‘What about Reception Sir? Women need to be stripped down and given a bath.’
‘I’ve found some women assistants to do that. I’m negotiating some accommodation at the Atomic Energy hostel close-by.’
‘No need to bother for me sir. I’ll drive back home in the morning, after I sign off to you-’
Paddy stopped me with a hand. ‘Thank you, Veronica. You’ve never questioned my actions once.’
‘I know these staff Paddy. They do have genuine grievances – poor conditions, much worse than the men, yet they do the same job. It cannot be fair. That is the area you will have to work on.’
I stopped, thinking I might have gone too far, but Paddy smiled grimly. ‘I know. It is not going to be easy. What we do here will be judged right across the prison service, and by the P.O.A.
The Assistant Governor grade staff arrived quickly, so quickly that they had had no time to pack. They were sent out to buy bits and pieces like spare shirts, underwear and toiletries, turning their heads in every direction as they arrived back, as they attempted to gain their bearings. The ratio of staff before the strike had been one and a half prisoners to one member of staff propped up by some admin. support, a high ratio due to the large number of daily Court movements for the remand and bail cases. Each prisoner had to have her breakfast before leaving, so my new team had to be aware of the precise timings of the daily operation. Then, and only then would the prisoners climb into the transport provided, being a taxi most of the time. Luckily, the male wings had always supplied the food for the women so this continued to be delivered on time and avoided any early chance of major problems.
I turned my attention to allocating jobs to the training governors. While the males could not oversee Reception, they could cover the dining room, library visits and the shop, the latter with its tortuous checking of prisoners’ credit balances and their spending entitlements. Cleaning was another area but here, surprisingly, the women prisoners helped out. Seeing that we were going to ensure what their rights were, they came up to us and said they would help where ever we needed them. As they knew the system, it was easier for the governors to allocate jobs and sit back and watch. It was almost a war-time camaraderie, a mood hard to find normally in a prison and the co-operation we received helped enormously when the Board of Visitors arrived to see the prisoners were continuing to receive all of their rights and entitlements irrespective of the fact 120 prison officers had removed themselves from the site. And, we had to maintain the flow of visitors; the mothers, fathers, children, boyfriends as well as the solicitors and other legal fraternity; it all had to continue as if nothing was amiss.
The Prison Officers might have been alarmed at the words and threats levelled at them by their shop stewards. Not only did they have to put up with the daily taunts but they were not paid when they were on strike. Some single parent women must have found this intolerable, trying to make ends meet.
Meanwhile, I would have to sign in again in the evening as Paddy was leaving after fifteen very frustrating and stressful hours. I took two Assistant grades to accompany me on my rounds which, they said were helpful to their understanding of the operation. They were there to learn and I had the time to get them up to speed in all sorts of departments with which they had little or no experience. What they were determined to do was to show a united front to the strikers, that they would be there as long as it took to resolve the dispute which was becoming bitter.
My boss was involved in the negotiations which lasted over a period of five days. Meanwhile, I committed myself to seeing the prison would be handed back in a much cleaner condition than when we had arrived…and with the shop sales balancing. In the end, a compromise was struck between the strikers and Headquarters; it had to be, for all involved. Like the Japanese, face had to be saved so each side could say they had achieved what they had set out to do.
The strike was over. It allowed me to go back to Styal, to take up where I had left in such a hurry. I was reminded quite forcefully of Moley, returning home after his trip with Ratty on the river, seeing his paint brushes abandoned as he had fled to the river.
*
Then it was the turn of the two bishops of Liverpool to show they also were concerned. Bishop David Sheppard, the cricketer, representing the Anglican wing, so to speak and Archbishop Derek Warlock on the Roman Catholic team came to call. Such an impression these two men had made on Liverpool that they were immortalised together in a statue on Hope Street. I set up coffee on arrival for them and went down to the main gate adjusting my hat on the way. As our party moved on inside I could see a large sign had been hastily erected over my office door. It read: God’s Office. Everyone was very excited at entertaining two such well-known celebrities while I was understandably embarrassed, until my two bishops roared with laughter and thought the whole thing very funny. I cannot remember what my Governor had to say on the matter.
After this, it had to be the Hamilton’s, the alleged notorious brown envelope MP, the husband and wife team famed later, for pantomime on the stage at Christmas and notoriety in the Press on an almost daily basis. Neil had been making a lot of noise in the more animated newspapers along with his wife Christine, regaling the prison service in general and Styal in particular. What was becoming clear to me was that their comments were based on hearsay and press stories, omitting, or plainly unaware of the truth behind our operation for he had never visited a tough prison such as Styal. It was time to get them educated. With the Governor’s permission, I sent them both an invitation to visit, hopefully sooner than later, which they accepted with alacrity. I needed them to understand just how difficult it was to run a prison and what strides we had been making here in Wilmslow.
On their arrival, they proved charming, polite yet firm, believing they had done the research and were in the right in what they had said. But, they were willing to observe and learn and asked to see as much as was possible. They were both beautifully dressed, which was in sharp contrast to the environment into which they now entered, though successfully ignoring the aromas drifting up from the cells. I explained our plans, showed them the difficult side of prison operations, the multitude of van movements, the need to contain the really dangerous prisoners. We visited the hospital wing and answered their questions with as much transparency as was possible. There were frequent nods of a head, a raised eyebrow, a quick smile to a trustee and a number of ‘…really’s?’ at the end of an answer. At the completion of the tour, Neil sprung a surprise on me though one I should have expected.
‘The Press are anxious to interview us so, if you don’t mind, can we go and find them?’ I accepted his request though still not having read his mind following his fairly comprehensive visit.
The Pack were there, obviously keyed up to some headline news. Cameras were tilted up, recorders clicked in and Neil straightened his tie.
‘Having had a thorough tour of Styal prison and seen the entire operation, I feel I must withdraw my earlier comments which I had applied to Styal. I was speaking from a position of ignorance and my original fears are unfounded. In my opinion this is a sensitively, and well-run establishment, which has a clear, no, a very clear direction for its future. I am willing to learn from my experience.’ Neil paused as the Press, nonplussed, peered round from their cameras and Dictaphones, frowning in total unison. This was not the story they wanted to hear, in fact, it wasn’t a story even if it was exactly what we needed to overhear. I would forever look up to the Hamiltons who were big enough to admit when they had been wrong and to say so publicly. That takes a lot of backbone. The Press went home writing down smaller headlines and the Governor and I got on with our jobs.
As I said, it was a busy time, always different, always some prisoner or other trying it on. It was 1988, year-end and I always like to remind myself of the year’s dramas and humorous events. The pound note went, so did dog licences, so did eggs – that is if you believed Edwina Currie; Colin Pitchfork, murderer, was the first man to be caught by DNA
fingerprinting. That was an enormous stride forward in the fight against crime and today, it is an essential tool for the police. Meanwhile, back in January of that year Rowan Atkinson set up Comic Relief. It was probably a time to move on as well.
CHAPTER TEN
THORN CROSS – MALES ONLY
It was time to move on again, or so my Directors in London believed. They not only considered it necessary but had come to the decision I was ready for a male-only prison. The majority of staff were also male with a sprinkling of female officers. Thorn Cross was an open prison, with no remand prisoners, custom built in 1985 for boys of 15 to 21. The buildings straddle an area on the south side of the River Mersey not far from Warrington. Because it was an open prison there was no over-crowding, the blocks were unthreatening, low-rise, two-storeys in height with very pleasant open spaces in between. There was not a battlement in sight. What astonishes some who like to think that prisoners should be given a very hard time, is that the boys here had carpets in their cells with their own key to their door to prevent pilfering. Outside, they were given everything they could ask for in sporting facilities, trade workshops to learn how to decorate or catering and an interested Governor above me who took an interest in his boys by leading them out for running, football and rugby. He was able to communicate with them at their level. He had one problem however, in that he had, uncharacteristically, almost no inter-personal skills with his staff. At one P.O.A. meeting he became so riled he got up and walked out of his own meeting telling me to ‘sort them out’. That was not acceptable to any of the staff and he was replaced by another Governor who turned out no better for he spent a considerable time at Haydock Park race-course conveniently not far north of the prison, leaving me to sort out the day to day running of his prison.
When I am asked, do I prefer looking after men or women, I would say boys, young men as they were. They always had respect for me, were polite and I never had any bother with them. One day when I was addressing a group of them, I overheard one youth say to another in a stage whisper, ‘My, she’s class.’
They got up as I entered and stood quite respectfully eyeing me up to see what sort of Governor I would prove. It was not to say they did not become involved with some high jinks. One day they placed a bicycle in the pond with bottles hanging from it as if it was a form of high art but that was just fun. Here, they were away from gang culture and football hooliganism and they showed an interest in being educated. It was a routine, levelled at their disordered lives, and being trained meanwhile in a worthwhile job.
It did have some adverse effects. My brother Gilbert gave me one of his rare telephone calls demanding ‘….what the bloody hell are you are doing at Thorn Cross?’ An old lady had entered his shop in tears saying her grandson, who was at the prison, did not want to come home when released, for Christmas. He had told her he felt safe there.
To maintain the balance between prisoners and staff, as I always wished, I was pleased to find that the staff facilities were also excellent which greatly reduced the number of complaints found in some older prisons. In all this, I provided security but I also demanded no nonsense in exchange. Discipline had to be consistent so they could understand where they were with regard to that red line, and it had to be visible. I had always been very strong on discipline but my heart did soften as I saw my charges often achieve standards they had never even considered at home.
Finding accommodation for the boys on their release was an essential task for us. If housing could be found for them and a job put in place they were far less likely to re-offend. Today, Thorn Cross, although a closed prison, maintains its very low rate of re-offending which has to be put down, not only to first-class governorship but to the training and facilities provided. It was all about jobs and these could be quite diverse in their nature. One boy loved horses and mucking out stables and a local farmer, I found, recognised the lad’s wish to continue when he came out. The farmer sought and obtained permission to take him to the races and from there he was taken on by the farmer on his release. It was one of those many happy ending stories.
The pride and self-esteem of the boys came from the smart uniforms they wore; good quality green cotton shirts and track suits and trainers were provided free. The pride overflowed into their cells which they kept clean, keeping up to the demands of good bed-making; it was run on the lines very close to an army barracks in some ways. Individuality reigned. Each youth was tailored into specialist work of his choosing with many boys learning to cook. The greatest pleasure in the job was to watch them, over the period of four years I was there, to see young boys grow into educated men. So many of these young offenders had never had a pat on the back but, by receiving certificates of passing they were able to show these to their girlfriends, fathers and mothers on visiting days. It made both parents and prisoners immensely proud, sons who were able to take up jobs when they left.
It was nice to get away from work early at last. A quiet evening, feet up, I thought, as I headed towards Wilmslow at the ridiculously early time of six. It was strange, silly almost to see a man walking along the side of the motorway, the M56, something he should not have done but, maybe, he had broken down back towards the turn-off although I had seen no car with winking lights. I got home, and began to think what I was going to have for supper when the phone went. It was work…what else?
‘Five of them Miss. Five of them got out.’
‘Five!’ I had only been gone an hour. ‘I’m on my way.’
While I drove, I considered all the options open to me. Five was serious and would not go down well at Headquarters. It was, therefore, a relief to find on arrival back at the prison, without my supper, that four of the five had been recaptured.
‘Keep looking,’ I said, having put all the necessary actions into place for a missing prisoner. One was certainly a lot better than five, I had to admit but it would still be a mark on my file I would rather not have.
It was eleven that night when I got back into the car, driving up the M56 when I had a thought. The man walking on the side of the road at six. It had to be the same one. I drove on and there he was, still walking. Ahead, I saw a policeman who had stopped a lorry for some rashness or other.
Officer, I’m a prison Governor. One of my prisoners has escaped and I have just seen him. I think he saw me for he’s jumped down the bank.’
The policeman turned to the lorry driver. ‘F--- off now and don’t do it again. Right Miss, which way did he go?’ Off he stumbled through the thick grass to find the prisoner too exhausted to go on. It was an easy arrest I was told, although there was a sequel to this episode. When I got in the next morning I learned the police had held the man at arm’s length if you understand what I mean. The prisoner had contracted chicken pox and was now covered in spots!
I would imagine his fellow cell-mates found it all very funny.
The problem with such a prison as I was in charge of, is that the prisoners were permitted to go to the gym after their evening meal. If they want to disappear no-one knows until the last roll call of the day, giving them, a head-start on us.
Such an event, if that is the right word, made me think of how we could support the prisoners more, so that the idea of walking out could be reduced. A decision was made to entertain the whole prison with a visit from a celebrity. There was a real purpose behind such a plan. Someone the prisoners could recognise and who they looked up to could be cajoled into giving a talk, understanding why they had gone off the path and giving them hope they could climb back on. Importantly, they could impress upon them how senseless some of their actions had been, what damage, physical and psychological they might have done to householders of a certain age but, they also needed hope for the future.
One visit was, in my opinion, as good as weeks of education.
Our choice was Frank Bruno who had grown up in Hammersmith with a Jamaican mother and a Dominican father. It could not have been a better choice, for Frank was at the height of his career and fame, h
aving had a bruising fight the year before with Mike Tyson. Although Frank had lost the bout he was still a mega-star for taking the other heavy-weight boxer on in the first place. He was also a man of great character and charm with his cheerful face often filling the television screens of the time. His value lay in his appeal for even those who were not interested in watching a boxing match.
We had arranged the day through the Prince’s Trust, agreeing for Frank to fly in by helicopter. I was detailed to look after him, which raised the first laugh of the day when he climbed out of his transport. He was six feet three inches tall to my five feet five inches; little and large came to mind as I gazed up at our man attempting to shake hands with the giant paw. He was dressed in a rather snappy suit but he wasn’t happy.
‘Veronica. I’ve got to get out of this kit. It’s killing me. He ran his fingers under the tight collar. I need to be relaxed when I meet the boys. Know what I mean?’
‘What, your suit?’
‘Suit, shoes, shirt, the lot. Shoes size 14 that is.’
‘Hmm. I’ll see what I can do.’ But where do you find clothes for a giant and just happen to know where a size 14 pair of shoes might be lying about ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice? I pulled out a reliable prison officer who was only too pleased to help the famous man.
‘There’s Geoffrey. He’s big. He has big fisherman’s boots. Might be a bit muddy though.’ The man ran off, leaving Frank and I to discuss the day’s arrangements. The news which had been circulated around the prison was electric to the boys. Here was an ultra-famous man in their eyes, a real-life hero.
The officer returned, having dug out an enormous track suit and a large pair of trainers from one of our larger prison officers. A shirt was found which strained the buttons but Frank was ecstatic with the change and wore the clothes for the rest of the day.
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