10.00 am
An extra bed has appeared in my room, because two of the spurs are temporarily out of service while they’re being fitted for TVs. I found out today that prisoners are charged £1 a week for the hire of their TVs, and NSC will make an annual profit of £10,000 on this enterprise. At Wayland, I’m told it was £30,000. Free enterprise at its best. Still, the point of this entry is to let you know that I will soon be sharing my room with another prisoner.
2.40 pm
At Mr New’s request, I join him in his office. He’s just had a call from his opposite number at Spring Hill, who asked if I was aware that if transferred I would have to share a room.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘And can they confirm that the principal reason for seeking a transfer is the inconvenience to your family of having a 250-mile round trip to visit you?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
Mr New nods. ‘I anticipated your answers. Although a decision has not yet been made, the first vacancy wouldn’t be until 28 November.’
Suddenly it’s crunch time. Would I rather stay at NSC as the hospital orderly, with my own room, TV, bathroom and fridge? Or move to Spring Hill and be nearer my family and friends? I’ll need to discuss the problem with Mary.
5.00 pm
I return to my room to do a couple of hours writing; so far, no other occupant has appeared to claim the second bed.
6.42 pm
My new room-mate arrives, accompanied by two friends. His name is Eamon, and he seems pleasant enough. I leave him to settle in.
When I stroll into the hospital, Clive has a large grin on his face. He spent eleven months in that room without ever having to share it for one night. I couldn’t even manage eleven days.
DAY 113
THURSDAY 8 NOVEMBER 2001
8.15 am
Breakfast. Wendy, the officer in charge of the kitchen, needs three new workers from this morning’s labour board.
‘But only yesterday you told me that you were overstaffed.’
‘True,’ she replies, hands on hips, ‘but that was yesterday, and I had to sack three of the blighters this morning.’
‘Why?’ I ask hopefully.
‘I knew you’d ask,’ she replies, ‘and only because you’re bound to find out sooner or later, I’ll tell you. I set three of them plucking chickens yesterday morning, and last night two of the birds went missing. I don’t know who stole them, but in my kitchen I dispense summary justice, so all three were sacked.’
9.30 am
Eight new prisoners arrive for induction today, including my room-mate Eamon. It seems that he worked in the kitchen at his last prison, but ‘on the out’ is a builder by trade. He’s due for release in January, and wants to work outside during the winter months to toughen himself up. Sounds logical to me, so I recommend that he opts for the farm.
10.00 am
Eamon gets his preferred job. I also find three new kitchen workers for Wendy, and the labour board is drinking coffee by 10.39 am. I need a new challenge.
12 noon
Lunch. I sit next to the new visits orderly, who tells me that ‘on the out’ he was a hairdresser in Leicester. He charged £27.50, but while he’s in prison, he’ll happily cut my hair once a month for a phonecard. Another problem solved.
2.30 pm
A fax has just been received from Spring Hill, requesting my latest sentence plan, which cannot be updated until I’ve served twenty-eight days at NSC. Sentence plans make up a part of every prisoner’s record, and are an important element when it comes to consideration for parole. Sentence planning boards are held almost every afternoon and conducted by Mr New and Mr Simpson. I am due before the board on 20 November. Mr New immediately brings it forward a week to 12 November — next Monday, which would be my twenty-ninth day at NSC, and promises to fax the result through to Spring Hill that afternoon. I’ll be interested to see what excuse they’ll come up with next.
3.30 pm
Mr Berlyn (deputy governor) drops in to grumble about the prison being full for the first time in years and say that I’m to blame.
‘How come?’ I ask.
‘Because,’ he explains, ‘the News of the World described NSC as the cushiest jail in Britain, so now every prisoner who qualifies for a D-cat wants to be sent here. It’s one of the reasons I hope they take you at Spring Hill,’ he continues, ‘then we can pass that dubious accolade on to them. By the way,’ he adds, ‘don’t get your hopes up about an early move, because someone up above [prison slang for the Home Office] is out to stop you.’
4.00 pm
John (lifer, murder) arrives in SMU, accompanied by a very attractive lady whom he introduces as his partner. This has me puzzled. If John murdered his wife, and has been in prison for the past fourteen years, how can he have a partner?
5.00 pm
I return to my room and write for two hours, relieved that Eamon doesn’t make an appearance. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s with his friends from Derby, or is excessively considerate. This morning he told me he didn’t mind my switching the light on at six o’clock.
‘I’m in the building trade,’ he explained, ‘so I’m used to getting up at four-thirty.’
I feel I should add that he doesn’t smoke, doesn’t swear and is always well mannered. I still haven’t found out why he’s in prison.
7.15 pm
I find Doug and Clive at the hospital, heads down, poring over the new resettlement directive in preparation for tomorrow’s facility meeting. Doug is determined to be the first prisoner out of the blocks, and if that should happen, then I might become the hospital orderly overnight. For the first time I look at the hospital in a different light, thinking about what changes I would make.
DAY 114
FRIDAY 9 NOVEMBER 2001
6.00 am
Before I went to sleep last night, I studied the latest Lords reform bill, as set out in The Times and Telegraph by Phil Webster and George Jones, those papers’ respective political editors.
When I entered the Commons in 1969 at the age of twenty-nine, I think I was the first elected MP not to have been eligible for national service.7 I mention this because, having won a by-election in Louth, Lincolnshire, I experienced six months of a ‘fag-end’ session of which almost every member had served not only in the armed forces, but also in the Second World War, with half a dozen having done so in the First World War. On the back benches generals, admirals and air marshalls — who could add MC, DSO and DFC to the letters MP — were in abundance. At lunch in the members’ Dining Room, you might sit next to Sir Fitzroy McLean, who was parachuted into Yugoslavia to assist Tito, or Airey Neave, who escaped from Colditz.
In 1970, when Ted Heath became Prime Minister, Malcolm Rifkind, Kenneth Clarke and Norman Lamont joined me — a new breed of politician who would, in time, replace the amateurs of the past. I use the word ‘amateur’ with respect and admiration, for many of these men had no desire to hold high office, considering Parliament an extension of the armed forces that allowed them to continue to serve their country.
When I entered the Lords in 1992, the House consisted of hereditary peers, life peers and working peers (I fell into the latter category). Peter Carrington (who was Foreign Secretary under Margaret Thatcher) is an example of an hereditary peer, the late Yehudi Menuhin of a life peer who rarely attended the House — why should he? And John Wakeham was a working peer and my first leader — a Cabinet minister appointed to the Lords to do a job of work.
A strange way to make up a second chamber, you may feel, and certainly undemocratic but, for all its failings, while I sat on the back benches I came to respect the skills, dedication and service the country received for such a small outlay. On the other side of that undemocratic coin were hereditary peers, and even some life peers, who never attended the House from one year to the next, while others, who contributed almost nothing, attended every day to ensure they received their daily allowance and expenses.
8.00 am
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br /> I learn a little more about John’s (lifer) love life over breakfast. It seems John met his partner some six years ago when he was ensconced at Hillgrove, a C-cat prison. She had driven a couple of John’s friends over to visit him. At that time John would only have been allowed a visit once a fortnight. On learning that a woman he had never seen in his life was sitting in the car park, he suggested she should join them. For the next few months, Jan continued to drive John’s friends to his fortnightly visit, but it wasn’t long before she was coming on her own. This love affair developed in the most restrictive and unpromising circumstances. Now John is in a D-cat, Jan can visit him once a week. It’s their intention to get married, should he be granted his parole in eighteen months’ time.
As you can imagine they still have several obstacles to overcome. John is fifty-one, and has served twenty-three years, and Jan is forty-eight, divorced and with three children by her first marriage. At some time between now and next March, Jan has to tell her three children, twenty-four, twenty-two and fifteen, that she has fallen in love with a murderer, and intends to marry him once he’s released.
11.00 am
My name is bellowed out over the tannoy, and I am ordered to report to reception. Those stentorian tones could only come from Sergeant Major Daff (Daffodil to the inmates). I have several parcels to sign for, most of them books kindly sent in by the public; I am allowed to take them away only if I promise they’ll end up in the library; also, two T-shirts for gym use only (he winks) and a box of Belgian truffles sent by a lady from Manchester. Now the rule on sweets is clear. Prisoners cannot have them, as they may be full of drugs, so they are passed on to the children who attend the gym on Thursdays for special needs classes (explain that one). I suggest that not many seven year olds will fully appreciate Belgian truffles, but perhaps Mrs Daff might like them (they’ve been married for forty years).
‘No,’ he replies sharply, ‘that could be construed as a bribe.’ Mr Daff suggests they’re put in the raffle for the Samaritans’ Ball in Boston. I agree. I have for many years admired the work of the Samaritans, and in prison they have unquestionably saved countless young lives.
4.00 pm
When I return to my room, I find Eamon preparing to move out and join his friends from Derby in the eight-room dormitory, so I’ll be back on my own again. I take advantage of the time he’s packing his HMP plastic bag to discover why he’s in prison.
It seems that on the Saturday night of last year’s Cup Final, Eamon and his friends got drunk at their local pub. A friend appeared and told them he had been beaten up by a rival gang and needed some help ‘to teach the bastards a lesson’. Off went Eamon and his drunken mates armed with pool cues and anything else they could lay their hands on. They chased the rival gang back to their cars in the municipal car park next to the Crown Court, and a fierce battle followed — all of which was recorded on CCTV.
Five of them were charged with violent disorder and pleaded not guilty — one of them a member of Derby County football team. Their solicitor plea-bargained for the charge to be downgraded to affray. One look at the CCTV footage and they quickly changed their plea to guilty. They were each given ten months, and if they’re granted tagging, will be released after only twelve weeks (five months minus two months tagging). Incidentally, the gang member who enlisted their help was the first to hear the sirens, and escaped moments before the police arrived.
DAY 115
SATURDAY 10 NOVEMBER 2001
6.38 am
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t wish I wasn’t here. I miss my freedom, I miss my friends and above all I miss Mary and the boys.
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t curse Mr Justice Potts for what everyone saw as his prejudicial summing up to the jury, and his apparent delight at handing out such a draconian sentence.
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t wonder why the police haven’t arrested Angie Peppiatt for embezzlement.
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t question how I can be guilty of perverting the course of justice while Ted Francis is not; either we are both guilty or both innocent.
I have been in jail for 115 days, and my anger and despair finally surface after a visit by a young man called Derek.
Derek knocks quietly on my door, and I take a break from writing to deal with his simple request for an autograph on the back of a picture of the girlfriend who has stood by him. I ask him about his sentence (most prisoners go into great detail, even though they know I’m writing a diary). Derek is spending three months in jail for stealing from his employers after issuing a personal cheque he knew he hadn’t the funds to cover. He spent a month in Lincoln Prison, which the old lags tell me is even worse than Belmarsh. He adds that the magistrate’s ‘short, sharp shock’ has enabled him to witness a violent beating in the shower, the injecting of heroin and language that he had no idea any human being resorted to.
‘But,’ he adds before leaving, ‘you’ve been an example to me. Your good manners, your cheeriness and willingness to listen to anyone else’s problems, have surprised everyone here.’
I can’t tell him that I have no choice. It’s all an act. I am hopelessly unhappy, dejected and broken. I smile when I am at my lowest, I laugh when I see no humour, I help others when I need help myself. I am alone. If I were to show any sign, even for a moment, of what I’m going through, I would have to read the details in some tabloid the following day. Everything I do is only a phone call away from a friendly journalist with an open cheque book. I don’t know where I have found the strength to maintain this facade and never break down in anyone’s presence.
I will manage it, even if it’s only to defeat my enemies who would love to see me crumble. I am helped by the hundreds of letters that pour in every week from ordinary, decent members of the public; I am helped by my friends who remain loyal; I am helped by the love and support of Mary, Will and James.
I have no thoughts of revenge, or even any hope of justice, but God knows I will not give in.
DAY 116
SUNDAY 11 NOVEMBER 2001
8.05 am
I’m five minutes late for breakfast. Mr Hayes, a thoughtful and decent officer, takes me to one side and asks if I could be on time in future because otherwise some prisoners will complain that I’m getting special treatment.
9.00 am
Doug is out on town leave so that he can visit his family in March, and Linda (hospital matron) asks me if I’ll act as ‘keeper of the pills’. You need three qualifications for this responsibility:
1. non-smoker,
2. never been involved with drugs,
3. be able to read and write.
In a prison of 172 inmates, only seven prisoners fulfil all three criteria.
10.00 am
I write for two hours.
12.10 pm
Lunch. I’m on time.
1.15 pm
The governing governor, Mr Lewis, drops in to see Linda.
‘Glad to catch you,’ he says to me. ‘I’ve had a letter from “Disgusted, Bexhill on Sea”. She wants to know why you have a private swimming pool and are driven home in your Rolls Royce every Friday to spend the weekend with your family. I have disillusioned her on the first two points, and added that you are now working both Saturday and Sunday in the hospital at a rate of 25p an hour.’
2.00 pm
Mary visits me. It’s wonderful to see her, although she looks drawn and tired. She brings me up to date on all my legal problems, including details of all the money that disappeared during the period Angie Peppiatt was my secretary. We also discuss whether I should issue a writ against Baroness Nicholson for her accusation that I stole millions from the Kurds, and how it’s possible for Ted Francis to be innocent when I was found guilty of the same charge. Once she’s completed the file on Mrs Peppiatt, it will be handed over to the police.
We finally discuss the dilemma as to whether I should remain at NSC and take over as hospital orderl
y. We decide I should still apply for Spring Hill.
6.00 pm
I read the only Sunday papers I can lay my hands on, the Observer and the News of the World. One too far to the left for me, the other too far to the right.
7.00 pm
Doug returns from a day out with his family, and I hand back my responsibility as ‘keeper of the pills’. He’s convinced that they’re lining me up for the hospital job just as soon as he’s granted leave to do outside work, which would take him out of the prison five days a week. I tell him that both Mary and I still feel it would be better if I could transfer to Spring Hill.
10.30 pm
Back to my room. The communal TV next door is showing some vampire film at full volume. Amazed by what the body learns to tolerate, I finally fall asleep.
DAY 117
MONDAY 12 NOVEMBER 2001
8.50 am
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