Heaven: A Prison Diary (10 page)

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.

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.

A fax has just
been received from Spring Hill, requesting my latest sentence plan, which
cannot be updated until I’ve served twentyeight 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.

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.’

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I write for two
hours.

Lunch.
I’m on time.

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.’

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.