When I leave them to continue my walkabout, I observe that we are penned in at both ends of the room by a floor-to-ceiling steel-mesh sheet. Everyone nods and smiles as I pass, and some prisoners stop me and want to talk about their upcoming trials, while others who are sending out cards need to know how to spell Christine or Suzanne. Most of them are friendly and address me as Lord Jeff, yet another first. I try to look cheerful. When I remember that if my appeal fails the minimum time I will have to serve is two years, I can’t imagine how anyone with a life sentence can possibly cope.
‘It’s just a way of life,’ says Jack, a forty-eight-year-old who has spent the last twenty-two years in and out of different prisons. ‘My problem,’ he adds, ‘is I’m no longer qualified to do anything when I get out.’
The last person who told me that was a Conservative Member of Parliament a few days before the last election. He lost.
Jack invites me to visit his cell on the ground floor. I’m surprised to find three beds in a room not much larger than mine. I thought he was about to comment on how lucky I was to have a single cell, but no, he simply indicates a large drawing attached to the wall.
‘What do you think that is, Jeff?’ he demands.
‘No idea,’ I reply. ‘Does it tell you how many days, months or years you still have to go before you’re released?’
‘No,’ Jack responds. He then points below the washbasin where a small army of ants are congregating. I’m a bit slow and still haven’t put two and two together. ‘Each night,’ Jack goes on to explain, ‘the three of us organize ant races, and that’s the track. A sort of ants’ Ascot,’ he adds with a laugh.
‘But what’s the stake?’ I enquire, aware that no one is allowed to have any money inside a prison.
‘On Saturday night, the one who’s won the most races during the week gets to choose which bed they’ll sleep in for the next seven days.’
I stare at the three beds. On one side of the room, up against the wall, is a single bed while on the other side are bunk beds.
‘Which does the winner choose?’
‘You’re fuckin’ * dumb, Jeff. The top one, of course; that way you’re farthest away from the ants, and can be sure of a night’s sleep.’
‘What do the ants get?’ I ask.
‘If they win, they stay alive until the next race.’
‘And if they lose?’
‘We put them into tomorrow’s soup.’ I think it was a joke.
Another bell sounds and the officers immediately corral us back into our cells and slam the doors shut. They will not be unlocked again until eight tomorrow morning.
A senior officer stops me as I am returning to my cell to tell me that the Governor wants a word. I follow him, but have to halt every few yards as he unlocks and locks countless iron-barred gates before I’m shown into a comfortable room with a sofa, two easy chairs and pictures on the wall.
Mr Peel, the Governor of Block Three, rises and shakes my hand before motioning me to an easy chair. He asks me how I am settling in. I assure him that the medical wing isn’t something I’d want to experience ever again. Block Three, I admit, although dreadful, is a slight improvement.
Mr Peel nods, as if he’s heard it all before. He then explains that there are five Governors at Belmarsh, and he’s the one responsible for arranging my visit to Grantchester to attend my mother’s funeral. He goes on to confirm that everything is in place, but I must be ready to leave at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m about to ask why seven o’clock when the service isn’t until eleven, and the journey to Grantchester usually takes about an hour, when he rises from his place and adds, ‘I’ll see you again just as soon as you’ve returned from Cambridge.’
Mr Peel says goodnight but doesn’t shake hands a second time. I leave his office and try to find the way back to my cell. As I’m unescorted, I lose my way. An officer quickly comes to my rescue and guides me back on the straight and narrow, obviously confident that I wasn’t trying to escape. I couldn’t find my way in, let alone out, I want to tell him.
9.00 pm
Once locked back up in my tiny room, I return to The Moon’s a Balloon and read about David Niven’s first experience of sex, and laugh, yes laugh, for the first time in days. At eleven, I turn off my light. Two West Indians on the same floor are shouting through their cell windows, but I can neither follow nor understand what they are saying.* They go on hollering at each other like a married couple who ought to get divorced.
I have no idea what time it was when I fell asleep.
Day 3
Saturday 21 July 2001
4.07 am
I wake a few minutes after four, but as I am not due to be picked up until seven I decide to write for a couple of hours. I find I’m writing more slowly now that there are so few distractions in my life.
6.00 am
An officer unlocks my cell door and introduces himself as George. He asks me if I would like to have a shower. My towel has been hanging over the end of my bed all night and is still damp, but at least they’ve supplied me with a Bic razor so that I can set about getting rid of two days’ growth. I consider cutting my throat, but the thought of failure and the idea of having to return to the hospital wing is enough to put anyone off. The experience of that medical wing must deter most prisoners from harming themselves, because it’s not the easy option. If you are sent back to the top floor you’d better be ill, or you will be by the time they’ve finished with you.
I go off to have my shower. I’m getting quite good at anticipating when to press the button so that the flow of water doesn’t stop.
7.00 am
‘Are you ready?’ George asks politely.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘except that my black tie has been confiscated along with my cufflinks.’
George’s fellow officer hands me a black tie, and a pair of cufflinks materialize. I can only assume that they had anticipated my problem. I point out to George that his black tie is smarter than mine.
‘Possibly, but mine’s a clip-on,’ he says, ‘otherwise I’d happily lend it to you.’
‘A clip-on?’ I repeat in mock disdain.
‘Prison regulations,’ he explains. ‘No officer ever wears a tie as it puts him at risk of being strangled.’
I learn something new every few minutes.
The two of them escort me to the front hall, but not before we’ve passed through seven double-bolted floor-to-ceiling barred gates. When we reach the reception area, I am once again strip-searched. The officers carry out this exercise as humanely as possible, though it’s still humiliating.
I am then taken out into the yard to find a white Transit van awaiting me. Once inside, I’m asked to sit in the seat farthest from the door. George sits next to the door, while his colleague slips into the spare seat directly behind him. The tiny windows are covered with bars and blacked out; I can see out, though no one can see in. I tell George that the press are going to be very frustrated.
‘There were a lot of them hanging round earlier this morning waiting for you,’ he tells me, ‘but a high-security van left about an hour ago at full speed and they all chased after it. They’ll be halfway to Nottingham before they realize you’re not inside.’
The electric gates slide open once again, this time to let me out. I know the journey to Cambridge like the clichéd ‘back of my hand’ because I’ve made it once, sometimes twice, a week for the past twenty years. But this time I am taken on a route that I never knew existed, and presume it can only be for security reasons. I once remember John Major’s driver telling me that he knew twenty-two different routes from Chequers to No. 10, and another twenty back to Huntingdon, and none of them was the most direct.
I find it a little stifling in the back of the van. There is no contact with the driver in the front, or the policeman sitting beside him, because they are sealed off, almost as if they’re in a separate vehicle. I sense that George and his colleague are a little nervous – I can’t imagine why, because I have no
intention of trying to escape, as I abhor any form of violence. I learn later they are nervous because should anything go wrong they’ll be blamed for it – and something does go wrong.
When we reach the M11, the van remains at a steady fifty on the inside lane, and I begin to feel sick cooped up in that armour-plated compartment on wheels. Our first destination is the Cambridge Crematorium, which is situated on the north side of the city, so when we come off the motorway at exit thirteen, I’m surprised to find that the driver turns left, and starts going in the wrong direction. We travel for a couple of miles towards Royston, before pulling into a large car park attached to the Siemens Building.
George explains that Siemens is where they have agreed to liaise with the local police before travelling on to the crematorium. One enterprising black-leather-clad motorcyclist (journalist) who spotted the van coming off the roundabout at exit thirteen has followed us to the Siemens Building. He skids to a halt, and immediately taps out some numbers on his mobile phone. The policeman seated in the front makes it clear that he wants to be on the move before any of the biker’s colleagues join him. But as we have to wait for the local police before we can proceed, we’re stuck.
It is of course unusual to have a cremation before the church service, but the crematorium was free at 10 am and the church not until midday. The following day the press come up with a dozen reasons as to why the funeral had been conducted in this order – from the police demanding it, through to me wanting to fool them. Not one of them published the correct reason.
Within minutes, the police escort arrives and we are on our way.
When we drive into the crematorium, there are over a hundred journalists and photographers waiting for us behind a barrier that has been erected by the police. They must have been disappointed to see the white van disappear behind the back of the building, where they slipped me in through the entrance usually reserved for the clergy.
Peter Walker, an old friend and the former Bishop of Ely, is waiting to greet us. He guides me through to a little room, where he will put on his robes and I will change into a new suit, which my son William is bringing over from the Old Vicarage. I will be only too happy to be rid of the clothes I’ve been wearing for the past few days. The smell of prison is a perfume that even Nicole Kidman couldn’t make fashionable.
The Bishop takes me through the cremation service, which, he says, will only last for about fifteen minutes. He confirms that the main funeral service will be conducted in the Parish Church of St Andrew and St Mary in Grantchester at twelve o’clock.
A few minutes later, my immediate family arrive via the front door and have to face the clicking cameras and the shouted questions. Mary is wearing an elegant black dress with a simple brooch that my mother left her in her will. She is ashen-faced, which was my last memory of her before I left the dock. I begin to accept that this terrible ordeal may be even more taxing for my family who are trying so hard to carry on their daily lives while not letting the world know how they really feel.
When Mary comes through to join me in the back, I hold on to her for some time. I then change into my new suit, and go through to the chapel and join the rest of the family. I greet each one of them before taking my place in the front row, seated between William and Mary. I try hard to concentrate on the fact that we are all gathered together in memory of my mother, Lola, but it’s hard to forget I’m a convict, who in a few hours’ time will be back in prison.
10.30 am
The Bishop conducts the service with calm and quiet dignity, and when the curtains are finally drawn around my mother’s coffin, Mary and I walk forward and place a posy of heather next to the wreath.
Mary leaves by the front door, while I return to the back room where I am greeted by another old friend. The two prison officers are surprised when Inspector Howell from the local constabulary says, ‘Hello, Jeffrey, sorry to see you in these circumstances.’
I explain to them that when I was Chairman of Cambridge Rugby Club, David was the 1st XV skipper, and the best scrum-half in the county.
‘How do you want to play it?’ I ask.
David checks his watch. ‘The service at Grantchester isn’t for another hour, so I suggest we park up at Cantalupe Farm, and wait at the Old Vicarage, until it’s time to leave for the church.’
I glance at George to see if this meets with his approval. ‘I’m happy to fall in with whatever the local constabulary advise,’ he says.
I’m then driven away to Cantalupe Farm in my armoured van, where the owner, Antony Pemberton, has kindly allowed us to park. Mary and the boys travel separately in the family car. We then all make our way by foot over to the Old Vicarage accompanied by only a couple of photographers as the rest of the press are massed outside St Andrew’s; they have all assumed that we would be travelling directly to the parish church.
We all wait around in the kitchen for a few moments, while Mary Anne, our housekeeper, makes some tea, pours a large glass of milk and cuts me a slice of chocolate cake. I then ask George if I might be allowed to walk around the garden.
The Old Vicarage at Grantchester (circa 1680) was, at the beginning of the last century, the home of Rupert Brooke. The beautiful garden has been tended for the past fifteen years by my wife and Rachael, the gardener. Between them they’ve turned it from a jungle into a haven. The trees and flowerbeds are exquisite and the walks to and from the river quite magnificent. George and his colleague, though never more than a few paces away, remain out of earshot, so Mary and I are able to discuss my appeal. She reveals an amazing piece of new evidence concerning Mr Justice Potts that, if substantiated, could cause there to be a retrial.
Mary then goes over the mistakes she thinks the judge made during the trial. She is convinced that the appeal judges will at least reduce my four-year sentence.
‘You don’t seem pleased,’ she adds as we walk along the bank of the River Cam.
‘For the first time in my life,’ I tell her, ‘I assume the worst, so that if anything good happens, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.’ I’ve become a pessimist overnight.
We return from the river bank, walk back towards the house and over a wooden bridge that spans Lake Oscar – in reality it’s a large pond full of koi carp, named after one of my wife’s favourite cats, who after five years of purring and pawing at the water’s edge failed to catch a single fish. After feeding our Japanese and Israeli immigrants, we return to the house and prepare ourselves to face the press.
David Howell says that he doesn’t want me driven to the church in a police car and suggests that I accompany Mary and the family on foot for the four-hundred-yard walk from the Old Vicarage to the parish church. The police and the prison officers were doing everything in their power to remember that the occasion is my mother’s funeral.
11.35 am
We leave by the front door, to find a crowd of journalists, photographers and cameramen waiting outside the gates. I estimate their number to be about a hundred (George later tells the Governor over his mobile phone that it’s nearer two hundred). My younger son, James, and his girlfriend Talita, lead the little party on the quarter-mile journey to the church. They are followed by William and my adopted sister, Liz, with Mary and myself bringing up the rear. The cameramen literally fall over each other as they try to get their shots while we make our way slowly up to the parish church. One ill-mannered lout shouts questions at us, so I turn and talk to Mary. He only gives up when he realizes none of us is going to grace him with a reply. I find myself feeling bitter for the first time in my life.
When we reach the church door I am greeted by my cousin Peter, who is handing out copies of the Order of Service, while his wife Pat guides us to a pew in the front row. I’m touched by how many of my mother’s friends have travelled from all over the world to attend the little service – from America, Canada and even Australia – not to mention many friends from the West Country where she spent most of her life.
The Order of Service has been selected b
y Mary and reveals so much about the thought and preparation my wife puts into everything. She must have taken hours selecting the prayers, hymns, readings and music, and she hits just the right note. Bishop Walker once again officiates, and my stepbrother, David Watson, gives a moving address in which he recalls my mother’s boundless energy, love of learning and wicked sense of humour.
I read the final lesson, Revelation XXI, verses 1–7, and as I face the congregation, wonder if I’ll manage to get the words out. I’m relieved to discover that I don’t have to spend those final moments with my mother accompanied by the press, as they at least have had the courtesy to remain outside.
The service lasts for fifty minutes, and is about the only time that day when I can concentrate on my mother and her memory. Not for the first time am I thankful that she didn’t live to see me convicted, and my thoughts turn to the sacrifices she made to ensure I had a decent education, and was given as good a start as possible, remembering that my father died leaving debts of around five hundred pounds, and mother had to go out to work to make ends meet. I tried in the later years to make life a little easier for her, but I was never able to repay her properly.
The service ends with ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, and Mary and I follow the Bishop and the choir down the aisle. When we reach the vestry, George immediately joins us. A member of the press has called Belmarsh to ask why I was allowed to return to the Old Vicarage.
‘You’ll have to say your goodbyes here, I’m afraid,’ he tells us. ‘The Governor has phoned to say you can’t go back to the house.’ I spend the next few minutes shaking hands with everyone who has attended the service and am particularly touched by the presence of Donald and Diana Sinden, who my mother adored.
After thanking the Bishop, my family join me as we begin the long slow walk back to the prison van parked at Cantalupe Farm. I glance to my left as we pass the Old Vicarage. This time the press become even more frantic. They begin to holler out their questions like a repeater gun.