Ever since i began my prison career, 20 years ago, I have tried to make as much use as possible of an ability acquired at school. From the age of 12, I have played the church organ. As organists (even in the real world) have become an endangered species, you can imagine how rare a breed we are within these lofty walls. I remember one occasion when, after demonstrating my skills on the manuals in a prison somewhere in middle England, the chaplain introduced me to his congregation as an emissary sent from God. Over the years I have played for the Anglicans, the Romans, the Methodists, the Baptists, the Pentecostals. I have pulled out the stops for carol services, memorial services, baptisms, confirmations, even a wedding-yes, you can still get married in prison: there was a teetotal reception afterwards.
On arrival at this place (which must remain nameless), I took myself along to the chapel as usual, where I offered my services to the beleaguered vicar. I had come at a most opportune time, he told me. Both Church of England and Roman Catholics had been labouring unaccompanied throughout the bleak winter months. They were glad to have me aboard. I have played for Saturday and Sunday morning services ever since.
The call to prayer is tannoyed through the prison at an unearthly hour on a Sunday mornings. Getting to the church on time involves a degree of effort and self-discipline, but I am aware of the responsibilities of my position and never let my Maker down. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoy playing-doing my bit for God and country; infusing the services with suitable atmosphere and reverence.
It must be said that prison services can at times get a little unruly. There are those among the attendees who claim to have "found salvation through Christ" and it is not for me to cast doubt on their conversions. But there are also the convicts who go to chapel for less devotional reasons: alcoholics in search of a sip of wine; junkies in search of their next fix. Let us not forget that the Strangeways riot erupted during one evangelising chaplain's sermon.
This week, as I preluded Mass with Bach's contrapuntally perfect Passion Chorale, I noticed out of the corner of my eye the arrival of the deputy governor-another woman (heaven help us in this post-feminist age). I shall call her Mrs Gradgrind, for her steely countenance and impenetrable eyes. She likes to make the occasional guest appearance when she's on duty at the weekend. Like the Queen, she makes a point of being the last to arrive and first to leave.
We had struggled through "Love Divine...", then "And can it be..." And here, as all musical aficionados will be aware, Mrs Gradgrind (as the only soprano in the congregation) had her work cut out. The priest, in Lenten purple (who during the Intercessions had prayed for "a pair of free airline tickets to Boston"), had reached the crux of the liturgy: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." The penitents prepared to file forward to receive their bread and wine. I was just about to strike the first muted chord of Sibelius's Finlandia when the back door of the chapel swung open and the faux falsetto but unmistakably cockney voice of a notably stupid acquaintance of mine sounded: "Peee-ter. Give us a kiss." Before anyone had time to register the interruption properly, Mrs Gradgrind, with a face as long and disjointed as the priest's sermon, trotted out in search of the intruder. She was too late. The voice had fled. The mass came to an ignominious end.
During my playing of the postlude Mrs G approached the organ console, "Who was that?" she barked, obliging me to stop mid-flow. Now, despite recent run-ins with one of her subordinates, I had never come into contact with this governor before. I tried to sound annoyed myself. "It was a very immature prisoner who thinks it funny to interrupt a church service. I'm sorry, Madam. I will deal with the matter myself."
"Oh, no, you will not. I will. And I want to know his name." Her truculent insistence put me in an impossible situation. She stared at me, eyebrows arched, waiting for me to speak. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you. That would be grassing on another inmate, and forgive me, but I'm not a snitch." Here was a woman used to getting her own way. I could almost feel her temperature rising with the swell box. "How dare you refuse to identify him. You will either tell me who he is or I will strike you."
Mrs Gradgrind didn't mean that she was going to hit me. At least, I don't think she did. There is a system here whereby any minor peccadillo not covered by the super-abundant prison rules is liable to be punished by the implementation of the "strike." Three of these so-called "strikes" means automatic detention to basic regime (bang-up, loss of job, loss of wages, loss of the few privileges prisoners have left) for as long as the governors see fit. It's a bit like the signature book which used to hang outside the headmaster's study at school. Three signatures meant Friday night detention-a childish way of keeping high-spirited boys in check.
As I write, I have yet to find out whether she carried out her crabbit little threat. But hang on a minute. I was only the organist. Why did the Iron Lady want to shoot me down in flames? How did she know my name? Given my determination to continue writing "The Prisoner," the men and women in suits seem to be moving as one against me, behind the green barred door.
It doesn't unduly bother me. Even demotion to basic regime will allow me to catch up on my writing. But one thing's for sure: after that contretemps I will not be going along to play the vicar's organ again. Mrs Gradgrind can flounce and pout till she's blue in the face. She can pull out all the stops and tinkle the ivories herself from here on in. I've got more important fish to fry.
