Veronica's Bird

by Veronica Bird

  Have you ever seen a fully inflated balloon at a children’s party being released into a crowd of excited party-goers? This can bring much mirth but, when it is a solid object of considerable weight, it can be as dangerous as a loaded weapon. Safe to say, and to reduce embarrassment to those involved, the bloody hose, having wriggled around like a green mamba trodden on by a water buffalo, discharged its total volume of water in encircling arcs of spray, dousing everyone who attempted to reach it.

  The burning mattress was put out I am pleased to report. So were we, so to speak, wrung out, soaked, sodden and water-logged were words which go well with the end description of this soggy day. We studied the, by now, useless extinguisher with baleful eyes but it was empty, no use to anyone until it had been refilled and instructions relayed, possibly in Welsh, explaining how to hold one in an emergency.

  *

  Dealing with fires was one situation we were used to and which would break the normal routine of the day, not that we wanted a fire anywhere except on the village green on November the fifth, but it did keep us alert and on our toes. We needed this adrenaline to help us be watchful in case of escape; our raison d’etre was to prevent escapes and keep the public safe as a result. So important was this to our credo, that an escape could mean loss of one’s job and, for me that could mean loss of my home. I could not allow a prisoner to escape on my watch. It just could not happen.

  It was on such a premise I found myself having to escort a new remand prisoner, a young woman, more of a girl of seventeen years old to Court. She had stolen a baby and then, thinking twice about it, had left the child in a Ladies lavatory, luckily bringing no harm to it when found. It was, nonetheless, a very serious, and emotive case and I was detailed to escort her in a taxi to the Court. The driver and the two of us set out entering horrendous traffic holdups due to road works, delaying us quite badly. The Court, in its wisdom had pushed the hearing into the afternoon and we eventually arrived. We had spent hours getting there only for the young girl to spend just six minutes as she answered to her name and date of birth and the other standard questions required. Finished, we had to return to Pucklechurch a long, tiring day with little point. There had to be a better way.

  My prisoner, as was standard in those days for non-violent cases, was not handcuffed and I provided the only escort officer disregarding, of course, the taxi driver in his London cab, embarrassingly, a white Mercedes. My prisoner’s mind, unbeknown to me, had been calculating distances, widths and timings even as we travelled back caught with more hold-ups, caused by lengthy road works. Sure enough, when we came to a red light my prisoner, quick as a speeding bullet (well, at the time it seemed to be) with one jerk managed to lower the window sufficiently to dive, head first for the open space. I lunged after her knowing I could not let her go for all the reasons I have given you. I screamed through the small gap left in the window still available.

  ‘Help! Escaping prisoner! Stop her!’

  A bunch of navvies who had caused the holes in the road in the first place, goggled at us as the taxi driver leaped out of his seat; they laughed as they sat back on their shovels to see what would happen. To them there was a taxi, a head sticking out of a car window, a massive queue building up, horns blaring by those who did not know what was going on, and a woman prison officer trying to pull this, to all outward appearances, dummy back inside the cab. The taxi driver became distracted, not sure what he could do to help. A very smartly dressed gentleman climbed out of his Jaguar behind us as he could not go forward even if he tried, and walked towards the prisoner unaware of the real situation, until she let fly at him with such a stream of foul invective I could see the colour drain from his face. ‘What on God’s earth have I got myself into,’ was stitched across his eyes but, brave man, nonetheless he kept coming towards us.

  Seeing her possible escape route about to be closed off, our prisoner struggled further and broke her zip, causing her jeans to slip down to her ankles. I was going to lose her along with my job and my home. She slipped out of my flailing arms. There was only one thing I could do. I clamped my teeth into her bottom in the nature of those school pictures of sabre-toothed tigers, and hung on, possibly a terrier with a bone is a better description. There was an enormous yell from in front of me, while the navvies looked uncertain for the first time as events began to unfold in front of their shovels. They were now most unsure this was the correct procedure for an arrest of an escaping prisoner of this nature or, let’s face it, for any arrest. This certainly wasn’t Dixon of Dock Green and it had never been witnessed on Z-cars.

  But I had her. I couldn’t talk, of course, with my mouth full of bum, but the smartly dressed Jaguar owner had her arms by this time, and the taxi driver helped to push the woman back inside. Gradually we brought the situation under control much to the amazement of the bystanders who had grown in number since the lights had changed from red to green many times over.

  We drove slowly back to Exeter to an unmanned police station to await back-up which duly arrived. We never knew, particularly with new prisoners, how reactive they would be, being escorted to a Court and a rather frightening judge for the first time. Plainly, our remand prisoner had been put off by what the judge had said, and wanted no more of it. In mitigation, we would have had another officer in the taxi if it had been a serious offender and even a nurse in the front at times.

  When I finally got back that evening, Roger Kendrick the Governor asked me to tell him what had happened.

  ‘Everything alright Veronica? No-one missing?’ This was the key point of his enquiry.

  ‘Yes Sir. All present and correct’. This allowed everyone to breathe again.

  But in his report to Headquarters which always had to be drawn up in such situations, he added a note. It was titled: ‘The bum-biting Officer,’ a sobriquet I had to live with for many years.

  That road down to Cornwall (we covered all the way down to south Cornwall) was a busy one for us. I had to travel down again, this time escorting eight men and three women charged with fraud. It was a big case. Each day the judge saw fit to grant the eleven prisoners with bail at lunch and repeated this in the evening until the next day. On the final day, he was to sum up in the afternoon after lunch and he had made up his mind they were all guilty as charged. This meant he could not grant bail but, by mistake, the practice was allowed this last time. We the prison officers and police of Exeter, released our charges for lunch as we had done for weeks.

  Panic, nay, huge panic, not unnaturally, set in with the news we might have lost eleven escapees before they had even begun their sentences. They could be hell-bent on jumping ship….to another ship, bound for South America If the Press were ever to get hold of this, they would have a field day. They did…. anyway.

  Every available prison officer and policeman was sent out, dispatched into Exeter town centre.

  ‘Find them!’

  As luck would have it, the eight men were found, almost legless, well, blotto is a better word, by this time, knowing they were going to prison for a long time, but enjoying their last hours of freedom.

  And, my women charges? They were found, still in the Courthouse, still nattering away to each other, unaware of the drama in the streets outside.

  ‘Well, ‘e never did, did ‘e?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m tellin’ you….and with a rollin’ pin.’

  ‘Getawaywithyou?’

  You know how it goes.

  The sequel to all this was, of course, when we eventually all filed back into the Court room, the Press gallery was packed for the best story in weeks.

  *

  Funny when I look back on it, but placing me under pressure at the time, as there might have been repercussions from above, happened when I was asked by the Governor to see the reception area was cleaned up. The ‘high-ups’ were coming for an inspection from Headquarters and good old Veronica could always be relied upon to carry out such duties.

  ‘I am sure I can bank on you Veronica. This is an
important visit for us.’ No pressure then but an easy one I thought. So, take one prisoner called Brenda; brief her carefully on tidying up reception, especially the planters.

  ‘Remove the dead leaves from the planters Brenda, and remove any mess on the soil of each pot so they all looked cared for.’ Simple. Brenda nodded her head affirmatively, pleased to be given the responsibility as gardener for the day. Off I strode and returned two hours later before lunch to see if the work was finished.

  Do you remember those old sepia First World War photos of Tyne Cot? Where just the remains of tree stumps rose above the mud? Branches and leaves stripped, the earth blown by shell fire away into the distance? Well, my Reception was a miniature Tyne Cot. Brenda had removed all the dead leaves very well. Good. Brenda had also removed the mess off the soil in each pot. Even better, ‘However,’ as Winston Churchill was wont to say, Brenda had also removed all the healthy, green leaves and the clean soil in the pots. This left a small forest of nude, naked, upright stems each threatening to fall over, as their roots were unsupported by soil. Brenda, it turned out was not a gardener. The Governor, luckily saw the funny side of it.

  Gardening often has its funny side. A good friend of mine, a prison officer at Drake Hall Prison in Staffordshire, quite scruffy in appearance but with a heart of gold told me she had been put in charge of gardens after she had suggested that she should take over at her interview. She duly received the appointment to be in charge of the prisoners who would tend her gardens. Being slightly madcap, her charges decided it would be nice if they helped her out with the large planter at the entrance to the village which spelt out ‘welcome’ in multi-coloured flowers, to brighten the lives of those arriving. It took her a little while to notice they had re-arranged the plants and added some more. The sign then spelt out Welcome – F*** Off.

  The same colleague also declared to the Governor that the prison could produce all of its own potatoes, a useful top-up to the always stretched catering budget. Agreeing to the idea, the potatoes were duly planted, and awaited with much anticipation by staff and prisoners alike. This was what it was all about. Growing vegetables for yourself. Back to nature. Healthy, home-grown food, they thought.

  Some months later, the Governor enquired when he might expect a potato out of his own grounds.

  ‘Oh, I got bored with that. I’ve dug them back into the ground.’ He was duly informed. As I say again, gardeners, proper gardeners that is, were in short supply.

  Smoking helped many in prison whether they were inmates or staff though I have never been one for the weed and thus have never had the need to carry a box of matches or lighter in my pocket. Prisoners had to manage their tobacco and matches carefully, as they had to buy both from the prison shop. They were paid a small amount for the work they did which was not a great deal, so they took to splitting the safety matches lengthways into two some managing to split them into four. The familiar request of, ‘Have you got a light Miss?’ was a constant in my life having to turn down the requests each time.

  It quickly got around our block that by drying banana skins and adding some to the tobacco before rolling it up brought, allegedly, a high like cannabis. Not surprisingly, bananas disappeared off the menu and I look forward for someone to write to me to confirm, or otherwise, the efficacy of dried banana skins as legal highs.

  Time progressed, confusion arrived. Decimalisation came to the Prison Service. Anger levels rose when the country, which included all of the prisons, ‘went decimal’. Few understood the new coinage which, inevitably caused prices to rise without a subsequent lift in prisoners pay. By such events, misunderstood to begin with, could spread quickly into a riot and attacks on staff.

  We were a small women’s unit of twenty-eight cells. We had no capacity to take more prisoners if, say, a large trial was on and we had to take three or four remand detainees. We were then obliged to turn around quickly to supply mattresses for the dining room floor, with no additional washing facilities being available. Like tobacco issues, resentment built up by the long-term prisoners unwilling to share with the temporary women. Eyes and hawk would come to mind many days of the year as I had to be a sooth-sayer in many ways to try and calculate if a particular action taken a week earlier, could affect my own unit’s peaceful regime. After such an event, the senior prison officers would meet to see how the night had gone and determine if there was any spare capacity anywhere. This problem would only get worse; the pressure on cells was an issue which would remain with me as I sought to reduce the tenseness bubbling to the surface.

  I mentioned there were no washing facilities for these newly arrived prisoners who had to be supplied with metal bowls for their ablutions. They were not amused with such a basic facility, but they found another use for them.

  The Governor had the good habit of patrolling the prison, inspecting every nook and cranny of his domain. Fed up with no facilities to wash properly, nor any in sight in the future, one or more lags, all unknown, placed a metal bowl, full of water, on the top of the door leading into the dormitory. Enter, one dry Governor, depart one very wet and very annoyed Governor. But, the point had been made. Things could only get better.

  *

  I had been asked on several occasions if I was beginning to settle down in my new life, to which I was able to endorse with a positive – yes. Everything seemed rosy, I thought I was relaxed; I knew I was enjoying myself despite the grimness of my surroundings. But, I was hungry for promotion and worked every minute given to me on my future exams. Sometimes I, with some colleagues, might cook a meal together and laugh at life but, often I was late finishing work and would go to bed straight away. I could see a future in the Service and I wanted as much as I could be trusted to take.

  As before in my life, how wrong I was.

  It was eighteen months into my time at Pucklechurch, soon after Governor Roger Kendrick had taken up his post with us that things went wrong; not to put too fine a point on it, my world exploded into a black pit of hell. There is no better way I can describe it. I have no idea of what caused the trigger to be squeezed. Maybe it was the years of stress which had built up like autumn rain behind a dam; maybe it was the news, Fred had found out where I was, for he had sent a friend around to the prison enquiring after me. The man said he knew some people in the tiny village! It was nonsense of course, but the knowledge was there. Perhaps it was a whole combination of things.

  What I write below is information relayed to me by several friends, for I have no memory of it now. I fell into a serious mental breakdown and was rushed to Doncaster hospital. I was in such a state that, after trying various other alternative and less harmful treatments, the decision was made to place me on ECT, Electroconvulsive Treatment. Today this would involve placing the patient under a general anaesthetic, injecting muscle relaxants following which a surgeon applied electric currents directly into the brain. With the muscles relaxed, the spasms were much less than if the patient had been awake, so the convulsions were considerably reduced. It was as if I had suffered an epileptic fit, repeatedly. These days, ECT is well documented with two expert groups ranging themselves for and against applying such dangerous action. The only difference with me was, that in those early days, the patient was not given a general anaesthetic and was not given an option. As a result, I had to be strapped down to a bed to prevent the convulsions throwing me off the bed. It sounds prehistoric, barbaric and extraordinarily dangerous and was certainly a worse treatment than any prisoner might have undergone.

  It caused me a loss of memory for a long time and the absurdity was, that during the treatment I had the symptoms of epilepsy from which my brother had succumbed to the disease.

  But, I did not die, and, after a while could continue to work, though it took several years for me to recover fully. What was much more frightening, was that convalescence might cause me to be dumped by the Service, out of work, without a roof over my head. It then got worse.

  Fred and Joan came to collect me from hospital after
the treatment had been completed and took me back to Barnsley, they, pleased no doubt they had me back under their roof and after a suitable period of rest I could be called back into the market.

  I was, quite literally trembling on the brink when, about a week after Joan had taken me home, a real hero came to my rescue. Roger Kendrick, my new Governor must have read up on my file and noticed, among other things I had asked to be placed anywhere in the country so long as it was not near Barnsley. Putting two and two together he came to call and insisted he take me back to Pucklechurch where he said, he could ensure I was looked after all day. Fred did not like this at all but, neither could he argue the point and I was driven off to Bristol greatly consoled to be away from my sister and brother-in-law. More so, I was relieved to learn my job was still intact. Roger had me placed on light administrative duties for six weeks before I felt fit enough to return to normal full-time service.

  Roger saved my life. I owe him everything. Later, when I was up for promotion he learnt that I had a future plan to leave the Service. I had put aside sufficient money to try elsewhere but he wrote me a hand-written letter in which it said he had heard I might be thinking of leaving the Service. He went on say that although there were many things still wrong, it did provide me with a home and security and I should stay and go for my promotion.

  Like the cleverest of psychiatrists, Roger had pinned down my problem and then did something about it. Some of the staff might have been jealous for the amount of time he put into seeing me back on my feet. He believed I had a future with the Service and resurrected my career when it was seemingly at an end. Roger and his wife became very good friends and even asked me to their daughter’s wedding. That was a kind and personal thought, so typical of the man.

  He was that good he was transferred to Northern Ireland in 1973 to become Governor of Magilligan Prison near Londonderry, to run the special category of prisoners comprising IRA and UVF terrorists. In 1985, the violence came and brushed up very close to his family when, one night a gang broke into his garage and tried to place a bomb beneath his car which he had imagined was safe. It turned out that the dog, hearing noises, barked so much the men retreated without completing their work. His son, Johnny summed up his father with apt words during his funeral.