ask Vincent if he has a tin opener. He points to an
opener attached to the wall on the far side of the room, ‘But you’re not
allowed to open anything before you’ve collected your grub.’ I notice that he’s
holding a tin of Shipham’s Spam.
‘I’ll swap you
half my tin of fruit for half your Spam.’
‘Agreed,’ he
says. ‘I’ll bring it up to your cell as soon as I’ve collected my meal.’
Once again I
can’t find anything at the hotplate that looks even vaguely edible, and settle
for a couple of potatoes.
‘You ought to
go for the vegetarian option,’ says a voice.
I look round to
see Pat. ‘Mary won’t be pleased when she finds out you’re not eating, and let’s
face it, the vegetarian option is one of the few things they can’t make a
complete mess of.’ I take Pat’s advice and select a vegetable fritter. As we
pass the end of the counter, another plastic bag containing tomorrow’s
breakfast is handed to me. ‘By the way,’ says Pat pointing to the man who has
just served me, ‘that’s Peter the press, he’ll wash and iron that shirt for
you.’
‘Thank you,
Pat,’ I say, and turning back to Peter add , ‘My
children are coming to visit tomorrow and I want to look my best for them.’
‘I’ll make you
look as if you’ve just stepped out of Savile Row,’
Peter says. ‘I’ll stop by your cell and pick up the shirt once I’ve finished
serving breakfast.’
I move on and
collect a Thermos flask of hot water from another prisoner, half for a Cup a Soup,
half for shaving. As I climb the yellow iron steps back to Cell 29 on the
second floor, I overhear Mark, the Arsenal supporter, having a word with Mr Tuck, the officer on duty. He’s pointing out, very
courteously, that there are no ethnic representatives among those selected to
be Listeners, tea-boys or servers behind the hotplate, despite the fact that
they make up over 50 per cent of the prison population. Mr Tuck, who strikes me as a fair man, nods his agreement, and says he’ll have a
word with the Governor. Whether he did or not, I have no way
of knowing.*
When I arrive
back on the second floor Vincent is already waiting for me. I pour half my
fruit into his bowl, while he cuts his Spam into two, forking over the larger
portion, which I place on the plate next to my vegetable fritter and two
potatoes. He also gives me a white T-shirt, which I’m wearing as I write these
words.
The cell doors
are left open for about ten minutes during which time Peter the press arrives
and takes away my dirty white shirt, a pair of pants and socks. ‘I’ll have them
back to you first thing tomorrow, squire,’ he promises, and is gone before I
can thank him and ask what he would like in return.
My final
visitor for the day is Kevin, my Listener, who tells me there’s a rumour that I’m going to be moved to Block One tomorrow,
where the regime is a little bit more relaxed and not quite as noisy. I’m sorry
to learn this as I’m beginning to make a few friends – Kevin, James, Pat,
Vincent, Peter and Mark – and am starting to get the hang of how Block Three
works. Kevin sits on the end of the bed and chats as James had warned me he
would; but I welcome the company, not to mention the fact
that while a Listener is in the room, the door has to be left open.
Kevin had a
visit this afternoon from his wife and children. He tells me his fourteenyear -old is now taller
than he is, and his nine-year-old can’t understand why he doesn’t come home at
night.
Mr Gilford, the duty officer, hovers at my cell door, a
hint that even though Kevin is a Listener, it’s perhaps time for him to move
on. I ask Mr Gilford if I can empty the remains of my
meal in the dustbin at the end of the landing – only one bite taken from the
fritter. He nods. The moment I return, the cell door is slammed shut.
I sit on the
end of the bed and begin to go through my letters. Just over a hundred in the
first post, and not one of them condemning me.
opener attached to the wall on the far side of the room, ‘But you’re not
allowed to open anything before you’ve collected your grub.’ I notice that he’s
holding a tin of Shipham’s Spam.
‘I’ll swap you
half my tin of fruit for half your Spam.’
‘Agreed,’ he
says. ‘I’ll bring it up to your cell as soon as I’ve collected my meal.’
Once again I
can’t find anything at the hotplate that looks even vaguely edible, and settle
for a couple of potatoes.
‘You ought to
go for the vegetarian option,’ says a voice.
I look round to
see Pat. ‘Mary won’t be pleased when she finds out you’re not eating, and let’s
face it, the vegetarian option is one of the few things they can’t make a
complete mess of.’ I take Pat’s advice and select a vegetable fritter. As we
pass the end of the counter, another plastic bag containing tomorrow’s
breakfast is handed to me. ‘By the way,’ says Pat pointing to the man who has
just served me, ‘that’s Peter the press, he’ll wash and iron that shirt for
you.’
‘Thank you,
Pat,’ I say, and turning back to Peter add , ‘My
children are coming to visit tomorrow and I want to look my best for them.’
‘I’ll make you
look as if you’ve just stepped out of Savile Row,’
Peter says. ‘I’ll stop by your cell and pick up the shirt once I’ve finished
serving breakfast.’
I move on and
collect a Thermos flask of hot water from another prisoner, half for a Cup a Soup,
half for shaving. As I climb the yellow iron steps back to Cell 29 on the
second floor, I overhear Mark, the Arsenal supporter, having a word with Mr Tuck, the officer on duty. He’s pointing out, very
courteously, that there are no ethnic representatives among those selected to
be Listeners, tea-boys or servers behind the hotplate, despite the fact that
they make up over 50 per cent of the prison population. Mr Tuck, who strikes me as a fair man, nods his agreement, and says he’ll have a
word with the Governor. Whether he did or not, I have no way
of knowing.*
When I arrive
back on the second floor Vincent is already waiting for me. I pour half my
fruit into his bowl, while he cuts his Spam into two, forking over the larger
portion, which I place on the plate next to my vegetable fritter and two
potatoes. He also gives me a white T-shirt, which I’m wearing as I write these
words.
The cell doors
are left open for about ten minutes during which time Peter the press arrives
and takes away my dirty white shirt, a pair of pants and socks. ‘I’ll have them
back to you first thing tomorrow, squire,’ he promises, and is gone before I
can thank him and ask what he would like in return.
My final
visitor for the day is Kevin, my Listener, who tells me there’s a rumour that I’m going to be moved to Block One tomorrow,
where the regime is a little bit more relaxed and not quite as noisy. I’m sorry
to learn this as I’m beginning to make a few friends – Kevin, James, Pat,
Vincent, Peter and Mark – and am starting to get the hang of how Block Three
works. Kevin sits on the end of the bed and chats as James had warned me he
would; but I welcome the company, not to mention the fact
that while a Listener is in the room, the door has to be left open.
Kevin had a
visit this afternoon from his wife and children. He tells me his fourteenyear -old is now taller
than he is, and his nine-year-old can’t understand why he doesn’t come home at
night.
Mr Gilford, the duty officer, hovers at my cell door, a
hint that even though Kevin is a Listener, it’s perhaps time for him to move
on. I ask Mr Gilford if I can empty the remains of my
meal in the dustbin at the end of the landing – only one bite taken from the
fritter. He nods. The moment I return, the cell door is slammed shut.
I sit on the
end of the bed and begin to go through my letters. Just over a hundred in the
first post, and not one of them condemning me.
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