Spanish painter of all time, with Murillo in second place. I wonder if Professor Hare had even heard of Picasso in 1934, and where he would place him in the lexicon of Spanish artists in 2002.
There are only two artists I have never come across before: John MacWhiter and Millet – not Jean-Francois Millet, but an American, Francis David Millet. ‘On the out’ I visit Tate Britain regularly-I live opposite, on the other side of the river – but I don’t remember seeing either MacWhiter’s
In his foreword, Professor Hare writes something that, in my opinion, is even more relevant today than it was in 1934:
There is so much nonsense spoken and written about art today that the average man is, naturally, inclined to be shy of the whole subject, and suspicious of those who practise the Arts. He thinks, if this mass of contradiction and confusing jargon is the result of the love of Art, he had better do without Art altogether. There is no mystery about Art, but there is mystification without end, evolved by certain critics who love to pose as superior persons. Such writers put forward the theory that the enjoyment of fine arts is reserved for a select and exclusive minority, meaning of course, themselves and their disciples. No greater error could be propounded than this, which is a comparatively modern fallacy and one which is so dangerous that if persisted, it must in time bring into contempt everything and everyone connected with Art.
1934.
2002. No comment.
1.00 pm
Linda shuts up shop for the day and goes home for a well-earned rest. She has been on duty for the past nineteen days without a break.
9.00 pm
I confess that, by prison standards, I am in heaven. But I feel I ought to let you know I’m still desperate to get back to earth.
DAY 162 THURSDAY 27 DECEMBER 2001
10.00 am
Governor Lewis has received a call from Sir Brian Mawhinney, and although he can’t divulge any details, he suspects the Shadow Home Secretary will be in touch with Mary who in turn will brief me. Mystery.
The governor sips his tea. ‘As I’m leaving shortly, I’m going to tell you a story about a present member of staff who must remain anonymous. The officer concerned had a day off, and in the evening he and his wife went to their local for a drink. When they left the pub later, the officer saw a man trying to get his car started, but it sounded as if the battery was flat. The officer asked if he could help by giving a push. The driver said thank you and the officer pushed him out of the car park. The ignition caught, and the driver gave a toot of thanks as he disappeared over the horizon.
When the officer concerned returned to work the following morning, he learned that one of the inmates had absconded. The prisoner had even managed to steal a car from a local pub with the help of an obliging member of the public, who had given him a push start.’
‘It can’t be true,’ I protest. ‘Surely he recognized the prisoner?’ (To be fair, there are over two hundred inmates at NSC and the turnover is often twenty to thirty a week.)
‘You’d think so,’ replied the governor, ‘especially as the inmate was the only West Indian on the camp.’ [15] He laughs. The officer concerned might have even lived it down if it weren’t for the fact that neither the prisoner nor the stolen car has been seen since.’
DAY 163 FRIDAY 28 DECEMBER 2001
11.07 am
Whenever there’s a serious injury in prison, the immediate question always asked is, ‘Was another prisoner involved?’ So when Linda and I are called over to the north block to check on an inmate who is thought to have broken his leg after slipping on the floor, Linda’s first question is, ‘Who pushed him?’
By the time we arrive the duty officers, Mr Hughes and Mr Jones, are present, and they are satisfied Ron has had a genuine accident. However, there are several touches of irony in this particular case. The inmate involved is serving a six-week sentence, and is due to be released next Thursday. Last year he broke his left leg in a motorbike accident. This time he has managed to break his right leg, and several of the pins in his left have been dislodged. Linda confirms that an officer must accompany him to hospital; although how he’d abscond with two broken legs is beyond me – and why would he want to try, six days before he’s due to be released? However, regulations are regulations.
Normally you can’t be released from prison unless you have been given a clean bill of health by the duty doctor, and in Ron’s case it will be at least six weeks before the plaster comes off.
‘We’ll let him go,’ Linda says, ‘but only if a family member picks him up next Thursday and also agrees to take responsibility for him.’
‘And if no one does?’ I ask.
‘Then he’ll stay here until he’s fully recovered.’
DAY 164 SATURDAY 29 DECEMBER 2001
2.00 pm
Mary, William and James visit me. We talk mainly of the legal issues surrounding my trial and appeal. The topic of conversation then turns to Baroness Nicholson. Mary has written to her asking for an apology.
Mary is off to Kenya with her sister Janet on Monday, a journey she has wanted to make for some years because of her love of cats, whatever their size.
What happened to our ninety minutes together?
6.00 pm
I’m in my final writing session for the day when there’s a knock on the door. This usually means that a prisoner has a headache and needs some paracetamol, which I am allowed to dispense as long as the inmate has a note from the duty officer. If it’s something more serious, then his unit officer has to be consulted. I open my door and smile up at an inmate, who looks pretty healthy to me.
‘Have you got any condoms, Jeff?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I tell him, aware that Linda keeps a supply for prisoners going on weekend leave, or just about to be released, but even then she only gives them out very sparingly. ‘If you report to surgery at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, Linda will…’
‘It’ll be too late by then,’ he says. I look surprised. ‘It’s just that my sister visited me this afternoon and she hasn’t got enough money to get home. A few of the lads are willing to pay her ten quid for a blow job, which usually ends up with them going the whole way and ending up paying twenty.’
All of which begs several questions when possession of money in a prison is illegal. Is this an indoor or outdoor activity (it’s minus two degrees outside) and is she really his sister?
‘Sorry, I can’t help,’ is my only response, and after he has disappeared into the night. I try hard to concentrate on my writing.
