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. [10]Jeffrey Archer – %5bA Prison Diary 01%5d – Hell (v5.0) (html)/A_Prison_Diary.html – filepos490016 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 cliched ‘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
