Hell hath no fury like a governor scorned. Readers may remember how, last month, I wrote about an interview I had undertaken with my (then) governor for the prison magazine I was editing. I might have known there would be repercussions when a censor stopped the letter with my column attached from being posted to Prospect. Eventually, I had to telephone my copy through to the editor (who proved a passable copy-typist), but not before I had been called up early one morning by a stern-faced principal officer, to be given a lecture on my status as a prisoner and what he called "communications with the media."
Some days later, I was dodging my way back to the wing, through the ranks of heroin dealers peddling their wares in the parade ground right under patrolling screws' noses, when I heard a familiar voice call out from behind.
"Oi. Wayne. I want a word with you." It was Governor Batt, red-faced and liverish, back from a week's leave in none too good a temper. "How dare you betray the trust I put in you! I've heard today from principal officer Brand that you have been trying to flog an article about me to newspapers in Fleet Street. That interview was granted under the express understanding that it was for the prison magazine. I demand an immediate retraction from whomever it is you've sold it to."
He had caught me unawares. I could not think of anything to say, but I need not have worried because he had no intention of letting me get a word in edgeways.
"This is an absolute disgrace! Do you realise you've made a complete fool out of me? The whole prison's talking about it!"
Here was a fine quandary. Even the heroin dealers had temporarily suspended business to see what all the fuss was about. I tried to calm him. "I'm sorry if I've offended you. That really wasn't what I wanted. But... unfortunately it won't be possible to retract the article because it's... er... already gone to press."
The Batt went bananas when he heard this. "Don't you ever ask me for anything, ever again," he snapped from under his trilby. "Do you hear?" "Yes." I sounded as penitent as the occasion demanded but then found I could not hold my tongue. "You know, there was no harm in the piece I wrote. It was light-hearted, and I did change your name to protect..." "Changed my name!" he roared. "Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?"
"Because you'd have probably said 'No.' Please try to understand that Prospect is not some tatty little tabloid. Douglas Hurd is on the advisory board. You may have heard of him? Former foreign secretary?"
In retrospect, I realise this was entirely the wrong thing to say at that moment. Batt was like Lear on the heath. "Don't try to get clever with me laddie. You'd better tread very carefully from here on in."
As it turned out, I obviously did not tread carefully enough, for despite an abject letter of apology I wrote that evening, an unexpected transfer to a prison about as far away from Lindholme as the dimensions of this sceptered isle would allow came through just as my magazine was ready for circulation.
I was in two minds about leaving south Yorkshire. The screws in Lindholme had been bastards-off-hand, abrupt, distant and monosyllabic. But the prisoners, with their strong brews and flat vowels, for the most part unloved, undernourished, undereducated boys from the badlands of Rotherham, Doncaster, Barnsley, Mexborough and the like, were warm, welcoming, winsome types who at once made me feel part of their struggling community. I shall remember them with affection.
So I left Lindholme, at the crack of a drizzling dawn, and sat hunched in the cubicled sweatbox watching the grey post-industrial landscape. My move to Channings Wood, Devon, proved that the north/south divide is still alive. After lunch had been served by fawning young prisoners at the staging post near Rugby, we transferred to a gleaming luxury coach. As we sped south, through Bristol and on to Exeter, a Sylvester Stallone double bill flickered for our entertainment on the on-board video screen.
Deep into the Devon countryside, sandwiched between the national parks of Exmoor and Dartmoor, Channings Wood nestles almost unseen. The reception lunch came stingingly hot from a microwave. Compared to Lindholme, my bedding felt as finely spun as Honiton lace. The accents, beds, water, even the loo paper is softer than the Bronco supplied in Yorkshire. Such are the vicissitudes of a writer "in residence."
Can anybody imagine how I spent my first night in palm-fringed Channings Wood? Unlikely as it may seem, I went to the opera with my new friend and cellmate Neville, bright eyed local villain from Tiverton: yes, the Brecht/Weill collaboration Threepenny Opera well performed by the Brown Paper Bag Theatre Company. Biggest laugh of the evening, from a captivated and capacity audience in the prison chapel, came after Macheath's arrest. He is languishing in the condemned man's cell. Polly and Lucy have just sung "The Jealousy Duet." "A question please." Mac looked forlornly out into the sea of blue shirted prisoners. "A question please," he repeated. "A question please," he stressed a third time holding his manacled hands aloft. "Is this what you call living?"
