Hercules
My main form of transport was by my bicycle. It was a ‘Hercules’ make so that is what I called it. It was not exactly an antique but it was getting close. It did have three gears but as the chain fell off if I pedalled backwards, they were not reliable so I stuck to one speed.
I soon learned that no self-respecting youngster would be seen dead on my bike so it was always quite safe when I visited the estates of Lambeth. The pump and lights however were fair game and I soon learned to remove them whenever I stopped. The day my lock was stolen and the bike left behind said a lot.
But someone was desperate enough to steal it. I really could not understand how anyone would want a bike as old as my Hercules and to do so at the top of Brixton Hill which had such deep-set drain covers that cycling down there was almost suicidal. The jolt of going over one would certainly have shaken the chain off. It had been OK for me, we were old friends but it was true that had it been a horse, Hercules would certainly have been in the knacker’s yard so maybe the thief did me a favour. After all, the South Circular Road was not the safest road for a bike!
Strangely, my new bike nearly killed me after just a month when my toe caught the front mudguard and jammed the wheel very suddenly. Thankfully, nothing else was around at the time to hear my comments and my bruises soon mended.
Them!
Tony was on probation, and seemed to be exhibiting early symptoms of schizophrenia with paranoia at home and ‘being’ in a secret society which told him to do strange things.
He had been caught with a dangerous knife on Tooting Bec Common and said it was to protect himself from them. He could not say who ‘them’ was but they manifested themselves in voices. The police arrested him because of the danger to others and to himself. The Court sent him to Ashford Remand Centre to be assessed by a psychiatrist.
He was declared to be ‘sane’, responsible for his actions and fit for any form of disposal the court may wish.’ He was put on probation and it was swiftly clear that his condition was not normal. He refused to eat any food at home because he believed his mother was trying to kill him and he was posting all his money in obedience to his voices to a secret organisation.
Understandably, his mother could not understand or accept this and told him to leave. I was able to find a place for him at a reasonably local YMCA but had to transfer his order as he was now out of my jurisdiction.
By now though, he had begun to relate to me as I accepted his condition and let him talk about it without threatening him. Notably, the secret society that was dominating him, became dedicated to doing good which I felt was a form of transference to me.
He settled reasonably well at the YMCA and they made sure his money was paid to them so they had his rent and food covered. Sadly, he took a bicycle from the area and though his new officer told the court of his condition, the psychiatric report again said he was fit for disposal and he was sentenced to three months detention centre. Two weeks later, he had a complete psychotic break down and had to be moved to a secure hospital.
Arthur
Arthur was in his fifties and his case was different as he was already a registered schizophrenic but he did not always remember to take his medication and then he became very forgetful and aggressive. He also became delusional and was haunted by a red devil at night-time, making it hard for him to sleep and terrifying him. The devil always endorsed the worst things that Arthur thought about himself and made him terrified of going out.
On his medication, he was reasonably ‘normal’, though he was scared of interviews and therefore helping him to find work was an important step in his treatment.
About this time, he became involved with a Christian healing group which performed a form of exorcism with him. It had the effect of cheering him up considerably, so much that he actually went to an interview and got a job in a warehouse. What had made the difference? He still saw the devil but he could no longer hear it. I left the area soon after that but he was still working and taking his tablets.
Holloway – 1970 and on the Move to Prison
It might have been the loss of my bicycle that unsettled me.
I had been at Tierney Road for three and a half years when the opportunity to work as a welfare officer in Holloway Prison was offered to me. I took it and once again had a steep learning curve to face. This was the Holloway of 1971, the old prison built on the model of Warwick Castle. The nearest description I can give of it is that the wing system was the same as that used on the television programme Porridge. There were two landings with about a hundred prisoners in at any one time.
My job as the welfare officer was primarily to see to any issues that might disrupt the well-being of the whole wing and to arrange for discharge when that had a welfare issue.
The’Sump’
My wing was the F wing. It was for short-term prisoners and had a large number of alcohol and drug related crime sentences as well as a large population of prostitutes.
It was known as the ‘sump’ which on a car is where the dregs gather. I replaced the first male welfare officer ever in Holloway, who was affectionately known as Cuddly Dudley. I was definitely not built for the role. I was therefore only the third male welfare officer in Holloway.
The wing was a lost place. If they were not at work the prisoners stayed in their cells for all day apart from one hour of association each day and three at the weekends.
I began to record certain facts about them and after I had over a hundred case studies, fifty per cent were homeless at the time of sentence and two thirds were on prescribed drugs.
The prostitutes seemed the most normal but they too used drugs ‘recreationally’ and showed many signs of very low self-esteem. Almost all were working for someone sometimes called their ‘protector’ but commonly known as a ponce.
Slowly, we changed the ethos of the wing as a new wing governor was appointed. She was working to retirement and wanted to see things change for the better. By the time I left, she had worked to having evening association every day and a much more relaxed attitude which resulted in a similar effect on the prisoners. We tried some group work but as there were so many very short sentences it was not really viable.
With the help of the local area probation service, I was able to recruit a small group of volunteers to come in once a month just to mingle with the prisoners.
They began on February the 14th and so became the Valentines. They were instantly popular and highly respected by the inmates (See the Valentines).
The alcoholics would say things like, ‘Keep my cell warm for me,’ and many of the prostitutes looked on it as a welcome break. But there were others whose mental health was very worrying, and who really should not have been in prison. Several times during my time there, inmates injured themselves, often by cutting their arms. One of them told me she was trying to bleed the evil out of her. Their ‘cry for help’ was always there and my job was often busy with applications for news from their family and of their children.
As I commented earlier, the survey that I carried out showed that 70% of those I considered had a depressive condition for which they received prescribed medication and half had been effectively homeless at the time of conviction. Some declared that the wing was kept well behaved by lithium and valium. It seemed that the short sentence was often given when the courts did not know what to do. Most of them were what might now be called ‘social casualties’ for whom prison became a sanctuary.
As I commented in my introduction, the wing was very similar to the prison shown in ‘Porridge’ with two landings. When the ‘new’ Holloway was built, it became more like a hospital and was much more difficult to control, but it looked ‘nicer’.
The Women
Most of the prostitutes came from London and Birmingham. It was not unusual in those areas then for the police to let them police themselves and to act only when someone else intruded into the area.
It was most notable in a well-known seaside town where only one wo
man came to Holloway from there, though there was an active community of prostitutes working there. It was in the summer and her ‘protector’ sent her there for the holiday trade but she was always arrested as she was made unwelcome by the resident group. The following short tales are just a touch of the sad world that I worked in for just over two years.
Rosie
Rosie had been a prostitute but she was now too old for a protector to use and she had effectively been dumped. With two young children, she had no support from their father. When she needed extra cash, she returned to the streets but without the protection, she was quickly taken out. When I saw her prior to release she was full of how she wasn’t ever going to do it again. Three months later she was in a group of new admissions passing my office/cell door. She saw me and said, “I’m sorry, Mr Ferguson! I didn’t want to but I had no money for the baby’s nappy wash.”
Elsie
Because mental ill health was so common, the wing doctor was always busy and we often discussed how we might deal with a particular inmate. Probably, the most damaged woman there was Elsie. When the officer opened her cell in the morning she would quickly step back as inevitably the contents of her pot would fly through the door. Plumbing in the cells was yet to be developed and slopping out was still a morning activity, but fortunately only Elsie did so this way. She rarely spoke to anyone and when she did come out of her cell she was carefully avoided by everyone. They were all grateful when she was transferred to the hospital wing.
Sally and the Chaplain
The prison Chaplain was another contact that I spoke with in some cases and he was instrumental in getting special visits especially when there was bad news from home but on this occasion, we dealt with a young woman with some lateral thinking.
In this case, Sally had vivid dreams of a dark woman threatening her every night; she even had a mark on her neck which did look like a knife mark when she woke screaming in the night. There was no knife in her cell. The Chaplain agreed to pray over her and the effect was quite dramatic as she slept well every night until her discharge and had no more evil dreams. It seems that unorthodox methods may not be a cure but they can modify the symptoms.
Myra Hindley
It is always amusing to see how people react when I say I was in Holloway Prison and even now I will be asked if I knew Myra Hindley. The answer is yes, she was in the prison while I was there but I had nothing to do with her care.
I was there when she was being considered for parole and the governor took her for a walk outside. It was not unusual to do this for long-term prisoners as they had lost the concept of traffic. One of the staff very unkindly notified the Daily Mail and this resulted in the vilification of the governor.
Right or wrong, the press coverage was vile and totally unjustified. The refusal of parole that followed led directly to a botched attempt to escape and she did for a very short spell come to F wing.
I gathered from those who did know her that she was very manipulative and this was shown in her ‘escape’ bid as she was aided by a released prisoner and a prison officer.
Eve
Eve was on a life sentence having killed someone in a pub fight when she was seventeen. She was still illiterate after being in the prison for twelve years. She had been released on parole but soon found she could not cope with the world and so began drinking again. She once again got into a fight, though nobody was harmed this time, but it was a breach of her parole and she was now back in prison, technically for the rest of her life.
Mary
The education department worked well on long-term wings as they had tried to do with Eve but with such short sentences it was impossible to help the great number, who were unable to read. It must be even more difficult now as the number of prisoners without English as their first language has grown considerably.
Mary was a long time visitor to Holloway as was her husband to Wormwood Scrubs. All their offending was alcohol fuelled. Neither of them was able to read so when she was due for discharge to meet him at Kings Cross Station, I was asked to escort her there to ensure they met.
It was only a bus journey of about two miles but I was very conscious of passing at least half a dozen billboard adverts for alcohol. Even I felt thirsty by the time we got there. Needless to say, they met by the bar at the station. At least they both had their tickets home.
Keep My Cell for Me
Alcohol was a major factor in the short-term prisoners though in prison they seemed to be very content. Some of them were such frequent visitors that they would have their own cell even asking the staff to keep their place. For them, prison was freedom and society a prison. As an example of them I have selected two to reflect the world in which they lived.
Alcoholic
The old woman on the down escalator at 9 o’clock in the morning ,swearing and cursing so much that everyone was keeping as far away from her as possible. Could this harridan really be the mild Olive that I had wished well to, just yesterday, “That’s all right luv, just keep my cell warm for me while I’m out.”
Olive had been bombed during the war and given a drink of whisky to help her nerves. Her husband had already been killed and she was on her own. The kind soul who had given her that helpful drink could hardly have realised she would twenty-five years later, be totally dependent except when she was in prison. Then she was the quiet soul grateful for the peace and security of her cell.
The same applied to others, like Geraldine. She had owned a small hotel with her husband. Her drinking had led to the loss of the business, separation and homelessness.
Serious illness followed and life in hostels and refuge centres and the street where of course she was arrested.
Prison was the only place that kept her alive. Not surprisingly, she was a very depressed lady and dreaded her release. So many of the alcoholics found their freedom and happiness in prison and hell was in the community.
At the Door
It was not unusual to be told horrific stories the night before discharge by people who may not ever see you again and very often abuse was at the root of the story. It is difficult to realise how so many become dependent on the abuser, just as prostitutes become dependent on their ponce, or how the abuse can be seen as a perverted sign of love. ‘He wouldn’t hit me unless he loved me’ was something I heard more than once.
Yvonne was so quiet and well behaved that she was leaving almost before I knew she was there, so it was at her discharge interview that she told her story of how she had been abused by her father and then by her brothers who then used her by hiring her out to their friends.
One of the friends then took her under his protection and she was going back to him because although she was still prostituting for him, he was protecting her and she felt that he cared about her. Then, she was gone, effectively making me powerless to do anything about it. She was not the only young woman that I would meet there whose sexual experiences had begun in the home.
Miriam
Miriam was in prison for two weeks following a drunk and disorderly charge. A large shambling woman in her fifties, she had a very large family all of whom were grown up and away from home. She was now on her own as her husband had left her some time ago.
She actually seemed incoherent while she was at the prison and the Wing doctor was greatly worried by her appearance but with only two weeks he was unable to do anything.
As he expected, she returned three months later even more incoherent and shambling. His findings were quickly checked and his reference to the local doctor was for her to be referred for Huntingdon’s Chorea, a rare and untreatable condition which always ends in death.
Even more awful, was that it is an inherited condition which she would have passed on to about half of her children. It is marked by people becoming less able to walk or talk normally and to be more irritable. Her illness gave all the same signs as being drunk and disorderly.
At least, she could now be treated in the community for her condition though h
er life expectancy was not long.
Tea at Lyons Corner House
Grace was a bit different to the other alcoholics. Married to a wealthy businessman, she had to lead an active social life. Drinking was part of that life. When he died suddenly, it became her solace but it also became an embarrassment for his family. They arranged for her to return to Kensington, which is where she had come from, and paid the rent on a pleasant flat, with a small income to sustain her. It was never enough to sustain her alcohol costs and by the end of the first week she would be found lying in the street and prison became her main home.
I saw her on one occasion in a Lyons Coffee House in Chelsea sitting in a corner with a cup of tea. I asked one of the staff if she came there often.
“Yes,” they said, “She comes here in the mornings and only ever has one cup of tea, but she goes away every now and then.” That was true. I bought her another cup of tea. She thanked me but I doubt if she recognised me.
I knew that she tended to come in for longer spells especially just before Christmas. I was told that she caused criminal damage and assaulted the police by throwing an empty bottle through the biggest window she could find, then running away towards the policeman, hitting him to make sure she would get long enough in prison for Christmas!
The Electric Fire
Rose and her husband were both drinkers but he would become violent and attack her, which just made her drink more. She began to receive treatment for her alcoholism and slowly made improvements. Her own anger began to express itself and she began to despise her husband for his behaviour. Everybody in the pub heard her say she would kill him if he ever hit her again.
Behind the Crime Page 3