. I ask John (lifer) what meat is in the sausage.

'It's always beef,' he replies, 'because there are so many Muslims in prisons nowadays, they never serve pork sausages.'

10.00 am The hospital has a visit from a man called Alan, who's come to conduct a course on drug and alcohol abuse. He moves from prison to prison, advising and helping anyone who seeks his counsel. There are 150 such officers posted around the country, paid for by the taxpayer out of the NHS and the Home Office budgets.

Alan is saddened by how few prisoners take advantage of the service he offers. In Bradford alone, he estimates that 40 per cent of inmates below the age of thirty are on drugs, and another 30 per cent are addicted to alcohol. He shows me the reams of Home Office forms to be filled in every time he sees a prisoner. By the end of the morning, only two inmates out of 211 have bothered to turn up and see him.

11.00 am I have a special visit from Sir Brian Mawhinney MP, an old friend whose const.i.tuency is about twenty miles south of NSC. As a former cabinet minister and Shadow Home Secretary, he has many questions about prisons, and as I have not entered the Palace of Westminster for the past six months, there are questions I'm equally keen for him to answer.

Brian stays for an hour, and after we stop going over past triumphs, we discuss present disasters. He fears that the Simon Burns scenario is realistic, a long time in the wilderness for the Conservatives, but 'Events, dear boy events, are still our biggest hope.' Brian runs over time, and I miss lunch no complaints.

4.00 pm Mr Hart pa.s.ses on a message from my solicitors that my appeal papers have not been lodged at court. Panic. I pa.s.sed them over to the security officer six weeks ago. Mr Hart calls Mr Hocking, who confirms that they were sent out on 29 October. Who's to blame?

5.00 pm Canteen. Now that I'm enhanced, I have an extra 15 of my own money added to my account each week. With my hospital orderly pay of 11.70, it adds up to 26.70 a week.

So I can now enjoy Cussons soap, SR toothpaste, Head and Shoulders shampoo, and even the occasional packet of McVitie's chocolate biscuits.

6.00 pm I attend a rock concert tonight, performed by the 'Cons and Pros.' The standard is high, particularly Gordon (GBH) on the guitar, who sadly for the band will be released tomorrow.

8.00 pm Doug returns from his second day at work.

He has driven to Birmingham and Northampton in one day. He is exhausted, and fed up with his room-mate, who leaves the radio on all night. I'm in bed asleep by ten-thirty. You will discover the relevance of this tomorrow.

DAY 147 - WEDNESDAY 12 DECEMBER 2001.

2.08 am The night security officer opens my door and s.h.i.+nes his torch in my eyes. I don't get back to sleep for over an hour.

5.16 am He does it again, so I get up and start writing.

8.07 am On my journey around the prison this morning handing out 'off-work' slips, I have to drop into the farm. It's freezing and a lot of the inmates are claiming to have colds. I b.u.mp into the farm manager, Mr Donnelly, a charming man who I came to know from my days at the SMU when he sat on the labour board. He introduces me to Blossom, a beautiful creature.

Blossom weighs in at twenty-six stone, and has a broken nose and four stubby, fat hairy legs. She is lucky to be alive. Blossom is the prisoners' favourite pig, so when her turn came for slaughter, the inmates hid her in a haystack. When Mr Donnelly was unable to find Blossom that morning she was granted a week's reprieve. Blossom reappeared the next day, but mysteriously disappeared again when the lorry turned up the following week.

Once again Mr Donnelly searched for her, and once again he failed to find her. The inmates knew that it couldn't be long before Blossom's hiding place was discovered, so they put in an application to the governor to buy her, so that she could spend the rest of her days at NSC in peace. Mr Donnelly was so moved by the prisoners' concern that he lifted the death penalty and allowed Blossom to retire. The happy pet now roams around the farm, behaving literally like a pig in clover. (See below.) Blossom and his friend Blossom 8.30 am On my way back to the hospital after breakfast, I sense something different, and realize that Peter (lifer, arson) is not on the road sweeping the leaves as he does every morning. A security officer explains that Peter is out on a town leave in Boston; the first occasion he's left prison in thirty-one years. I'll try to have a word with him as soon as he returns, so that I can capture his first impressions of freedom.

9.00 am The new inductees report to the doctor for their medical check-up. I now feel I'm settling into a routine as hospital orderly.

12 noon Call Mary to a.s.sure her that the courts have now located my papers, and to wish her luck with our Christmas party tomorrow night.

She will also be attending Denis and Margaret Thatcher's fiftieth wedding anniversary at the East India Club earlier in the evening.

She promises to call me and let me know how they both went. No, I remind her, I can only call you.