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Connie half-expected the end credits ofEastendersto start rolling.Duff… duff…
But then her mum jumped up and yelled, ‘I’ve found them!’
All eyes turned to Doris.
‘My keys! I found my keys. They were here all along!’ She waved her handbag about and then sat back down, seemingly relieved.
And this was Connie’s life post-Kenneth.
Chapter Three
Monday, 1stApril
When Matt Hardy had applied for his regular monthly visiting order, he hadn’t clocked the date. It was only as he exited the 77 bus onto the Earlsfield Road that he realised he was visiting his dad in prison on April Fool’s Day. How ironic was that?
Not that his dad being in jail was a joke, far from it. But that was the consequence of committing manslaughter – the state frowned upon such behaviour and locked you up. They were funny like that.
Matt reached the visitors’ centre and queued along with everyone else waiting to visit inmates. Some people he recognised, some he didn’t. It wasn’t the kind of place where you made friends. People kept to themselves. He’d learnt the hard way that not everyone who visited the prison was a fan of the justice system. He’d once become embroiled in an unpleasant conversation with an outraged father, whose son had been banged up ‘unfairly’. It didn’t matter that the boy had robbed a post office and was caught driving with no licence, he was a ‘good son’ and the government were ‘corrupt bastards’ who’d used him as a ‘scapegoat’. An attitude that didn’t bode well for the kid’s future once he was released, Matt felt.
Matt believed strongly that people should be held accountable for their actions, his dad included. People had to learn from their mistakes and pay the price, and with any luck, be rehabilitated back into society. A view he’d struggled to hold on to when confronted by the realities of prison life.
It wasn’t exactly a nurturing place. More like survival of the fittest. By the time you left, you were either a quivering wreck or a hardened thug. Neither of which was overly conducive to rehabilitation back into the community.
He reached the front of the queue and held his arms open, ready to endure the indignation of being frisked, scanned with a metal detector and having a springer spaniel sniff around his crotch.
Having passed the security check, he showed the guard his visiting order, produced ID and was waved through to the lockers. No phones were allowed inside the prison, so his personal items were locked away for the duration of the visit.
It was a short walk to the main gate. A familiar sight, as depicted in the opening credits of the TV showPorridge. Sadly, his dad was no Ronnie Barker. More Ronnie Biggs.
HMP Wandsworth was a large, depressing grey-brick Victorian building with an imposing gated entrance. He remembered his first visit and how shit-scared he’d been, but he’d only been twenty-two at the time. Was it any wonder he’d freaked out?
That was ten years ago. A decade of monthly visits had dulled his fear, along with the humiliation of having a father in prison. What hadn’t abated was the sadness of the situation – such an utter waste of a life – and the devastating impact it had had on his entire family.
But he was no longer angry. It was impossible to stay mad at someone for ten years. Not that he’d ever be okay with it, especially as his dad had never seemed that remorseful. In his dad’s eyes, it had been ‘bad luck’. An argument with another taxi driver that had escalated, resulting in a fight, and ending with the other taxi driver’s accidental death and his dad being charged with manslaughter.
In Matt’s view, it was an inevitable consequence of having a short temper and a thirst for alcohol. Nothing to do with ‘bad luck’. Just bad behaviour.
Matt reached the large visiting room and waited to be escorted to his allocated seat.
The space was filled with low tables and plastic blue-and-yellow chairs. A balcony ran the circumference of the room, allowing the guards a bird’s-eye view of the people below.
Finally, he was taken to the table where his dad was seated.
Pete Hardy stood up and opened his arms, waiting for his permitted hug. ‘My boy!’
Matt hugged his dad, who smelt of tobacco and washing detergent. His pale blue sweatshirt was worn and soft to the touch. He could feel his dad’s protruding belly and the scratch of his beard against his cheek. ‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Good to see you!’ His dad slapped him manfully on the back, before sitting down.
Matt sat opposite. No further contact was allowed until the end of the visit – prison rules.
Happy that correct protocols had been followed, the guard stepped away and left them to it.
His dad was smiling, his teeth stained from smoking. ‘So, how have you been?’
At fifty-seven, his dad looked older than his years. His hair was snow-white, collar-length and brushed away from his face. His chin sported an equally white bushy beard. He looked like Father Christmas… or rather, the wayward younger brother of Father Christmas. The one who’d shunned the family business and turned to a life of crime – breaking into houses to steal the kids’ presents rather than leaving them under the tree.
Matt shrugged. ‘Good, thanks. Busy.’
