Veronica’s Bird
Veronica Bird and Richard Newman
Having twice been down a deep coalmine and switched my lamp off to stand in absolute darkness, it feels right that I acknowledge the generations of miners who have worked and died bringing our coal to the surface particularly around Barnsley
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Robert, ‘Bob’ Duncan is a highly respected, now retired, Prison Governor who has always bucked the rule to strike out on a pathway of his own making. The prisons he has worked in list like a Who’s Who of the penal service. They include Wormwood Scrubs, Gartree and Wakefield (all top security), Liverpool and Pentonville. On retirement Bob worked as a volunteer with the Butler Trust, the Retired Governors Association and the Shannon Trust where he was Chair of Trustees for nine years. He was also invited to be a special advisor to the House of Commons Home Affairs Select Committee. He is currently Chair of the Independent Monitoring Board at Elmley Prison. He has produced two books: one on Wakefield Prison, the other on Pentonville.
He is also, a very nice man.
Deputy Governor Gary Poole, Pentonville Prison went out of his way to show us anything and everything we wanted to see in his prison. He is a very busy man but he stopped for us. Thank you.
Lynne Carter HR Directorate – HM Prison and Probation Service was extremely helpful to us in ensuring the manuscript was accurate and reflected current policy.
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
FOREWORD by Bob Duncan
PREFACE
PART ONE: I might be better off in a children’s home
Chapter One: Doncaster Road
Chapter Two: A world away
Chapter Three: The Cheap option
Chapter Four: Some light ahead
PART TWO: Climbing
Chapter Five: Chamber pots and chaos
Chapter Six: ‘Everything alright Veronica?’
Chapter Seven: Styal, first time round
Chapter Eight: Grisley Risley
Chapter Nine: Back to Styal as Governor
Chapter Ten: Thorn Cross-Males only
Chapter Eleven: Armley – The hard one
Chapter Twelve: Buckley Hall – ‘In control’
Chapter Thirteen: Brockhill – ‘A basket case’
Chapter Fourteen: Ivanovo
PART THREE: Why do we lock people up?
Chapter Fifteen: ‘It’s an irony’
Postscript
ILLUSTRATIONS
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
A FOREWORD BY ROBERT DUNCAN
This is the deeply moving story of how a down-trodden child, by sheer determination, courage and self-belief, overcame repeated obstacles that would have defeated and crushed most children. It is a salutary lesson to all, of what can be achieved with fortitude. Every life is special and has potential; Veronica had this in spades.
I have known Veronica for some forty years, both as a colleague and a friend. We have also both undertaken voluntary work for two prison charities, the Butler Trust and the Shannon Trust (a literacy scheme where trained prisoners teach others to read and write.) It is my privilege to have Veronica as a friend and it gives me much pleasure as an ex-Governor, that her remarkable achievements were accomplished at the time, in a male dominated and ‘Cinderella Service.’ This though, is not a fable; it is a real-life story, of a young woman and of her achievements to the highest levels in the prison service, where she rose, like a phoenix (also a symbol of the Prison Governors Association) out of an an overcrowded, poverty-stricken and dysfunctional family to become a unique and remarkable individual.
The Government’s mantra is that ‘…every child should reach their full potential through free education’. This ethos failed miserably to reach the Bird family. If it had not been for Kitty, her loving mother, shrewdly recognising the determination and single-mindedness of her daughter, who had seen there could be a better life, it would almost certainly have been a very different ending.
Against all the odds and the fact, she could barely read herself, her mother ensured an application for a scholarship to Ackworth school was completed and signed off, ending in a frantic run to the Town Hall to ensure the letter was received in time. Then, when, miraculously, Veronica gained a place, her mother had to find the funds to fit her out in the uniform and kit required of a Boarding school, for Veronica had only known threadbare, hand-me-down clothes from her elder sisters.
This book is also about how the Service operates from someone who knows every facet of the real issues of ‘life behind bars’. It portrays humour, sadness and despair, but most of all, it conveys compassion and hope. It reveals the knowledge that prisons can be managed and that staff will respond to empathetic leadership. It is probably the most moving, accurate, balanced and honest account of prison life I have read.
From a one pound a week skivvy, to an audience with the Queen, her life’s journey is almost too much to comprehend – but that is Veronica.
Robert ‘Bob’ Duncan
Winter 2017
PREFACE
She moved a hand towards the arm of her chair, the better to steady herself in her need to tell me something of importance and personal. Her countenance changed as she caught my eye.
‘They’ve no idea, you know, Richard, they haven’t a clue.’
At the time, this was during my first interview in September, I had no impression of her early life, nor for that matter, what made up her later success.
Towards Christmas, with the first dozen interviews in the bag, the reasons for her earlier stress had become crystal clear. Passed on from friends, overheard at Ladies Luncheon Clubs, unkind comments gleaned from neighbours, the word was: ‘Veronica must have been born with a silver spoon in her mouth.’ It was the only time I heard her speak with such exasperation, despite the misery of her young life which, to listen to, was almost unbearable at times, that such ‘things’ (I search for another word in frustration) could happen in the mid-Twentieth Century.
Veronica is a small lady, petite and only five feet five and a half inches high with blue eyes and a voice, tremulous at times, as she begins to recall her early life. I had expected, and experienced with other subjects, one memory recalling another then, yet another, until, at last, there comes a nod of understanding, as sense begins to form out of earlier uncertainties. ‘Possibly’, ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps’ are turned, one by one into signs of relief, a liberation from previous confusion. Whatever the time of year or the weather, it makes no difference, for she always talks with confidence, reflecting her need to express herself clearly as she has done throughout her life, knowing her facts are backed up with access to prison officer’s diaries written by colleagues, together with her own large file containing mementoes of her thirty-six years of service.
What is it that drove a young girl into such a tough, male-orientated world as was the Prison Service, particularly at a time when women were shunning any idea of being shut up for long hours of each day alongside murderers, rapists, grand thieves and child molesters? Surely, there were better things to do when Britain was just beginning to break out of its Second World War strait-jacket of war-time regulation and conformity?
It is an irony, is it not, that completely innocent people with no criminal record whatsoever allow themselves to be held behind bars in grim prisons each day, where they can smell, and feel the experience of the inmates doing their stretch. It is a strange coincidence also, is it not, that the day Myra Hindley was imprisoned for life on 6th May 1966, Veronica Bird entered the Police Service and the month Hindley died, November 2002, Veronica retired? All those years as we grew up, and aged, one of Britain’s worst mass murderers had been shut away to keep our children safe, a diminutive young woman was fo
rging an outstanding career, ensuring, amongst other things, this evil woman would never see the outside wall of her prison.
One must wonder why Veronica never married. There have to be many possibilities, none of which is difficult to speculate upon. Maybe, having had first-hand and close-up experience of her cruel father, with her mother always in fear of an explosion of rage from her husband, it put Veronica off pursuing a happy relationship? She could see how sad, marriage could be. What, therefore, was the point, she might well have questioned herself?
Veronica confirmed to me early on, that the Prison Service was ‘…. her home and her family,’ For the first time in her life, at the age of 21, she was away from the cruelty, the drinking bouts and her meddlesome brother-in-law, ever intruding deeply into her life, which kept her from taking on a similar nightmare. Perchance it was the constant need to aspire, to achieve well above her eight brothers and sisters, to show them that one could climb, if painfully, out of their shared deep pit and stand in the sunshine, that there had been no time to find a husband. Of these and many other options, there is one, the truth, which I am aware of, but have agreed never to mention; it could upset others in the narrative and Veronica has no intention of doing this.
Instead, she was driven always to have a new goal in life, the next level up, to replace the boss above her, her mantra, ‘….is there promotion in the job…?’ and once this was in the bag, to look around to assess yet another giant step upwards, a hardening glance at the staircase which became steeper as time consumed her.
Veronica claims she was never driven, but the evidence to the contrary is there. For her, she was always seeking a new post and taking it up with evident pleasure – a higher position and a more difficult challenge. It was always in her nature to try, if it took her in an upward move.
It was certainly a combination of several factors that Veronica is still on her own today, respected, listened to: even the Queen saw fit to award her the Order of the British Empire; but she is still alone. The damage is too deep and too hurtful.
All of this, paints a dismal picture, one maybe you are familiar with; the usual story of the deprivation of coal miners’ lives, the general lack of colour with only tints of grey and black in those early post-war years. But, Veronica’s later life is filled, stuffed full in fact, of humour and colour. When one is facing a ten year stretch there are two ways to go, one being to fill it with as many laughs as possible to soften the daily chore of prison life. To deal with this you will find that Part One is monochrome, fascinating yet cruel, her life without the tints which came later to her as she blossomed into her profession, which she speaks about in Part Two.
When I first heard Veronica speaking at a U3A meeting, reminiscing on her life in Russia, her stories were peppered with humour and I could see it was important to her. With a jest or an absurdity, her own days would have been quickened, a smile to and from a prisoner who only wants, perhaps, to get through the day without trouble? And the staff? How could they carry on year after year without allowing a chuckle at a joke or a twitch of a mouth at a particularly outrageous suggestion from a prisoner?
It has been a long way from the dark years of Doncaster Road in Barnsley to filling one’s days with enjoyment and the admiration of her peers. There could hardly have been a single hour in her youth when Veronica would not have found herself looking over her shoulder at an approaching shadow or straining in exhaustion as she lifted the heavy bags of potatoes into the market at three in the morning when dressed in threadbare clothes. There could not have been much to smile at in life when her thoughts would have been on stocking up the carrots and cabbages on the stall so she could move on to the washing and ironing or calming the fretting younger children. It is an almost daily occurrence to read as a headline, a red top paper demanding heavy penalties on the exploiters of children in Britain, but only fifty years ago, it appears it was quite permissible to allow these abuses to continue as ‘accepted’ norms. When we complain today of the country unable to sort itself out and ‘…. wasn’t it better in the Sixties?’ perhaps it might be a good thing to remember that we have advanced enormously since that era in terms of Welfare and Social Care. Of course, the coal industry with all its terrors and blackness, is a mere shadow of itself, the people better educated, better housed and better paid. They are safer. The emancipation of women allows them to match, or better their men in so many ways, has brought a new relationship to partnerships. Men washup and help make the beds these days; it is with such small changes of attitude as these, taking place everywhere which, eventually, bring new, positive and strong connections into being. Veronica’s life might have been very different if she had had access then to twenty-first century attitudes.
Seventy-four years ago, Veronica Bird was born into a world so utterly different to ours today that George Bird, her father, might have taken himself off to the Dove Inn to sort it all out in his mind. But it was his sixth child and his third daughter, the one on the far fringe of his life who finally showed his family that there was hope; there was a way to climb out of that pit into the sunshine. Veronica took that decision to lock herself away so she could be freed of persecution. It was, paradoxically, the making of her.
When I asked Veronica, what her family, all those still alive, might think of her story she replied quickly: ‘It is the truth. It is all true, we can’t change history. All we can do is to learn and try to be better citizens as a result.’
PART ONE
I MIGHT BE BETTER OFF IN
A CHILDREN’S HOME
CHAPTER ONE
DONCASTER ROAD
A letter to our house was so rare that to see the slim white envelope in my mother’s hand was a surprise, to say the least. The fact it was addressed to me was mind-numbing, particularly as understanding was immediate, connecting quickly to a deep anxiety as I grasped the fact of what, almost certainly, was inside.
The room, always noisy, always argumentative, had fallen silent. Mother had placed her rough hands on her pinny as she gazed at her third daughter. Father had turned away, dismissing the slightly theatrical atmosphere. Besides, neither my mother nor my father could read or write, save for their signatures, so it would have been left up to me anyway to inform them of the contents.
You can have no idea of the stress I was under. For eleven years, I had been existing, no more than that, always hungry, dressed in threadbare passed-on clothes, the frequent chance to feel my father’s belt across my backside. There was the ever-present stench of coal dust drifting in from the Pits, the grime and the filth of the kitchen floor while Jack, my eldest brother’s epileptic fits increased in their severity every month; there were no signs it might ever get better.
For as long as I could remember, I had dreamed of leaving this house, running as fast as my short legs would take me as far as they could, never mind where, so long as it was away. There had often been the threat from my father in one of his drunken rages to send me to the local Children’s Home, though hardly a red danger line to me, for I know I would have been happier there than to remain in the harsh atmosphere of our house in coal-mining Barnsley in post-war Britain.
I received a nod and a smile from my mother but I cannot recall if my hands were shaking in the best tradition of the tense thriller, but I am fairly certain I stopped breathing.
She held out the single sheet of paper, nothing else, too slim to say much, but then, how many words does it take to say ‘…. sorry…. but.’
Fail or Pass: it would be one of those two words. I began to read to myself, not to the family.
Like one of those ludicrous Bake-Off programmes I said nothing for such a long time even my father turned around to look at me. He sniffed loudly to draw attention to himself as if to say, ‘Well?’
‘I’ve got it! I’ve got in. I’ve won a scholarship … Ackworth School,’ I added as if they did not know the origin of the letter.
There was a silence, just the hiss of the coke in the grate until, with a rush a
nd a roar, Gordon my brother of eight years my senior, grabbed me and threw me into the air.
‘Well done, well done,’ he said with a grin.
I answered with my own big smile as I struggled to regain my feet. I was very pleased, no, wrong word, perhaps over-the-moon might be better, try blown away for the modern vernacular equivalent, for it was rare any of the family would ladle out praise upon another, let alone me. Father turned away without a comment to light a cigarette and to ease his damaged leg. Mam, though, came over to me and squeezed me tight.
‘I knew you could do it,’ she said with a look of pride. She gave me a hug, defiant of what my father might have thought. This was one time when she could stand up to him without receiving too many glares. It had been her idea for me to apply.
‘The uniform…. the trunk, the-’
She cut me off. ‘We’ll find the money; don’t you worry your head.’
I turned away from my brothers and sisters who were already wondering what might happen now. They knew very well I would almost certainly change beyond all recognition to them; I was just about to become posh.
In Barnsley, it was difficult, no, bloody difficult, to be posh. I knew that only too well.
I turned my head back to the fire, remembering the awfulness of almost every day of my brief life. There had been nothing to laugh about, barely a smile, for the shadow of my father shivered at every corner as I sought to hide.
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The first light of day disturbed my newly formed eyelids on a cold morning in February. It was 1943 and the war was already well into completing its fourth year. Although I was unaware of the cataclysmic events going on around the world, the gloom of the war and the lack of real progress shaped a grubby pessimism which laid itself upon the town. For better or for worse I had arrived; I had yet to learn it was for the worse.
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