Avon. We fill in our menu choices ahead
of time and these are sent to the kitchen. At the top end of the prison, along from the main gate, there are old vegetable gardens. Long abandoned, the poly-tunnels are ragged with holes; weeds
grow waist high among them. It’s a shame we don’t grow our own fruit and veg – they’d be a welcome addition to the meals. I don’t eat much. The food reeks of
institution, tray-baked for too long. The women constantly complain about the portion sizes.
I was allowed to have things from home, and I made a list to give to Jane. Clothes and sketch pad, pencils, some of my earrings (nothing larger than a ten-pence piece allowed) and a decent
pillow. Neil’s denim jacket. When Jane sent stuff in it was examined, then added to my property card.
‘You could have told me,’ Jane said, when she first visited. It wasn’t a reproach, there was no glint of that in her eyes: she was stating fact – you could have told me
and I’d have stood by you.
‘I couldn’t.’ I shook my head.
‘I might have been able—’
‘It was part of the deal. With Neil.’
She took that in, her face shorn of artifice or the usual glimmer of mischief. ‘Would you have told me eventually?’
If they hadn’t found me out? Would I? I’d said nothing in the days between Neil’s death and my arrest even though Jane came whenever she could, day or night. With food and wine
and the comfort of her presence. ‘I don’t know.’
I think she was hurt. I would have been. We’d never had secrets. But it will not come between us, I trust in this. We have come too far to lose each other now. I’ve known her longer
than I knew Neil – just. I know her well enough to see beyond the public persona, the humour, the upbeat take on everything, the endless energy. Over the years we have revealed ourselves to
each other, peeled back those social layers, the poses and façades, sharing the bad times, the languors and doldrums, the storms and shipwrecks that punctuate our lives.
‘Well, thank God you didn’t – I might have been done for aiding and abetting,’ she said ruefully. I grinned. With the quip she forgave me. I wish she would stop smoking.
I won’t grow old with Neil but I would like to share whatever’s still to come with Jane.
Once I have Neil’s jacket, I wear it every evening. It’s big on me, I have to roll the cuffs back, but it smells of him; it feels like him.
The only thing I sketch is the lime tree. Again and again, charting its journey from high summer into autumn and on. The glow of its large soft leaves from bright green to sherbet yellow. The
little ball-shaped fruits dancing in the winds. The same fruits that Sophie used to collect and paint red as miniature cherries for her teddy bear. In the winter months the tree is often shrouded
in mist in the morning, its stark trunk black, branches reaching up and out. On grey days it is wreathed in fog, which settles along the avenues muffling what we can see and adding a spookier
quality to the noises of the prison.
The days are strictly regimented. Set times for meals, for work, for breaks and association. The roll is called at the beginning and end of the day and also at random times. We all have to stop
what we are doing while the officers count us and relay back the numbers to Security. Everyone in the prison has a ‘job’, from working in the laundry or the gardens to piecework in the
textile factory or helping in the office. As soon as I opened my mouth and demonstrated I was well educated and literate, they suggested I work in education. Many of the women can’t read or
write more than their name and those of their children, and there is a constant demand for people to tutor those wishing to learn.
I thought the work might be like the miserable sessions we had trying to teach Adam to read, the leaden silences, his restlessness, one foot kicking against the chair, but the women are not
sullen or resistant. They’re
of time and these are sent to the kitchen. At the top end of the prison, along from the main gate, there are old vegetable gardens. Long abandoned, the poly-tunnels are ragged with holes; weeds
grow waist high among them. It’s a shame we don’t grow our own fruit and veg – they’d be a welcome addition to the meals. I don’t eat much. The food reeks of
institution, tray-baked for too long. The women constantly complain about the portion sizes.
I was allowed to have things from home, and I made a list to give to Jane. Clothes and sketch pad, pencils, some of my earrings (nothing larger than a ten-pence piece allowed) and a decent
pillow. Neil’s denim jacket. When Jane sent stuff in it was examined, then added to my property card.
‘You could have told me,’ Jane said, when she first visited. It wasn’t a reproach, there was no glint of that in her eyes: she was stating fact – you could have told me
and I’d have stood by you.
‘I couldn’t.’ I shook my head.
‘I might have been able—’
‘It was part of the deal. With Neil.’
She took that in, her face shorn of artifice or the usual glimmer of mischief. ‘Would you have told me eventually?’
If they hadn’t found me out? Would I? I’d said nothing in the days between Neil’s death and my arrest even though Jane came whenever she could, day or night. With food and wine
and the comfort of her presence. ‘I don’t know.’
I think she was hurt. I would have been. We’d never had secrets. But it will not come between us, I trust in this. We have come too far to lose each other now. I’ve known her longer
than I knew Neil – just. I know her well enough to see beyond the public persona, the humour, the upbeat take on everything, the endless energy. Over the years we have revealed ourselves to
each other, peeled back those social layers, the poses and façades, sharing the bad times, the languors and doldrums, the storms and shipwrecks that punctuate our lives.
‘Well, thank God you didn’t – I might have been done for aiding and abetting,’ she said ruefully. I grinned. With the quip she forgave me. I wish she would stop smoking.
I won’t grow old with Neil but I would like to share whatever’s still to come with Jane.
Once I have Neil’s jacket, I wear it every evening. It’s big on me, I have to roll the cuffs back, but it smells of him; it feels like him.
The only thing I sketch is the lime tree. Again and again, charting its journey from high summer into autumn and on. The glow of its large soft leaves from bright green to sherbet yellow. The
little ball-shaped fruits dancing in the winds. The same fruits that Sophie used to collect and paint red as miniature cherries for her teddy bear. In the winter months the tree is often shrouded
in mist in the morning, its stark trunk black, branches reaching up and out. On grey days it is wreathed in fog, which settles along the avenues muffling what we can see and adding a spookier
quality to the noises of the prison.
The days are strictly regimented. Set times for meals, for work, for breaks and association. The roll is called at the beginning and end of the day and also at random times. We all have to stop
what we are doing while the officers count us and relay back the numbers to Security. Everyone in the prison has a ‘job’, from working in the laundry or the gardens to piecework in the
textile factory or helping in the office. As soon as I opened my mouth and demonstrated I was well educated and literate, they suggested I work in education. Many of the women can’t read or
write more than their name and those of their children, and there is a constant demand for people to tutor those wishing to learn.
I thought the work might be like the miserable sessions we had trying to teach Adam to read, the leaden silences, his restlessness, one foot kicking against the chair, but the women are not
sullen or resistant. They’re
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