Before I went to sleep last night, I studied the latest Lords reform bill, as set out in
When I entered the Commons in 1969 at the age of twenty-nine, I think I was the first elected MP not to have been eligible for national service. [7] I mention this because, having won a by-election in Louth, Lincolnshire, I experienced six months of a ‘fag-end’ session of which almost every member had served not only in the armed forces, but also in the Second World War, with half a dozen having done so in the First World War. On the back benches generals, admirals and air marshalls – who could add MC, DSO and DFC to the letters MP – were in abundance. At lunch in the members’ Dining Room, you might sit next to Sir Fitzroy McLean, who was parachuted into Yugoslavia to assist Tito, or Airey Neave, who escaped from Colditz.
In 1970, when Ted Heath became Prime Minister, Malcolm Rifkind, Kenneth Clarke and Norman Lamont joined me – a new breed of politician who would, in time, replace the amateurs of the past. I use the word ‘amateur’ with respect and admiration, for many of these men had no desire to hold high office, considering Parliament an extension of the armed forces that allowed them to continue to serve their country.
When I entered the Lords in 1992, the House consisted of hereditary peers, life peers and working peers (I fell into the latter category). Peter Carrington (who was Foreign Secretary under Margaret Thatcher) is an example of an hereditary peer, the late Yehudi Menuhin of a life peer who rarely attended the House – why should he? And John Wakeham was a working peer and my first leader – a Cabinet minister appointed to the Lords to do a job of work.
A strange way to make up a second chamber, you may feel, and certainly undemocratic but, for all its failings, while I sat on the back benches I came to respect the skills, dedication and service the country received for such a small outlay. On the other side of that undemocratic coin were hereditary peers, and even some life peers, who never attended the House from one year to the next, while others, who contributed almost nothing, attended every day to ensure they received their daily allowance and expenses.
8.00 am
I learn a little more about John’s (lifer) love life over breakfast. It seems John met his partner some six years ago when he was ensconced at Hillgrove, a C-cat prison. She had driven a couple of John’s friends over to visit him. At that time John would only have been allowed a visit once a fortnight. On learning that a woman he had never seen in his life was sitting in the car park, he suggested she should join them. For the next few months, Jan continued to drive John’s friends to his fortnightly visit, but it wasn’t long before she was coming on her own. This love affair developed in the most restrictive and unpromising circumstances. Now John is in a D-cat, Jan can visit him once a week. It’s their intention to get married, should he be granted his parole in eighteen months’ time.
As you can imagine they still have several obstacles to overcome. John is fifty-one, and has served twenty- three years, and Jan is forty-eight, divorced and with three children by her first marriage. At some time between now and next March, Jan has to tell her three children, twenty-four, twenty-two and fifteen, that she has fallen in love with a murderer, and intends to marry him once he’s released.
11.00 am
My name is bellowed out over the tannoy, and I am ordered to report to reception. Those stentorian tones could only come from Sergeant Major Daff (Daffodil to the inmates). I have several parcels to sign for, most of them books kindly sent in by the public; I am allowed to take them away only if I promise they’ll end up in the library; also, two T-shirts for gym use only (he winks) and a box of Belgian truffles sent by a lady from Manchester. Now the rule on sweets is clear. Prisoners cannot have them, as they may be full of drugs, so they are passed on to the children who attend the gym on Thursdays for special needs classes (explain that one). I suggest that not many seven year olds will fully appreciate Belgian truffles, but perhaps Mrs Daff might like them (they’ve been married for forty years).
‘No,’ he replies sharply, ‘that could be construed as a bribe.’ Mr Daff suggests they’re put in the raffle for the Samaritans’ Ball in Boston. I agree. I have for many years admired the work of the Samaritans, and in prison they have unquestionably saved countless young lives.
4.00 pm
When I return to my room, I find Eamon preparing to move out and join his friends from Derby in the eight- room dormitory, so I’ll be back on my own again. I take advantage of the time he’s packing his HMP plastic bag to discover why he’s in prison.
It seems that on the Saturday night of last year’s Cup Final, Eamon and his friends got drunk at their local pub. A friend appeared and told them he had been beaten up by a rival gang and needed some help ‘to teach the bastards a lesson’. Off went Eamon and his drunken mates armed with pool cues and anything else they could lay their hands on. They chased the rival gang back to their cars in the municipal car park next to the Crown Court, and a fierce battle followed – all of which was recorded on CCTV.
Five of them were charged with violent disorder and pleaded not guilty – one of them a member of Derby County football team. Their solicitor plea-bargained for the charge to be downgraded to affray. One look at the CCTV footage and they quickly changed their plea to guilty. They were each given ten months, and if they’re granted tagging, will be released after only twelve weeks (five months minus two months tagging). Incidentally, the gang member who enlisted their help was the first to hear the sirens, and escaped moments before the police arrived.
DAY 115 SATURDAY 10 NOVEMBER 2001
6.38 am
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t wish I wasn’t here. I miss my freedom, I miss my friends and above all I miss Mary and the boys.
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t curse Mr Justice Potts for what everyone saw as his prejudicial summing up to the jury, and his apparent delight at handing out such a draconian sentence.
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t wonder why the police haven’t arrested Angie Peppiatt for embezzlement.
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t question how I can be guilty of perverting the course of justice while Ted Francis is not; either we are both guilty or both innocent.
I have been in jail for 115 days, and my anger and despair finally surface after a visit by a young man called Derek.
Derek knocks quietly on my door, and I take a break from writing to deal with his simple request for an autograph on the back of a picture of the girlfriend who has stood by him. I ask him about his sentence (most prisoners go into great detail, even though they know I’m writing a diary). Derek is spending three months in jail for stealing from his employers after issuing a personal cheque he knew he hadn’t the funds to cover. He spent a month in Lincoln Prison, which the old lags tell me is even worse than Belmarsh. He adds that the magistrate’s ‘short, sharp shock’ has enabled him to witness a violent beating in the shower, the injecting of heroin and language that he had no idea any human being resorted to.
‘But,’ he adds before leaving, ‘you’ve been an example to me. Your good manners, your cheeriness and willingness to listen to anyone else’s problems, have surprised everyone here.’
I can’t tell him that I have no choice. It’s all an act. I am hopelessly unhappy, dejected and broken. I smile when I am at my lowest, I laugh when I see no humour, I help others when I need help myself. I am alone. If I were to show any sign, even for a moment, of what I’m going through, I would have to read the details in some tabloid the following day. Everything I do is only a phone call away from a friendly journalist with an open cheque book. I don’t know where I have found the strength to maintain this facade and never break down in anyone’s presence.
I will manage it, even if it’s only to defeat my enemies who would love to see me crumble. I am helped by the hundreds of letters that pour in every week from ordinary, decent members of the public; I am helped by my friends who remain loyal; I am helped by the love and support of Mary, Will and James.
I have no thoughts of revenge, or even any hope of justice, but God knows I will not give in.
