Not many patients today, eleven in all, but then there’s no work to skive off on a Saturday morning. Sister leaves at ten-thirty and I have the rest of the day to myself, unless there’s an emergency.
11.00 am
Spend a couple of hours editing Sons of Fortune, and only take breaks for lunch, and later to watch the prison football match.
2.00 pm
The football manager and coach is a senior officer called Mr Masters. He’s proud of his team, but when it comes to abusing the referee, he’s as bad as any other football fan. Today he’s linesman, and should be supporting the ref, not to mention the other linesman. But both receive a tirade of abuse, as Mr Masters feels able to give his opinion on an offside decision even though he’s a hundred yards away from the offence, and the linesman on the other side of the pitch is standing opposite the offending player. To be fair, his enthusiasm rubs off on the rest of the team, and we win a scrappy game 2-0.
DAY 151
SUNDAY 16 DECEMBER 2001
7.30 am
Only five inmates turn up for early morning surgery. Linda explains that although the prison has a photographic club, woodwork shop, library, gym and chapel, a lot of the prisoners spend the weekend in bed, rising only to eat or watch a football match on TV. It seems such a waste of their lives.
2.00 pm
My visitors today are Malcolm and Edith Rifkind. Malcolm and I entered the House around the same time, and have remained friends ever since. Malcolm is one of those rare animals in politics who has few enemies. He was Secretary of State for Defence and Foreign Secretary under John Major, and I can’t help reflecting how no profession other than politics happily divests itself of its most able people when they are at their peak. It’s the equivalent of dropping Beckham or Wilkinson at the age of twenty-five. Still, that’s the prerogative of the electorate, and one of the few disadvantages of living in a democracy.
Malcolm and his wife Edith want to know all about prison life, while I wish to hear all the latest gossip from Westminster. Malcolm makes one political comment that will remain fixed in my memory: ‘If in 1979 the electorate had offered us a contract for eighteen years, we would have happily signed it, so we can’t complain if we now have to spend a few years in the wilderness.’ He and Edith have travelled up from London to see me, and they will now drive on to Edinburgh. I cannot emphasize often enough how much I appreciate the kindness of friends.
8.00 pm
Mr Baker drops in for coffee and a chat. The officers’ mess is closed over the weekend, so the hospital is the natural pit stop. He tells me that one prisoner has absconded, while another, on returning from his town visit, was so drunk that he had to be helped out of his wife’s car. That will be his last town visit for several months. And here’s the rub, it was his first day out of prison for six years.
DAY 152
MONDAY 17 DECEMBER 2001
8.50 am
‘Papa to Hotel, Papa to Hotel, how do you read me?’
This is PO New’s call sign to Linda, and I’m bound to say that the hospital is the nearest I’m going to get to a hotel while I remain incarcerated in one of Her Majesty’s establishments.
It’s a freezing morning in this flat, open part of Lincolnshire, so there’s a long queue for the doctor. First in line are those on the paper chase, due for release tomorrow. The second group comprises those facing adjudication — one caught injecting heroin, a second in possession of money (£20) and finally the inmate who came back drunk last night. The doctor declares all three fit, and can see no medical reason that might be used as mitigating circumstances in their defence. The heroin addict is subsequently transferred back to Lincoln. The prisoner found with £20 in his room claims that he just forgot to hand it in when he returned from a town visit, so ends up with seven days added. The drunk gets twenty-one days added to his sentence, and no further town visits until further notice. He is also warned that next time, it’s back to a B-cat.
Those in the third group — by far the largest — are either genuinely ill or don’t feel like working on the farm at below-zero temperatures. Most are told to return to work immediately or they will be put on report and come up in front of the governor.
2.00 pm
I phone Mary, who has some interesting news. I feel I should point out that Mr Justice Potts claimed at the end of my trial that this is, ‘As serious an offence of perjury as I have had experience of and as I have been able to find in the books’.
A Reader in Law at the University of Buckingham has been checking sentencing for those convicted of perjury. She has discovered that, in the period 1991—2000, 1,024 people were charged with this offence in the United Kingdom. Of the 830 convicted, just under 400 received no custodial sentence at all, while in the case of 410, the sentence was eighteen months or less. Only four people were given a four-year sentence upheld on appeal. One of these framed an innocent man, who served thirty-one months of a seventeen year sentence for a crime he did not commit; the second stood trial twice for a murder of which he was acquitted, but was later convicted of perjury during those trials. The other two were for false declarations related to marriage as part of a large-scale immigration racket.
7.17 pm
There’s a knock on my door, and as the hospital is out of bounds after six o’clock unless it’s an emergency, I assume it’s an officer. It isn’t. It’s a jolly West Indian called Wright. He’s always cheerful, and never complains about anything except the weather.
‘Hi, Jeff, I think I’ve broken my finger.’
I study his hand as if I had more than a first-aid badge from my days as a Boy Scout in the 1950s. I suggest we visit his unit officer. Mr Cole is unsympathetic, but finally agrees Wright should be taken to the Pilgrim Hospital. Wright reports back an hour later with his finger in a splint.
‘By the way,’ I ask, ‘how did you break your finger?’
‘Slammed it in a door, didn’t I.’
‘Strange,’ I say, ‘because I think I’ve just seen the door walking around, and it’s got a black eye.’
DAY 153
TUESDAY 18 DECEMBER 2001
10.00 am
In my mailbag is a registered letter from the court of appeal. I print it in full. (See overleaf.) The prison authorities or the courts seem to have been dilatory, as my appeal may be put off until February, rather than held in December. The experts on the subject of appeals, and by that I mean my fellow inmates, tell me that the usual period of time between receiving the above letter and learning the date of one’s appeal is around three weeks. It’s then another ten days before the appeal itself.
Among my other letters is one from Dame Edna, enquiring about the dress code when she visits NSC.
12 noon
Brian (attempt to defraud an ostrich company) thanks me for a box of new paperbacks that have arrived at the Red Cross office in Boston, sent by my publisher.
1.00 pm
My new job as hospital orderly means I’ve had to adjust my writing regime. I now write between the hours of 6 and 7 am, 1 and 3 pm, and 5 and 7 pm. During the weekends, I can fit in an extra hour each day, which means I’m currently managing about thirty-seven hours of writing a week.
6.00 pm
I visit the canteen to purchase soap, razor blades, chocolate, Evian and phonecards, otherwise I’ll be dirty, unshaven, unfed and unwatered over Christmas, not to mention uncontactable. The officer on duty checks my balance, and finds I’m only £1.20 in credit. Help!
DAY 154
WEDNESDAY 19 DECEMBER 2001
9.00 am
‘Archer to report to reception immediately, Archer to report to reception immediately.’
Now Mr Daff has retired, I’m not allowed the same amount of latitude as in the past.
I’ve received five parcels today. The first is a book by Iris Murdoch, The Sea, The Sea, kindly sent in by a lady from Dumfries. As I read it some years ago when Ms Murdoch won the Booker Prize, I donate it to the library. The second is a silver b
ottle opener — not much use to an inmate as we’re not allowed to drink — but a kind gesture nevertheless. I ask if I can give it to Linda. No, but it can be put in the old-age pensioners’ raffle. The third is a Parker pen. Can I give it to Linda? No, but it can be put in the old-age pensioners’ raffle. The fourth is a teddy bear from Dorset. I don’t bother to ask, I just agree to donate it to the old-age pensioners’ raffle. The fifth is a large tube, which, when opened, reveals fifteen posters from the Chris Beetles Gallery, which I’ve been eagerly awaiting for over a week. I explain that it’s a gift to the hospital, so there’s no point in putting it in store for me because the hospital will get it just as soon as I am released. This time they agree to let me take it away. Result: one out of five.
2.00 pm
I happily spend a couple of hours, assisted by Carl and a box of Blu-Tack, fixing prints by Albert Goodwin, Ronald Searle, Heath Robinson, Emmett, Geraldine Girvan, Paul Riley and Ray Ellis to the hospital walls. With over 900 Christmas cards littered around the beds, the ward has been transformed into an art gallery. (See opposite.)
5.00 pm
I return to the canteen. I’m only £2.50 in credit, whereas I calculate I should have around £18. It’s the nearest I get to losing my temper, and it’s only when the officer in charge says he’s been trying to get the system changed for the past year that I calm down, remembering that it’s not his fault. He makes a note of the discrepancy on the computer. I thank him and return to the hospital. I have no reason to complain; I’ve got the best job in the prison and the best room, and am allowed to write five hours a day. Shut up, Archer.
6.00 pm
I attend the carol service at six-thirty, where I read one of the lessons. Luke 2, verses eight to twenty. As I dislike the modern text, the vicar has allowed me to read from the King James version.
The chapel is packed long before the service is due to begin and the organ is played with great verve and considerable improvisation by Brian (ostrich fraud). The vicar’s wife, three officers and four inmates read the lessons. I follow Mr New, and Mr Hughes follows me. We all enjoy a relaxed service of carols and lessons, and afterwards there is the added bonus of mince pies and coffee, which might explain the large turnout.
After the service, Brian introduces me to Maria, who’s in charge of the Red Cross shop in Boston. She has brought along my box of paperbacks and asks if I would be willing to sign them. I happily agree.
DAY 155
THURSDAY 20 DECEMBER 2001
7.30 am
Record numbers report sick with near freezing conditions outside.
11.00 am
The last inmate to see the doctor is a patient called Robinson. He’s shaking and trying in vain to keep warm. I’ve been in prison long enough now to spot a heroin addict at thirty paces. While he waits for his appointment, Robinson confides that he’s desperately trying to kick the habit, and has put himself on a compulsory urine test every morning. He’s thirty-two years old, and has been in and out of prison for the past fourteen years.
‘I’m lucky to be alive,’ he says. ‘After I got nicked this time, I took the rap and let me mate get off in exchange for a promise he’d send me ten quid a week while I’m inside.’
The ‘friend’ died a few weeks later after injecting himself from a contaminated batch of heroin.
‘If the deal had been the other way round,’ Robinson suggests, ‘I’d be the dead man.’
12.30 pm
Over lunch I discuss the drug problem in prisons with the two gym orderlies, both of whom abhor the habit. I am shocked — can I still be shocked? — when Jim (burglary, antiques only) tells me that 30 per cent of the inmates at NSC are on heroin. But more depressing still, when Jim was here eight years ago for a previous offence, he says only a handful of the inmates were on drugs. What will it be like in ten years’ time?
1.00 pm
As I walk back from lunch, I see Brian and John, the CSV Red Cross workers, heading towards me. They’ve both been taken off the job and confined to the prison while an enquiry is being conducted. Maria, who runs the Red Cross shop in Boston, has been accused of smuggling contraband (twelve paperbacks) into the prison. Apparently she should have informed the gate staff of her request to have the books autographed by me. Brian tells me they left her in tears, and I am bound to say that what started out as a simple goodwill gesture has ended in turmoil; the Red Cross have been removed as participants in the CSV scheme, and Brian and John have lost their jobs. I resolve to find out if there is more to it — prison has taught me not to automatically take something on trust — and if there isn’t, to try to right this injustice.
8.00 pm
Carl suggests we watch Midnight Express, a sure way of reminding ourselves just how lucky we all are. And to think Turkey wants to be a full member of the European Union.
DAY 156
FRIDAY 21 DECEMBER 2001
9.00 am
Dr Walling is on duty today. He’s full of good cheer, and brings Christmas presents for Linda and myself. Linda gets a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, and he presents me with a bottle of Scotch. Linda quickly grabs the bottle, explaining that it’s against prison rules to offer prisoners alcohol. If I’d been caught with a bottle of whisky (actually I don’t drink spirits) I would have lost my job, and possibly have been sent to a B-cat with added days. Dr Walling looks suitably embarrassed.
12.00 pm
Simon (abduction of his son, mess orderly) drops in to deliver Linda’s sandwich lunch. While I make her a coffee, Simon tells me he’s moving room today. His room-mate, a married man with two children, asked him last night if he’d ever considered being bisexual. Simon tells me that he jumped out of bed, got dressed, left the room and demanded to be moved, as he didn’t want to be locked up with, in his words, ‘a raving faggot’.
8.00 pm
I watch Great Artists on BBC 2. The subject is Breughel, and all the little Breughels.
10.00 pm
Fall asleep in my chair, exhausted. It must be the combination of writing and hospital duties. Can’t complain though, as the days are passing far more quickly.
DAY 157
SATURDAY 22 DECEMBER 2001
9.00 am
Prison life is like a game of cricket; every day you discover a new way of getting out.
The doctor has to pass as fit this morning an inmate by the name of Hal (cat burglar, six months) before he goes up in front of the governor. Last night Hal left the prison and walked into Boston. He dropped into one of the local pubs, had a pint and then purchased a bottle of vodka, a bottle of rum and a six-pack of Fosters. Hal didn’t feel like walking the six miles back, so he decided to thumb a lift to the prison. Mr Blackman, one of our younger officers, obliged and happily escorted Hal back, confiscated the contraband and booked him into the segregation block. Hal was due to be released in January, but I fear it’s now looking more like February. It turns out that he also suggested to Mr Blackman that if he dropped him off half a mile from the prison, he could keep the bounty. Nice try, Hal.
Among the other inmates who will appear in front of the governor this morning is Simon (abducting his son), but only for a warning. It appears he’s been telling anyone who will listen that his cell-mate is ‘a raving faggot’. The governor will order him to stop using such inflammatory language otherwise he will lose his job as mess orderly.
I chat to the cat burglar as he waits to see the doctor. Hal says he doesn’t care that much what the governor decides. His partner has left him, his mother won’t speak to him and he hasn’t seen his father in years. When he gets out, he doesn’t have anywhere to stay overnight, and only has £37 to his name. He says he needs a job that will earn him enough money to ensure that he doesn’t have to revert to stealing again.
I ask him, ‘How much is enough?’
‘Two hundred quid,’ he replies. ‘Then I’d have a chance of finding some digs and getting a job.’
11.00 am
Mr Lewis drops into the hosp
ital to wish Linda a happy Christmas. While I’m making him a coffee, he complains that I’ve thrown away the hospital ashtray, so he can’t enjoy a cigar. I reluctantly supply an old saucer. He tells me that he was surprised by the Spring Hill decision and, looking round the hospital, says pointedly, ‘If they suggest Hollesley Bay, don’t even consider it.’
2.50 pm
Mary and William turn up almost an hour late for their visit because of the snow and ice that caused long hold-ups on the A1. My time with them is cut down to forty minutes.
It’s Mary’s birthday, and she’s wearing the emerald that Sergio purchased for me from the Green Mountains after he returned to Columbia.14 I wanted to also give her the pot I made at Wayland, but they told me it shattered in the kiln.
We chat about her forthcoming trip to Kenya for her nephew’s wedding. She’ll be away for the first ten days of January, but as my appeal won’t be heard until mid-February, this isn’t a problem. She hopes to see Sir Sidney Kentridge and Godfrey Barker before she leaves. If Godfrey signs an affidavit confirming that Mr Justice Potts discussed me adversely at a dinner party they both attended a year before my arrest, I could be out of here in a few weeks’ time. Will isn’t optimistic. He feels Godfrey will feel compromised because his wife works for the parole board. As Godfrey has sent me a Christmas card, I can only hope Will’s wrong.
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