walks outside, his worst time inside was the month after his conviction when for twenty-two hours a day with lights out at six, he was ‘banged up’ in a tiny cell in Rutminster Prison, with a burglar, a murderer and a GBH case.
He was next moved to Greenwood, an open prison on the Rutshire—Wiltshire border. The drive, with the sun warming the bare trees and snowy fields sparkling against a delphinium-blue sky, was tantalizingly beautiful. Near the prison was a large Elizabethan manor house with ramparts of yew overlooking a great frozen lake, which belonged to some cousins Herbert had fought with. What would they think, wondered Ricky, if he climbed over the wall and dropped in on them for tea?
The prison governor was a raging snob.
‘We’ve got six millionaires, four old Etonians, three Radleans, two solicitors, an archdeacon and a rock star, the lead singer of Apocalypse, in at the moment,’ he told Ricky, ‘so you’re pretty small fry. The rock star gets so much fan mail, he ought to be sewing his own mail bags. Sorry about your arm, bad business. We’ll find you something not too taxing to do, the library or the art department or a bit of gardening. I’m a racing man myself, but evidently the Scrubs has got a table completely set aside for polo players. Never knew there were so many bad hats in the game.’
Queueing up for lunch, Ricky felt sick. He dreaded having to adjust to a new set of people. He’d grown fond of his three previous cellmates, who’d been very tolerant, when, impossibly run down, he had kept them awake with his incessant coughing or his screaming nightmares.
Nor had he ever been intimidated at Rutminster. Just behind him in the queue on his first day, however, was a fat little man with strands of dyed black hair oiled across his bald patch and a puffy complexion like marshmallow. Flanked by four huge minions, he was making a lot of noise. Irritated that Ricky was ignoring him, he poked him in the ribs.
‘Howdy a get that?’ He pointed at Ricky’s elbow. ‘Is that sling ’olding up a limp wrist, or did we ’urt it raising our glass once too often to our mouth? Drunk driving wasn’t it? I ’ear we plays polo wiv Prince Charles.’
Ricky said nothing and, deciding against dishcloth-grey mutton and flooded yellow cabbage, helped himself to mashed potato.
‘Off our nosh, are we?’ went on the fat little man, drawing so close that Ricky could smell breath like too sweet cider. ‘Ay suppose we’re used to creamed potatoes at Buck House. Won’t be playin’ polo for a bit, will we? WILL WE?’ his voice rose threateningly.
For a second Ricky considered ramming the plate of mashed potato in his face. Instead he said, ‘Why don’t you piss off?’
‘Piss orf,’ mimicked his tormentor, turning to his four huge minions who shook with sycophantic laughter. ‘Oh, we are an ’ooray ’enry, aren’t we? Did we pick up that posh accent from Prince Charles? We better learn some manners.’ And mindful of his beefy entourage, he punched Ricky in the kidneys.
Not for nothing did Ricky have the fastest reflexes in polo. He was also instinctively left-handed. Next minute a left hook had sunk into the fat man’s marshmallow jaw and sent him flying across the canteen crashing to the ground. Strolling across the room, Ricky hauled him to his feet and smashed him against the wall.
‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again,’ he said softly, ‘or I’ll really hurt you,’ and dropped him back on the floor.
There was a stunned silence. Not a screw nor a minder moved.
‘More of an ’ooray ’enry Cooper,’ drawled a camp cockney voice.
Everyone cracked up and bellowed with approval as the fat little man struggled to his feet and shuffled out, threatening vengeance.
‘Dancer Maitland’, the owner of the camp cockney voice, held out a long, pale hand to Ricky. ‘Welcome to Greenwood.’
Ricky knew nothing of the music business, but the tousled mane of streaked shoulder-length hair, darkening at the roots and scraped back into a pony tail, and the heavily kohled, hypnotically decadent, frost-grey eyes hidden behind dark glasses told him at once that this must be the rock star of whom the governor had boasted.
Thin to the point of emaciation, in jeans and a black jersey, Dancer had a long mournful clown’s face, a pointed chin and a big pale mouth like a lifebelt. Intensely theatrical, giving off a suggestion of tragi-comic heights, he moved with feet turned out and pelvis thrust forward with the fluid grace of a ballet dancer. Gathering up Ricky’s plate of cooling mashed potato, he bore it off to a far table and, sitting down, patted the seat beside him. Unwilling to be charmed, Ricky sat opposite.
‘’Ooray ’enry, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray. The ’ole prison will put up a plaque to you for flooring that fat queen.’
‘Who is he?’
‘You didn’t know? Marmaduke Kempton. That’s not his real name. Bent property developer. Terrorized the East End. In ’ere he’s a tobacco baron, known as the Duke, carrying on his reign of terror. Most powerful guy in the nick, or he was till you floored him. Now eat up your spuds,’ went on Dancer reprovingly, ‘although your strength doesn’t seem to need keeping up. The food’s atrocious in ’ere, but I’ve got a pet screw who smuggles fings in for me.’
Gazing at the night-black glasses, Ricky said nothing.
‘We’ve got Judge Bondage-Smith in common,’ drawled Dancer. Ricky looked blank.
‘He sent me down too – month before you. Made the same crack about living in the fast lane, “Who are Apocalypse” indeed?’ Dancer peered over his glasses, imitating the Judge. ‘Fucking ’ell, you’d have thought everyone ’ad ’eard of us.’
‘I hadn’t,’ confessed Ricky, straightening a prong of his fork.
Dancer grinned. His mouth, with its exquisitely capped teeth, seemed to light up his sad clown’s face like a semicircle of moon.
‘You’re better looking than Bondage-Smith, so I’ll forgive you. We’re in the same dormitory by the way. Very Enid Blyton – I didn’t bag you a bed by the window. The draught’d have given you earache.’ Then, seeing the wary expression on Ricky’s face, ‘I know you’re dyin’ to know what I was brought in for, but it ain’t that. Sex offenders and long-term murderers are all tucked away in another dorm, stockbrokers and accountants in the next.’
Encouraged by the slight lift at the corner of Ricky’s mouth, Dancer went on. ‘I was busted smuggling cocaine and heroin into England. Shame really. I’d gone cold turkey six months before; gone through all the screaming heeby-jeebies of coming off. I was just bringing in the stuff for a friend.’
‘What’s it like in here?’ Ricky removed a long, dark hair from his potato and put down his fork.
‘Triffic contacts,’ said Dancer. ‘My shares have rocketed. An’ the screws’ll do anything for a bit of dosh. You won’t have any ’assle with the inmates now you’ve taken out the Duke. The Padre’s a bugger, literally. Loves converting straight blokes, so keep your ass superglued to the wall when he’s around.’
‘You don’t seem to eat much either,’ said Ricky, looking at Dancer’s congealing mutton.
‘I’m so anorexic I have midnight fasts,’ said Dancer.
‘Have you – er – had lots of hits in the top twenty?’
‘Five number ones, the last one for twelve weeks, and fourteen weeks in the States,’ sighed Dancer, shaking his head. ‘Who are Apocalypse? indeed. My solicitor’s comin’ in ’ere for a stretch next week. No wonder I didn’t get off.’
Dancer saved Ricky’s sanity. He made him laugh and later he made him talk about polo, and slowly about Chessie, but never about Will. In return Dancer was incredibly frank about his own sexuality and the problems of a deprived childhood, followed by fame and colossal riches too early.
‘I was an East End kid. Suddenly we had a break. I was going everywhere, staying at the best hotels, meeting the best people, birds throwing themselves at me, smart parties. I got so I had to be high to go on stage, then I was getting so high on coke, I started taking heroin to calm me down, and ended up addicted to that as well.
‘You’ve gotta talk, Rick. Bottle it up and it comes out in uvver directions. The night my auntie died, my uncle went straight up the pub. Two months later, he went off his ’ead, and died of an ’eart attack.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ricky.
Anyone, claimed Evelyn Waugh, who has been to an English public school, feels comparatively at home in prison. For Ricky it was better. He’d been bullied at school. Here he was very popular. The inmates liked him because he didn’t show off or drop names or grumble, and because beneath his aloof, impassive manner, his grief was almost palpable. Once he started giving racing tips that worked, even the Duke forgave him and started asking him what Prince Charles was really like, and if he’d ever clapped eyes on Princess Diana.
