My Husband's Wife

Author’s Note

It was my first day at work. I had butterflies pounding in my stomach. And no wonder. As I stared up at rolls of barbed wire on top of a high concrete wall, I felt sick with nerves. What on earth was I doing here? Had I been crazy to apply for – and get – a job at a high-security male prison? How was I going to cope for two days a week in the company of criminals, some of whom were psychopaths? Would I be safe?

Until that day, I had always thought prisons were for other people who had done horrible things. The idea of being in one – either as an offender or a member of staff – was not something I’d ever entertained. But after my first marriage ended, I spotted an ad for the position of writer-in-residence at a certain HMP near my old home. It coincided with the ending of a ten-year column which I had been writing for a weekly woman’s magazine. (The editor had left and new changes were being made.) I needed to do something else. This was the only job I could find.

During my time ‘Inside’, I discovered a world which I could not have imagined without actually being there. A world in which no one was quite who they seemed. A world which I grew to adjust to. Even get addicted to and – dare I say it – enjoy. But all the time, there was a hidden undercurrent of fear and unknown.

In prison, I learned that there were countless contradictions. There was laughter. Yet there were also tears. There was kindness. And there was anger. I made some great friends there with staff but a handful were, understandably, suspicious of a ‘do-good’ writer. One day, I was suspected of smuggling in crisps to ‘bribe’ the prisoners. I was subsequently searched and found to possess one packet of cheese and onion – for personal use. I complained and no one ever questioned my lunch box again!

I also found that trust has to be earned even though this might involve taking risks. For instance, there were no prison officers present when I ran workshops or even one-to-ones. One day, I found myself without a room. The men suggested I ran the class upstairs, near their bedrooms. This wasn’t usually allowed but on that day, the staff gave me permission to do so ‘if I wanted’. Consequently I was in a tricky position. If something happened to me, the newspapers would have a field day about a writer who put herself in an awkward situation. But if I refused, my men would think I didn’t trust them. I went upstairs, my heart in my mouth… and everything was fine. Indeed, on the whole, the men treated me with great courtesy and found huge satisfaction in writing life stories, novels, short stories and poetry. All this, I was told, can increase self-esteem which, in turn, reduces the risk of re-offending.

Yet appearances can be deceptive. Some of my students were ‘shipped out’ overnight (moved to another prison) if they did something wrong such as possessing drugs or mobile phones. Men could hurt each other (one inmate murdered another when I was there). And I also heard the odd rumour of past relationships between employees and prisoners.

When I first started, I thought I’d want to know what crimes my men had committed. Then I found out that, in accordance with prison lore, it’s not ‘done’ to ask. Yet sometimes my students wanted to tell me. One confessed he was a rapist. Another a murderer. How I wish they’d stayed silent. Far better to see them simply as men who wanted to write. After all, words are a great leveller.

All this – and more – inspired me to write My Husband’s Wife.

I hope you have enjoyed reading it.