Heaven (A Prison Diary 3)

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

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.