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THURSDAY 15 NOVEMBER 2001
5.21 am
I’m up early because I have to report to the hospital by 7.30 am to take over my new responsibilities as Doug’s stand-in, while he goes off on a three-day forklift truck-driving course. How this will help a man of fifty-three who runs his own haulage company with a two million pound turnover is beyond me. He doesn’t seem to care about the irrelevance of it all, as long as he gets out of prison for three days.
I write for two hours.
7.30 am
I report to Linda at the hospital, and witness the morning sick parade. A score of prisoners are lined up to collect their medication, or to see if they can get off work for the day. If it’s raining or freezing cold, the length of the queue doubles. Most farm workers would rather spend the day in the warm watching TV than picking Brussels sprouts or cleaning out the pigsties. Linda describes them as malingerers, and claims she can spot them at thirty paces. If I worked on the farm I might well join them.
Bill (fraud, farm worker) has had every disease, affliction and germ that’s known to man. Today he’s got diarrhoea and asks Linda for the day off work. He feels sure he’ll be fine by tomorrow.
‘Certainly,’ says Linda, giving him her warmest smile. Bill smiles back in response. ‘But,’ she adds, ‘I’m going to have to put you in the san [sanatorium] for the day.’
‘Why?’ asks Bill, looking surprised.
‘I’ll need to take a sample every thirty minutes,’ she explains, ‘before I can decide what medication to prescribe.’ Bill reluctantly goes into the hospital, lies on one of the beds and looks hopefully in the direction of the television screen. ‘Not a chance,’ Linda tells him.
Once Linda has sorted out the genuinely ill from the trying-it-on brigade, I’m handed four lists of those she has sanctioned to be off work for the day. I deliver a copy to the south block unit office, the farm office, the north block, the gatehouse amd education before going to breakfast.
8.30 am
It’s Matthew’s last day at NSC and he’s on the paper chase. He takes a double-sided printed form from department to department, the hospital, gym, canteen, stores and reception, to gather signatures authorizing his release tomorrow. He starts with Mr Simpson, the probation officer at SMU, and will end with the principal officer Mr New. He will then have to hand in this sheet of paper at reception tomorrow morning before he can finally be released. It’s not unknown for a prisoner’s release paper to disappear overnight, which can hold up an inmate’s departure for several hours.
I’ll miss Matthew, who, at the age of twenty-four, will be returning to university to complete his PhD. He’s taught me a great deal during the past five weeks. I’ve met over a thousand prisoners since I’ve been in jail, and he is one of a handful who I believe should never have been sent to prison. I wish him luck in the future; he’s a fine young man.
12 noon
I drop into the hospital to see if sister needs me.
‘Not at the moment,’ says Linda, ‘but as we’re expecting seventeen new arrivals this afternoon, please come back around four, or when you see the sweat box driving through the front gate.’
‘How’s Bill?’ I enquire.
‘He lasted about forty minutes,’ she replies dryly, ‘but sadly failed to produce a specimen. I sent him back to the farm, but of course told him to return immediately should the problem arise again.’
2.00 pm
On returning to SMU I find a prisoner sitting in the waiting room, visibly shaking. His name is Moore. He tells me that he’s been called off work for a meeting with two police officers who are travelling down from Derbyshire to interview him. He’s completed seventeen months of a five-year sentence, and is anxious to know why they want to see him.
2.30 pm
The police haven’t turned up. I go to check on Moore — to find he’s a gibbering wreck.
2.53 pm
The two Derbyshire police officers arrive. They greet me with a smile and don’t look at all ferocious. I take them up to an interview room on the first floor and offer them a cup of tea, using the opportunity to tell them that Moore is in a bit of a state. They assure me that it’s only a routine enquiry, and he has nothing to be anxious about. I return downstairs and pass on this message; the shaking stops.
3.26 pm
Moore departs with a smile and a wave; I’ve never seen a more relieved man.
4.00 pm
The seventeen new prisoners arrive in a sweat box via Birmingham and Nottingham. I report to the hospital to check their blood pressure and note their weight and height. It’s not easy to carry out my new responsibilities while all seventeen of them talk at once. What jobs are there? How much are you paid? Can I go to the canteen tonight? What time are roll-calls? Which is the best block? Can I make a phone call?
7.00 pm
