‘Baptism of fire today Miss Bird.’
‘Well it’s all over now,’ I replied with a small grin.
‘I don’t think so ma’am.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry, a prisoner is giving birth in her-’
‘Woah. Do you mean in her cell?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
I grabbed my keys and called for a nurse who had no midwifery experience, but was at least, a pair of hands, then I called for an ambulance.
‘The head has begun to appear ma’am. Thought you should know.’ I was told by a breathless officer at the scene. It was pure luck the ambulance arrived quickly. Mother and child were whisked off to hospital, thus removing the stigma of a child being born in my prison which would have been on my first day!
Day One ended and we were in the first year of a new Millennium.
New Hall lies in the village of Flockton near Wakefield and holds 446 women. Originally, in 1933 it had been built as the first open prison for men as an experiment to see how the Service could deal with prisoners coming to the end of their sentences in nearby Wakefield. In 1987, it was converted to hold women as a closed category facility and had dormitories installed inside Nissan huts. The washrooms, showers only, were communal and provided no privacy. When the new cell blocks came along they were luxurious in comparison with in-cell toilet and wash basin. Quite a step in the right direction.
By the time I arrived on the scene, parts of the prison had had its services contracted out to private companies. This included the all-important canteen which supplied tobacco, sweets, stamps and biscuits. It had to be kept fully stocked as it was only three days before Christmas. As you can imagine, these were essential for many mothers – there was a mother and baby unit – wanting to give their visiting children presents in the form of some chocolate. Mischief came to call; chocolate had run out, tension rising fast.
On top of mischief was Mr. Sod; remember him? Because I had worked every Christmas Day since I joined the Service, I felt I was entitled to take this Christmas Day off and to spend it with a very old lady friend of mine, aged almost 100, together with a male friend who was entering the stage of dementia. A singularly unique trio perhaps but they were both good friends from the past and I wanted to enjoy the day with them. When I heard the news of the unstacked shelves and understanding there could be trouble at any time from now on, I jumped in my car bringing with me my confused friend as company, and for his own safety. It was pouring with rain and, dangerously, the streets and pavements had begun to freeze over, turning Harrogate, where I lived, into a giant skating rink. The two of us dashed into town and began to load up the boot with boxes of chocolate and other sweets pre-ordered with Woolworths. I spun around attempting to keep dry at the same time as loading. My feet went to the right, the rest of me departed to the left. I spun for the second time, now directed towards the pavement at speed. This meant my wrist connected painfully with the concrete and before I knew it, I was also on the ice with an interesting combination of a multi-fractured wrist, a man with dementia not knowing what to do, a 100-year-old lady wanting to know what had happened to us as we had not returned, and a potential riot on my hands in my own prison (remember, no-one else to turn to) if I did not get back with the goodies. Now, that is Sod’s Law with a capital ‘S’.
All this I had to relate at speed to the Harrogate police as I was lifted into an ambulance, assuring me they would deal with my car – which they did – and ordering a taxi to cart the chocolate to Wakefield ladies. They were outstanding in the service they brought to me as they resolved the issues one by one. I felt a bit better when I learnt that it was not only my feeble ice-skating ability even as I slowed up with age, for thirty other shoppers had slipped, fallen and broken a limb or two during a night to remember at Harrogate Hospital.
The out-sourcing contractor had a great deal to learn. The seemingly innocuous empty shelves in their shop could have led to a nasty riot at Christmas. Leave would have had to be cancelled for prison officers who otherwise might have hoped to be with their families.
As it was, the inmates of Wakefield had a peaceful Christmas, their children stuffed full of chocolate. I had to return to hospital straight after the holiday as the doctors had not been able to set the wrist properly before the hospital geared down. Unable to do anything in the prison, as I could not even turn a key in a lock, I took myself off to Italy where, amongst the Chianti and the Spaghetti Carbonara, an English lady told me my wrist would be locked as it had been set wrongly. She proved to be right. The third operation took a long time to heal but was alleviated to some extent by the flowers and a food hamper from my staff.
So, ended my first Christmas at home.
Amidst being driven to work, finding my feet again, literally, I had to plan another visit from Princess Anne. This amazing woman never held back on her duties to the Prison Service and it was agreed with her secretary, she would visit on St. Valentine’s Day. Our planning even went as far as setting aside a loo for her which was spruced up by the maintenance team. She was, once again, delayed in her arrival, this time by two hours, fog, I seem to remember. It did give time for her security guard who had come ahead separately, to advise me the loo was too far away from where we were to eat, which was the chapel on any other day. Attached to this room, disused perhaps, but a still functioning lavatory. It contained buckets and brooms, old dusters and half-used tins of cleaning fluids. (This may seem depressingly familiar to some). We had two hours to sort it out so I instructed some trustee prisoners to clear the room out, clean it up and make it presentable for a Princess. I was under pressure at the time. ‘Don’t paint anything,’ I ordered. ‘We don’t want the smell of wet paint.’ Apart, I realised, from a royal bottom sticking to a shiny varnished seat causing a nightmare image of a cry for help issuing from under the said door, ‘Help. I’m stuck.’
Two hours later, Anne’s helicopter flew in, we shook hands and began our tour, before ending up in the chapel for lunch. It was so easy to talk to someone who knew the prison service as well as she did. The time passed quickly until we were due to say goodbye. Helicopters do not have loos. ‘The Princess Royal would like to go to the loo before she leaves.’ I was asked to show the way. I pointed out the chapel lavatory at the same moment in time recalling I had not checked their work. Images of a Princess sitting among brooms and mops made me pale. Varnish/bottom/stuck/fast. I did pray.
A short while later, Anne emerged, chortling and giggling as she came over to say goodbye.
‘Can I have the card?’
‘The card, ma’am?’
‘Yes, the one in the loo. It reads, ‘If you feel stressed, bang your head here. (the cistern). ‘I would like to take it back to Gatcombe for the staff.’
I began to breathe, agreeing rather too effusively with her request.
‘How do you manage with 150 kids? I have trouble with just two.’ It was her parting comment.
It was another good day with a very good Royal maximising her time with us. After the helicopter had taken off I went back to the loo and peered inside. The prisoners, detailed with the rushed workload had indeed cleared the whole room before attaching a black band of cloth around the walls. The cloth was over-printed with what appeared to be dead flies but on closer inspection were in fact, dark-green flowers. I imagine the card adorns the dresser in the kitchen at Gatcombe.
It was to be a royal year. Just two years earlier I had been to Buckingham Palace, not in my role as a Butler Trust member but to receive such an award myself. It was, sincerely, a great honour, a recognition by my peers of the work I had put in at Brockhill. Now, I was to go again.
I had received a letter at home from No.10 Downing Street. Another survey required by Tony Blair who needed, in those days, constant updates on street crime statistics. I felt that opening the letter could wait while I went out shopping with my 100-year-old lady who I was caring for. The letter remained in the hall for two days until I was reminded of
its presence. I sighed. There was no getting away from my duties I was sure the contents would reveal.
It was indeed, from Tony Blair’s office but not asking for statistics. Instead it merely required me to confirm, or otherwise, my acceptance of the Order of the British Empire from the Queen. I laughed out loud. My staff were playing another prank on me – I was quite susceptible to their jokes. Taking the Mickey. I put it down again and it was not until nightfall when my charge’s nephew called. He noticed the letter and I explained it was a spoof.
‘I don’t think so, Veronica. That is an official letter. You should not have shown it to anyone, not even me, as they can take the award away before you even get it.’
Mortified, I took back the letter as if it was the Holy Grail. ‘I won’t tell anyone, honest,’ he said with a smile. ‘Congratulations by the way.’
I had to confirm I would receive the award and keep extremely quiet telling no-one. It is difficult, to say the least, to do so, the second part, that is. I posted the letter off and went on holiday to Italy again to find, on my return, my telephone answering machine stuffed full of calls from the Press, having got wind of something while I was away. I said nothing and did not return their calls. I did not want to be interviewed. That evening I watched teletext where the award was confirmed for my still disbelieving eyes. I had been told the full list would be published after midnight. And there it was. Miss Irene Veronica Bird OBE for services to the Prison Service. It was a shock seeing my name float up alongside so many worthies. Veronica Bird OBE, late of Doncaster Road, Barnsley.
In the night, after I had gone to bed, friends who had also picked up the news arrived with flowers and champagne. Finding no reply at the door, they had thrown pebbles up at the window, then, believing they might be reported for attempted breaking and entering, they withdrew hastily leaving the said flowers and bottle on the front door step. Within a couple of hours of me getting up, flowers and presents began to arrive, warm wishes from so many friends and colleagues. I had to ring the family one-by-one unsure of their reaction, but time is a great healer and they were all delighted with the news.
One small piece of trivia. I found out that from now on, I could get married in St. Paul’s cathedral, if I so wished. Well, that’s all right then.
A follow-up letter told me where to be and when. The best news was to learn I would be presented with my award by Her Majesty herself and it would be at Buckingham Palace where I had walked down those red-carpeted corridors only two years previously.
On that special day, we the Award winners were directed one way and our guests on an opposite path. There were no drinks for us as we waited – this was probably born out of experience, for there were many already almost incapable with nerves, but at least, sober. It was the Queen no less, who they were going to meet on a one to one basis, up front and personal, not at a distance waving a union jack in the air. One man was so frazzled I told him to stay close behind me, ‘then you will be alright. There is really nothing to it.’ He stuck close, though I do not believe he took in a word I had said and he was probably the first who might have sunk a snifter or two if it had been on tap. He remained behind me, prompting memories of something similar at the end of A Tale of Two Cities.
We were briefed, lined up in order (I lost my companion at this moment) and had a pin placed on my lapel so the queen could hang the medal with ease. I walked forward as my name was called, a single question from her Majesty, a handshake with the slight but firm push away to signify it was all over, to say thank you and goodbye; the whole process took twenty-five seconds.
Such memories do not go away. Though I was to return to Buckingham Palace several times in my role as a member of the Butler Trust, being presented with the award had to trump everything else in my life.
There were garden parties in the summer. One hot event caused thirty-four guests to faint in the heat and women could be seen leaving the gates carrying their shiny new shoes in their hands, red, swollen feet making the point on many occasions to signify their state. In contrast, my trip to Ireland for another party was flooded out with a downpour. I was able to understand why Ireland is so green as one looks down on that lovely country from the air.
It felt right to me to enjoy this pampering at the end of my career. Perhaps you may feel such awards and parties are an anachronism these days in this egalitarian world, but how else do people, and yes, governments, show their thanks and appreciation for the work you have done for the country if not with a flurry of hats, red carpets, nervous giggles in the Ladies loos and a glass of champagne?
I will leave it to others to decide what drove me into the Service and then compelled me in an upward direction. There is no doubt I missed out on many of the comforts and events which occurred during my thirty-five years. What it did do, I am convinced, was to give me the feeling of security I had always craved as a child, having lived in fear for most of my formative years. As I grew into the job, that secure feeling enabled me to see ways of running a prison which went against (and, no doubt, still does) the accepted methods of making our prisons safe places to be for staff and prisoners alike. Many speak out, few changes are made and these, usually, are against a background of Human Rights legislation and the EU trying to create an anodyne service where one size fits all, especially with twenty-eight nations (27?) having who knows what, differing ideas on how to control their prison populations.
Thorn Cross was undoubtedly a success. It could, in its way, show a new direction to manage prisoners’ lives. We must always seek to develop alternative ideas if only to reduce the re-offending rate. Is there a better way I asked myself, as I prepped up to go and see the land of Pushkin and Putin?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IVANOVO
The second week of April had nudged its way into in my diary. The year was 2002. I was beginning to close down my work and plan for my retirement when I received a telephone call one day in my office in Wakefield which proved to be of considerable interest.
‘This is Rannoch Daley, Veronica. I’m involved with the Council of Europe and we’ve set up a project to see if we can establish greater protection of Human Rights with Russian pre-trial prisoners. It’s part of a three-year study.’
‘Oh right. Why just pre-trial?’
‘They don’t have any,’ came the brief reply.
‘Ah,’ was my shorter response. ‘Possibly a good idea then.’
I was aware of a venture to spread European values further eastward. There was a plan to twin British and Russian prisons. (A bit different to attempting to twin Bourton-on-the-water and Colombey-les-deux-Églises) but Ranuch’s voice had a touch of anxiety in. He was continuing.
‘I would like to know if you will represent New Hall prison, that’s Wakefield, isn’t it? Would you like to go to Russia representing the women’s’ viewpoint in prisons in the United Kingdom? You can take two officers with you and the Council of Europe will pay all expenses, which, I might add, are very generous. But,’ he paused to ensure I would understand the catch. He could hear I was getting ready to say yes. ‘But, you will be expected to receive a similar delegation from over there and to entertain them later in the year.’
‘When would you expect an answer?’
‘Oh, in the next three minutes, say. We have to leave in six weeks.’
‘Has someone backed out then?’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t mention the name of the prison. ‘It is one of your colleagues in a female prison and it is for this reason we need you, for we will be visiting a female prison which is in quite a mess. We need someone experienced to go with us. And, TB is out of control. They need a lot of help.’
I didn’t think twice. It was in with both feet. When I put the phone down having been promised to receive all the details by post along with the air tickets, I had no idea where I was going (Russia is quite a large country). It appeared on my map as quite large, in fact it covered most of the top of the world. Did I have to submit a group report or an individu
al report and what was in the itinerary so I could do some research? How long was I going, might be helpful and who else was going would also be useful?
There was also the small issue of implied favouritism to overcome. I was a planner, a maker of lists, a time-keeper. If I was to take two officers with me, how was I to choose? This last point I resolved by holding a very public raffle with an independent drawing two winning tickets out of a hat. The result was a jubilant Jan, a female prison officer and a very happy Tony, an Assistant Governor, so both male and female sides would be represented. I felt I could not have been more fair.
Information did arrive. It was to be June but no report was required of me which made me doubt the seriousness of the project. Junket was a possible noun which drifted across my mind. There were, though, visas to obtain, passports to be checked. What to wear in a hot Russia?
The Group had drawn up a training manual for prison staff entitled Human Rights in prisons and this had been translated into Russian and sent on ahead of our party. Was this, I pondered, just to be another discussion forum? Reports I knew. Reports I wrote all the time so, no report was, to say the least, curious. Was this to be just an excursion?
Between the three of us, no-one had any idea of conditions in Ivanovo, the town, or was it to be big enough to describe it as a city? Ivanovo certainly did not fall under the list of recognised cities such as Moscow or St. Petersburg or even, I remember from school days, Vladivostok at the far end of some fabled rail journey. (Vlad was the shortened name for Vladimir, the first name given to Putin). My Collins World Atlas, size eight inches by four inches only covered those three cities.
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