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You never get used to waking up in prison. If you let it get to you, you’d get up every day as angry as a baboon’s arse. The noise is bad enough. We were given carpet-tiles a few years ago; part of a ‘major government initiative’ to improve conditions. But this does little to reduce the clang, scrape and clunk of door after door as prisoners are let out for breakfast, roll-call, dinner, roll-call, tea, association then perhaps another roll-call. In some universities they have adopted the American system where every door is simultaneously released electronically: it’s all over with in one go.
You’d think we’d be glad to get out of a cell wouldn’t you? Well, there’s the dichotomy; most lags would rather stay in their peter until they are good and ready to come out. Those in any kind of hurry to start the day are either new inmates or complete head cases. Inmates: there’s a term to conjure with. You have no mates inside. You might think you do: some people build up ‘long–term friendships’. “We’ll be mates forever”, they say, “We’ll see each other through,” they say, “When I get out I’ll look after your missus,” they say - and they invariably do, at least once! If you’re an old lag like me you know you’ve got no mates inside. You learn to keep your head down, avoid arguments, live inside your head, take every task at a leisurely pace. You never rock the boat, you always treat the cooks with respect and you don’t let waking up get to you.
This particular morning was essentially no different to any other. I got up and went about my usual routine. But it wasn’t just any other day. It was a Saturday morning and for the first time since I had been in Lewes I had a letter in my pocket.
I hadn’t carried a letter around with me since I was sixteen and that had been a letter from my mother as well. I carried that letter with me every day for over six months. I rarely looked at it but it was a comfort to me. It was a measure of the level of emotional trauma I was suffering that made me do it. I only recognised this retrospectively and I certainly recognised it now but it wouldn’t show. No one needed to know how Dave was feeling this morning and no one would. I knew that I’d probably tell Jonathan before long but I decided to bide my time. He was the only person I ever told about my other letter. A “comfort blanket”, he called it and he was right. “Nothing wrong with that,” he’d said, “if you need comfort and you’ve got a blanket use it,” so I did.
This was the letter I used to carry around:
Dear David,
How are you? Alright I hope. Where alright. Things carry on as per normal hear at 61. Abby has another boyfriend it seems serious this time but you know what she’s like. Sorry she hasn’t made it in to see you but she says she can’t face it. She sends her best. I’m sure one day things will be alright between you. Blood is thicker than water you know.
Anyway I’m alright except that I seem to get tired more now. Still I’m not as young as I use to be. I hope your alright.
I just want you to know that I’m always thinking of you. Your pictures still there on the sideboard and I clean it every day and say a few words to you. I know you think I’m daft but that’s mums isn’t it.
You know what you did was wrong. You know that and we all know that but I was proud of you in court for owning up. No matter what you’ve done you’ll always be my little boy. I can just hear you now saying oh yer oh yer but its true. I want you to know one thing. No matter what you did I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you and not just because you’re my son. You just keep your chin up you’ll be out sooner than you think. One day maybe we’ll all understand. One day you’ll understand David I promise you that!!!
I want you to know that your Dad was a good man son. We had ideals in the old days. We wanted to go up in the world. He always promised me the house on the hill and when he died he left a space that could never be filled. I just wanted you to know that he would have loved you as much as I do.
I hope they’re feeding you alright in there!!!!
Anyway must close now and get to the post. Abby sends her best. Keep your chin up you’ll be out sooner than you think!!!
Lots of love from mum xxx
I got that letter out again the day I heard mum had died. It made me cry more than the actual news of her death. I carried it in my pocket again for a while. It was easy to slip back into the habit and I felt like I was still in touch with her somehow. I took it with me that morning to the funeral. Roddy Thomas, the screw who accompanied me to the crematorium, lent me a black suit and tie. I don’t know whether it was his or one that they keep in the nick for such events but I was glad of it and in order to personalise it and make me feel as if I was contributing something I put mum’s letter in the top pocket; just poking out, a slice of white, like a posh pocket-handkerchief.