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‘Alison has had a list typed up,’ my younger son continues, ‘but they wouldn’t allow me to bring anything into the visits room, so I’ll have it posted on to you tomorrow.’
This news gives me such a lift, and makes me feel guilty that I had ever doubted my friends would stand by me.
I alert the two boys to the fact that I am writing a day-to-day diary, and will need to see my agent, Jonathan Lloyd, my publisher, Victoria Barnsley, and my editor
, Robert Lacey, fairly soon, but, as I am only allowed one personal visit every two weeks, I don’t want to see anyone other than the family until I’ve been moved to an open prison.
Will tells me that he’s already booked himself in for two weeks’ time, but hopes I will have been transferred to somewhere like Ford long before then. Because I’ve not been reading any newspapers or listening to the news, as I’m heartily sick of inaccurate stories about myself and what I’m up to at Belmarsh, Jamie brings me up to date on the battle for the Tory Party leadership. He reports that the polls clearly indicate that the people who deserted the Conservatives at the last election want Ken Clarke, while the party membership favours Iain Duncan Smith. I like and admire both men, though neither is a close friend. However, it doesn’t take a massive intellect to work out that if we hope to win the next election, or at least make a large enough dent in the government’s majority to ensure that opinion – formers believe we can win the following election, it might be wise to take some notice of the electorate’s views as to who should be our leader.
I consider dropping Ken a note, but realize it may not help his cause.
Will goes on to tell me that Michael Beloff QC, Gilbert Gray QC and Johnnie Nutting QC are in regular touch with my legal team. Gilly wondered if Potts’s animosity had been aimed at Nick Purnell, as it’s the talk of the Bar that he lost his temper with Nick on several occasions during the pre-trial and trial itself, but never once in front of the jury.
‘No,’ I tell them, ‘it was nothing to do with Nick. It was entirely personal.’
I’m momentarily distracted by an attractive young woman sitting directly in front of me in row B. A prisoner with his back to me is leaning across the table and kissing her. I remember being told by Kevin that this was the most common way of passing drugs. I watch more carefully and decide this is about sex, pure animal sex, and has nothing to do with drugs.
James tells me about the film he and Nod (Nadhim Zahawi, a Kurdish friend) enjoyed on Sunday evening, Rush Hour 2, which in normal circumstances I would have seen with them.
‘Don’t worry,’ he adds. ‘We’re keeping a list of all the films you would have enjoyed, so that you can eventually see them on video.’ I don’t like the sound of the word ‘eventually’.
I talk to Will about when he expects to return to America and continue with his work as a documentary cameraman. He tells me that he will remain in England while his mother is so unsettled and feels in such need of him. How lucky I am to be blessed with such a family.
An announcement is made over the tannoy to inform us that all visitors must now leave. Have we really had an hour together? All round the room a great deal of kissing commences before friends and family reluctantly depart. The prisoners have to remain in their places until the last visitor has been signed out and left the room. I spend my time glancing up and down the rows. The man whose kiss had been so overtly sexual now has his head bowed in his hands. I wonder just how long his sentence is, and what age he and his girlfriend will be by the time he’s released from prison.
When the last visitor has left, we all file back out of the room; once again my search is fairly cursory. I never discover what the other prisoners are put through, though. Del Boy tells me later that if they’ve picked up anything suspicious on the video camera, it’s a full strip-search, plus sniffer dogs.
On the way back to my cell, a Block Three prisoner tells me he will be going home next month, having completed his sentence. He adds that he had a visit from his wife who is sticking by him, but if he’s ever sentenced again, she’s made it clear that she’ll leave him.
I’m only a few yards from my cell door when Mr Weedon tells me that the education officer wants to see me. I turn round and he escorts me up to the middle floor.
The education officer is dressed in a smart brown suit. He stands up when I enter the room and shakes me by the hand.
‘My name’s Peter Farrell,’ he says. ‘I see you’ve put yourself down for education.’
‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘I was rather hoping it would give me a chance to use the library.’
‘Yes, it will,’ says Mr Farrell. ‘But I wonder if I could ask you to assist us with those prisoners who are learning to read and write, as I’m rather short-staffed at the moment?’
‘Of course,’ I reply.
‘You’ll get a pound an hour,’ he adds with a grin.
We talk for some time about the fact that there are a number of bright people among the prisoners, especially the lifers, some of whom would be quite capable of sitting for an Open University degree. ‘My biggest problem,’ he explains, ‘is that while the inmates can earn ten to twelve pounds a week in the workshops dropping teabags, jam and sugar into plastic containers, they only receive six pounds fifty a week if they sign up for education. So I often lose out on some potentially able students for the sake of tobacco money.’
My God, there are going to be some speeches I will have to make should I ever return to the House of Lords.
There is a knock on the door, and Mr Marsland, the senior officer, comes in to warn me that it’s almost time for my talk to the lifers on creative writing.
4.00 pm
The lecture is set up in one of the waiting rooms and is attended by twelve prisoners serving life sentences plus two officers to keep an eye on proceedings. There are two types of life sentence, mandatory and discretionary, but all that matters to a lifer is the tariff that has been set by the judge at their trial.
I begin my talk by telling the lifers that I didn’t take up writing until I was thirty-four, after leaving Parliament and facing bankruptcy; so I try to assure them that you can begin a new career at any age. Proust, I remind them, said we all end up doing the thing we’re second best at.
Once I’ve finished my short talk, the first two questions fired at me are about writing a novel, but I quickly discover that the other inmates mostly want to know how I feel about life behind bars and what changes I would make.
‘I’ve only been inside for eight days,’ I keep reminding them.
