Prison Life

After seventeen days at HMP Bronte House there came a time when Gemma Connors finally emerged from ‘under with blanket’ with no pain, just the dull ache of exhaustion and, even more strangely, hunger. When addicts came into prison in those days they were offered no treatment. They had to stay in their cells and come off drugs on their own. This period was called by some going ‘under the blanket’.

The day finally came when she emerged from her cell, having woken up feeling surprisingly fresh. That day even the starchy prison fare tasted good. Far cry from nibbling nuts and reaching for the White Princess to keep down to a size ten. The White Princess, or Charlie, the ill-named drugs supplied by her boyfriend Baz was what got her there in the first place. Letting him leave his trade stash with her had been the biggest mistake of her life and she did it because she loved him. This was the second time he had done it and she thought perhaps it had to be the last.

Three times on that first day out of her cell Gemma had flashbacks to the wretched, wrenching pain of the last two weeks: the scrape of knives across her skin; the Devil’s Flu pounding her lungs and oesophagus. Guns behind her eyes blazing. But then she flipped back to the gleaming corridors Bronte House and the reassuring, of sometimes hated, routines that, she remembered from last time, kept the place and its people together.

On her first walk down the corridor she was offered some weed. With an effort of will she shook her head. ‘Any bother getting it in?’
The girl winked. ‘It gets in, darlin’. Not enough of it, but it gets in. First dab’s free. After that it’ll cost you five cigs. Or thereabout.’
‘What about Charlie?’ said Gemma. Just curious, she thought. She wouldn’t go for that. Not ever again.

The girl shook her head. ‘No chance, darlin’. My lad says they can get it easy in the men’s jail where he is, but not here. You won’t get that here.’
On her second day up Gemma’s personal officer suggested a try in education and she went, glad of something to do. In the classroom she came across the old lady, the tramp woman who had caused all the bother in the van. Gemma could remember the row, even through the maze.

Today the old woman was sitting at a table doing a very elaborate word puzzle, in a fat dog-eared book. The woman caught her glance and held it. ‘Feeling better, are we dear?’’ she said. ‘You looked rather distraught in the van.’

Gemma nodded. ‘I was still coming down. They wouldn’t give me anything. Told me to sweat it out . I’m just out from under the blanket.
A punkish girl who also looked familiar nodded. ‘A nightmare, isn’t it?’
‘You not done it? Have you turkeyed like that?’
The girl shook her head. ‘Not me. My boyfriend used. Heavy. Spent half his time between the planet Zog and the land of Nod.’
‘Really? You don’t yourself, like?’

The girl shook her head. ‘I did use a bit when I was in school. But it made me vomit every time. So I just stopped. Never will again. Never had do what you just done. Go under the blanket and just sweat it out.’
‘You do right,’ said Gemma. ‘That’s me finished, though. Never again. I’ll never do it again.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ piped up the heavy dark girl from the other side of the classroom. ‘Once a junkie, always a junkie. Stands to reason. Game for mugs and you, lass, you fit the bill. S’written all ower you..’ Tension rippled through the whole room like a hound stirring. Smelling the possibility of a fight the other girls put down their pens and watched carefully.

‘What do you know?’ Gemma lunged for her, but the punkish girl pulled her back. The teacher, sitting at the front desk, looked up and watched blandly as the situation settled itself.

‘Take no notice of her,’ said the punkish girl. ‘Leave it.’
‘Gemma, listen to Paulie, ’ said the teacher. ‘Your screen’s up. All you do is follow the instructions.’
‘S’easy,’ the punk girl winked at her. ‘Gemma is it? I’ll show you.’
Gemma caught up with her aggressor as they were being let out to return to their cells before dinner. ‘No need to mouth off like that, in front of everyone,'’ she said. ‘Not called for.'

The dark girl blinked at her, then shrugged. ‘No harm meant, darlin’. You get bored sometimes, just breaks it up a bit in here.’
‘Watch it, then! I’m tellin’ yer.’
The dark girl peeled off into her cell, followed by a mild mouse of w woman, who turned to look at Gemma.. ‘Good to see you up and about.’ she said. ‘We were worried about you in the van.’

The van. Gemma frowned. This woman had been there as well as the old woman. She stood outside the cell listening to the creak of a bunk, then voices of the two women. ‘You were over the top there, Christine. You saw that girl in the van. Raving. Out of it’s an understatement.’

‘So what? That lass needs to watch out. I’seen plenty come off the stuff and be clean as a whistle, then they’re getting ready to go out, what’re they looking forward to? Their first hit. Idiots like that lass need telling’
‘For a second I thought she’d hit you.’

Laughter.. ‘I’d like to have seen her try,’ cam the voice. ‘Or anyone else.’
Outside, the officer marshalling the women poked Gemma in the back. ‘Get on, lass. Yer dinner’ll be cold at this rate.’

In her cell Gemma looked at her hair. In a greasy lank plait, it had been unwashed since she arrived. It smelt sour and greasy. She talked to an officer on her wing and that night, after tea, she was allowed a blissful shower and hair-wash. Then the officer took her down to the association room with her hair in a towel to wait her turn for the hair dryer. Women were scattered around the room engrossed in their own talk, reading magazines, watching the chattering television, playing draughts, putting make-up on each other’s faces.

When Gemma finally got her hands on a dryer the women at her end of the room watched with some interest as she blew her long hair dry, watching it rise away from the dryer like lifted silk ‘What beautiful hair you have, dear,’ said the old woman, looking up from her puzzle book. ‘D’you know my own mother had hair long enough to sit on? Just like that. But she wore it braided round her head like a long ribbon. My father wouldn’t let her cut it, you know.’ She reached out and put a hand on Gemma’s arm. ‘My name is Queenie, dear’ she said. ‘I share a cell with Christine over there, who shouted at you this afternoon.’
‘I’m Gemma, My mum liked my hair. She used to to iron it for me,’
‘Ironing hair! My goodness.’

Another girl took Gemma’s place at the dryer and Gemma moved to sit beside the punk girl called Paulie and began to comb her hair with her small comb. Then the girl called Christine called across from the other side of the room. She waved a scarred arm ‘I’ll plait it in corn-rows for you if you like, love. It’s thick enough,’ she said. ‘I used to do it one time for this black lass in one place I was in. She had fabulous hair, that lass.’

Gemma stared at her, surprised at the placatory tone in her voice.
‘It’ll stay in for a week, More. ’ Christine wheedled.
‘OK Why not.’
Christine nodded. ‘Right, lass. Sit here.’ A few of the women crowded round and watched Christine work. She had only managed two long, thin plaits when the officer shouted that it was was the end of association. The women groaned.
‘Give us a bit longer, sir,’ Christine called across to him. ‘I’ve not finished this lass’s plait yet.’

‘Get yerself down here, Cazelet,’ said the man. ‘Association over, you know the rules.’
It took four days before Gemma had a full head of locks. When Christine tied the last one off with a bit of wool, a cheer went round the room. '‘Keen.'’ ‘All right.’ ‘Cool.’ A big black girl put her hands to her mouth and whistled and others crowded over to see what the fuss was about. The temperature in the room seemed to shoot up all around them.

That was when officers started to bustle about closing the session early, wary that the simple joy of a successful hairdo might cause a disturbance.
Gemma’s pad mate (the third in three weeks, so fast did they move through) approved of the effect. ‘You can even wash them like that, you know,’ she said admiringly. ‘I knew a girl in Holloway who had her locks in for three months.’
The next night in association the conversation was still hair. Gemma was sitting with old Queenie and Paulie.. ‘Your hair’s growing nicely too, Paulie,’ said Queenie. Paulie peered into a masked window at her thickening thatch. ‘So it is, Queenie.’

 ‘Ah. The poet Byron,’ said Queenie. ‘He had golden curls, you know. I’ve seen him more than once. A beautiful man despite that terrible limp. Long curls. And this twinkle in his eye. He used to walk with me in the woodland. Near my village. By the edge of a long wall. Did I tell you about the village, dear, I…’

Paulie glanced at Gemma and put an arm across Queenie’s shoulders.. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s not right. You shouldn’t be in here, love. I’m gonna talk to somebody. The officers. Probation. The governor. You shouldn’t be in here, you know. It’s ridiculous.’
Queenie’s small hand shot out and grasped Paulie’s arm in too tightly. ‘No. No, dear. Don’t you dare do that my dear. They’ll put me in a hospital and who knows when they’ll let me out? No, love, I’ll stay for my three months and get out again.’
‘But then, that’s the street again. You’d only be back on the street.’

‘The probation lady talks about a flat.’
‘Would you stay there? On a flat?’
‘Well, dear, we’d have to see, wouldn’t we?’
Gemma coughed. ‘Queenie, do you mind if I ask you something?’
‘No, dear. Anything.’
‘Why on earth are you in here? I look around and I can see why most of us in here. For me it is good mother, bad boyfriend, worse drugs. Why you?’

‘Well, dear,’ said Queenie baring her dentures. ‘I must admit I have two unfortunate tendencies. One of these is the tendency to run off to get lost when people crowd in on me. The other is a tendency to lash out and break things when very, very pressed.’
‘So what the hell did you do?’

‘Well, let me see. I was in this shop and the owner complained about the smell and was trying to shoo me away as though I were a dog. So, I’m afraid I tried to wing him with one of my bags, but toppled a pile of Kit-Kat and some boxes of cornflakes. What a mess! I really lashed out. But you see, dear, as this poor man shouted I saw the Winged One behind him and it was he at whom I lashed. Well, they put me on probation for that, but I ran off and would not see the probation man, who had this seedy moustache and reminded me of my father who was the worst of men. Then they caught me and again I lashed out and the poor policeman lost his hat. Well, dear, the judge said I really should go to hospital…’

 ‘So you should,’ said Paulie feelingly.
Gemma nodded.
 ‘But there were no places,’ said Queenie with satisfaction. ‘So I came here, which is not a bad place at all. Such nice young people.’
 Christine’s fame as a hairdresser was spreading. The next night Gemma watched as she her transformed her padmate’s mousy thatch.. The woman Maritza was worried because her sons were coming to see her and her hair was a mess. ‘I’ve got the boys coming to see me next week. They’ll think I’m a hag. I look a mess.’
Christine examined her from head to foot.. ‘No you don’t. Fact is, you look better’n when you came in.’

‘Prison food. Junk food. Must have put on a stone.’
‘Aye. Fills you out. Gemma over there must have put on half a stone in week. She has a good two stones to go, like.’
‘I don’t want to be fat,’ said Gemma.
‘If you say so.’ Christine’s feet came to the floor with a clash. ‘Tell you what, Ritzy. I’ll do your hair.’
Maritza laughed. ‘Not enough here for cornrows Not even for one plait.’
‘Don’t need’m. I’ve got some scrunchies here. Choose a colour.’
Maritza chose purple velvet.

Christine sat her in a hard chair, and, wetting the comb, set about her work. She took Maritza’s hair and combed it carefully over her hand. Then she pulled it back and up and tightened it inside the scrunchy. Then she pulled bits of hair down at the front and the sides and, spitting on her fingers, curled the hair round so it stayed. ‘Problem with that good shop cutting,’ she said. ‘It takes the life out of your hair. Tames it too much.’

Paulie got out her makeup and did her bit with some blusher and eyeliner. ‘There. You can look now.’
‘You look ten years younger,’ said Gemma. ‘Fifteen.’
The mousy woman laughed. ‘So I do. I look like a ten-years-younger gangster’s moll.’ She turned her face this way and that. Looking at herself in the blanked window.’ ‘I suppose it is an improvement. I like it.’
‘Well, why not try it on your lads next week, won’t you?’
‘It would frighten them to death. It’s too different. Not the Mum they know.’
‘Ah,’ said Paulie. ‘But were you ever the Mum they knew?’

Gemma thought of her own mum: over-caring, frantic when her daughter strayed from her own honest path. Her heart ached for the touch of her mother’s hand.
. Christine, proud of her work, handed round some polo mints and they all sat back staring at the Maritza transformation.
 ‘My own sister’s coming on a visit,’ announced Christine to no one in particular. ‘She’s coming on a visit,.’
‘Your sister?’ asked Gemma.
‘Sallyanne. You’d like her. Younger than me, like. Nineteen.’
 ‘Did she write? Did you write?’ said Maritza. ‘You didn’t get a letter.’ Padmates know everything.
‘No. She never writes.. Probation told me. It’s been fixed up.’
 ‘Are you close, you two?’ Gemma thought of her own little sister Sharon, the apple of her mother’s eye.
‘Well I’ve never seen our Sallyanne for ages.. I haven’t seen her for three years. I went to the house to see her but my mother chased me.’
 
****
Later in their cell Queenie said to Paulie. ‘That child’s hair turned out really nicely, don’t you think?’ She stretched first one foot in front of her, then the other. ‘She looked so nice. Sweet young thing. Just think of her in the van! What a difference. Such lovely hair.’ She sighed.

‘We all look different, now,’ said Paulie. ‘Same as each other. Pasty-faced and fat. Hair all over the place.’
‘I think your hair is very nice, dear. So thick, now the spikes are growing out,’ Queenie’s tone would brook no opposition. Paulie had a glimpse of the placid, imaginative schoolmistress she must have been.
Paulie picked up her book.
‘You read a lot, dear,’ said Queenie.
‘I like it. Anyway that’s all there is to do.’
‘That is true. I suppose I have my puzzles and my poetry to keep me occupied.’

Queenie was in the habit of reciting all the poems she knew - and she knew a lot - at least once every week. By now Paulie had learnt dozens of Browning and Yeats poems by heart and would sometimes join in. More than one officer had asked Paulie if it didn’t get on her nerves, all that bloody chanting. ‘It’d do my head in, all that fucken chantin’.’

But it didn’t do Paulie’s head in. The continuous murmur was soothing, like some of those plainsong tapes her boyfriend Sebastian had played sometimes while he was gouching.

Of course there were things about Queenie that did unnerve Paulie: her shouts in the night, her overloud exhortation to the Water Man and the walking trees to guard the earth for her until she got back outside these walls. When this was happening at three in the morning she wished to heaven she’d been padded up with that mousy Maritza.

She wondered what that young Gemma was doing here. Not the type really. Not the type at all. Bit like Queenie, really.
 
Three cells down Gemma sat up suddenly in the darkness, and started to pull out the corn-row plaits one by one. Her scalp relaxed and she could feel her hair rising in the air and settling in a halo around her head. The framework of the bunks creaked as her pad-mate stirred. The sleepy voice drifted up. ‘What the hell are you doin’ lass?’
‘I’m pulling out my plaits.’
‘Aye, those rows might look pretty fucken’ cool, but they’re a bugger to sleep in,’ the woman growled. ‘Now get back to fucken sleep will yer?’
Gemma slithered down the bed, pulled the blanket up under her chin, and lay very, very still.