Selected Articles from Inside Time Issue No 43 Winter 2022

Record Number of Women in Jail by Eric McGraw
Words, Insulting and Otherwise - Stephen Shaw, Prisons Ombudsman, writes exclusively for Inside Time.
The Show Must Go On by Louise Granger

Record Number of Women in Jail by Eric McGraw

A 200 per cent increase in the number of women sent to prison in the last 10 years means that Britain is locking up women in numbers not seen since Victorian Times.

There are so many women being sent to prison in Britain that the Prison Service has been forced to convert a third male prison, in only one year, to accommodate them. There are now more than 4,000 women in prison compared to just over 1,000 in 1990 while at the same time the overall prison population has reached a record of over 68,000.

'Drugs are the reason why women prisons are filling up,' said Chris Tchaikovsky, of Women in Prison. 'If the Government thinks you can punish people out of using drugs I can tell you from experience you cant. Prisons are barbaric relics of the Victorian age which don't work apart from containing the violent 0- they are certainly no substitute for drug rehabilitation.'

Drug offences are also reflected in sentencing: nearly 40 per cent of women prisoners are sentenced to four years and over. It is also the case that the vast majority of the female prison population are mothers; a third of women have children under the age of five. For most a prison sentence means separation. With only a limited number of places provided for toddlers in prison, children are usually sent to live with relatives or friends. Only a quarter live with their fathers and some inevitably end up in care.

At the other end of the spectrum significant numbers of women prisoners are serving short sentences - less than 12 months - which means that the probation service are not providing the necessary supervision or support needed after release.

With reports of a significant fall in crime, the question is: why is the prison population rising so relentlessly? In an effort to reverse the trend, Martin Narey, Director General of the Prison Service, has asked judges to think twice before sending women to prison and to consider alternatives to custody. A plea which should also be made for men.

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Words, Insulting and Otherwise - Stephen Shaw, Prisons Ombudsman, writes exclusively for Inside Time.

Many readers, I fear, will know of jails where a request for a complaint form is treated almost as a subversive act. Subtle - and not so subtle - barriers are placed in the way of prisoners wishing to make a complaint. The entirely proper desire to deal with matters informally is corrupted into the entirely improper practice of refusing access to complaint forms unless the prisoner says why he wants them.

I have recently dealt with a complaint about restricted access to request/complaint forms at one of the best-known prisons in the country. Although my complainant was able to bring his problem to my attention eventually, my investigation revealed that all but the most determined prisoners would be sidetracked from using the formal complaints process.

I upheld the complaint, but for once felt under no pressure to come up with a remedy. For the Prison Service itself will shortly begin rolling out a new complaints system to all prisons.

The new arrangements have already been piloted at five prisons: Frankland, Wandsworth, The Mount, New Hall and Feltham. The revised system has several key advantages. First and foremost, prisoners enjoy open access to complaint forms. It is a bit like going into a Post Office and taking the forms off a dispenser. Indeed, you can take as many forms as you like - not that there is any reason to hoard them when they are freely available.

The second advantage is that responsibility for answering the complaint is placed where it should be: on the wing officer, on the wing manager, and on the Governor, in a three-tier system. Head-quarters plays no part (except for so-called 'reserved' subjects like adjudications). The result is better quality decision making is evidenced by the fact that relatively few complaints actually reach as far as the Governor.

The third benefit of this system is speed. All the internal stages can be completed in a few weeks. This means that access to the independent Ombudsman is available in little more than a month.

I understand this new system will be introduced in phases - beginning with the high security estate and women's prisons - but it should be in place everywhere by the autumn of 2002. I expect that many more complaints will reach me as Ombudsman and hope this will mean many more from remand prisoners, short-sentenced prisoners and young offenders - all of whom are currently under-represented in my workload. I also anticipate a change in the pattern of complaints - with more focusing on regimes and conditions. I believe too that my colleagues and I will be able to offer a better service to black and Asian prisoners who believe they have been victims of racist discrimination. The extension of my remit to the National Probation Service - about which I wrote in the last issue of Inside Time - is already having an impact on my postbag. Indeed, all the initial probation complaints I have received have actually been from prisoners. The range of probation complaints has been broad. For example, a complaint about the content of reports for the Parole Board. A complaint about a transfer to a different probation area. Complaints about the failure of a probation officer to respond to correspondence, about a lack of information regarding a recall, and about a decision to place someone in a hostel outside their home area.

To date, all of these complaints have failed to meet my eligibility criteria. With probation complaints, just as with prison ones, the authorities must first have been given the chance to put matters right - you cannot jump the gun. But I anticipate that many will subsequently return to me once the National Probation Service'' own complaints system has been exhausted (incidentally I am also now beginning to receive complaints via my website: www.ppo.gov.uk).

A cautionary note on which to end. Although I will assert and defend prisoners' rights to have their complaints heard, regular readers will know I cannot guarantee to uphold a complaint once I have investigated.

Mr Smith's complaint is a good example. Up on a charge of using insulting words, Mr Smith said the adjudicator had disregarded the evidence of his witnesses on the grounds that they had colluded. Mr Smith did not deny that they had indeed colluded, but he blamed the Prison Service for allowing this to happen. His argument was that evidence should not have been dismissed since the Prison Service had failed in its duty of preventing collusion.

A number of not-so-polite words can be used to describe this proposition, but the acceptable one is sophistry. Funnily enough, when staff prevent access to the complaints system claiming they are trying to sort out matters informally, the same word applies. It is a good word, sophistry. Look it up, if you get the chance.

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The Show Must Go On, by Louise Granger

Research shows that women make huge efforts to look attractive in order to please firstly themselves, secondly other women and finally men. This may be the case in 'normal' life, but not when your man is in prison. The shiniest hair, the most flattering make-up, and the lowest necklines go to visits, and so do the smoothest legs. You shower, you wash your hair and you shave your legs! Why? No chance that he's going to run his fingers up your legs, not for years.

You check in at the gate, VO and ID at the ready to push under the glass, like at a post office or a bank. Are they ready for a hold-up? 'Your prisoners or your life!' You try to see where you are in the queue as the officer highlights yours and your husband's name on the list. How many names will he hear before his is called? If you are late he won't be able to help himself wondering if you've finally had enough and he's had his last visit from you. You can't put him through the terrible fear that you've found someone else. He says it's only having someone to live for that makes prison life bearable. So you arrive early and sit staring at the poster of a soft-eyed Labrador - 'Sniffer Sam' advertising his drug-finding nose rather than miles of toilet paper. I watch a small boy searching the lockers for forgotten coins, learning at three how to get something for nothing. You read yet again the charters which promise how respectfully your man will be treated in Her Majesty's prison. Meanwhile he is being strip-searched. 'Shake 'em about mate!' and puts on a bib. Men in bibs sit, childlike, without dignity, and wait, wondering what they can possibly talk about today.

We wait. Middle-aged parents of deviant sons, solid, bill-paying people in putty-coloured clothes and well-polished shoes. The mother is stout with gold glasses and gold jewelry. She has a part-time job in Wilko's and he is retired, so they can get here every week. They don't know how they got into this situation. There are grandmothers, exhausted from the trip. Teenagers, always cool, chatty and solicitous when it is a first visit. 'You'll want to cry when you say goodbye, but you mustn't you've got to be brave for their sake.' They have small tattoos and pierced belly buttons on naked stomachs. Next to them, a woman wearing too many clothes. 'Well, it was dead cold when I left home this morning'. 'What time did you leave?' Hours of travelling for so short a reward. A girl in a red PVC suit with black spotted red-fur fabric and no tights - a ladybird with pink mottled legs - they're shaved though! Women on limited means trying to look good for their men.

Girlfriends bring in trainers, lads carry huge sound systems, but so often they are turned back. 'This is the third time I've carted all this stuff in'. 'Has he put in an application for these?' 'Yes, he put one in on Monday.' 'Well, his name is not on the list.' 'It must be.' 'Well it isn't!' Officers obeying the rules as meekly as the men they control.

At last his name is called, one door opens and then locks again, and you wait. Another door opens, and is locked again. 'When one door shuts, another always opens' my optimistic mother used to say. Not exactly, Mum, not quite. Through security, under the arch and collect the tray holding your coat and money; echoes of Heathrow, but this is no trip to the sunshine. Still, you would rather be here with him than in Benidorm without him. She pats and strokes you swiftly, feeling the underwiring of your bra; with plastic-coated hands inspects your shoes. 'Open your mouth, please.' Women complain bitterly. 'They treat us as if we're criminals too - I didn't do 'owt, he was the one who committed the crime.' Could she have stopped him from drinking and lying, stealing and taking drugs? Women have always believed they could cure their men through love, but you can't - he has to do the stopping. But maybe you can make him want to. More waiting. We walk across the yard watched by men who have not visitors today, and by some who never have visitors at all'.

The 'initial greeting' - so short, so inadequate - then coffee from the WRVS ladies, chocolate and chat. Chat about TV, news, family and friends; plenty of detail so that somehow he can feel he was there too. Mostly it's talk of things, events and other people, and only sometimes does he say how he really feels - he still thinks that he must protect you; and only sometimes doe you tell him how much you need him because you know his life is tougher than yours. If you do say these things you will both have tears in your eyes. You know he will not want to be seen crying by anyone in this room, although they must all have been there too; and you can't lean forward to hug him and hide his tears in your hair. 'Limit physical contact.' Only anger breaks out. A woman suddenly stands and strides out, leaving her seven-year-old-son. His dad wants to go after her but an officer intervenes - the visit is over. The child stands looking bewildered as we watch his mum. Small babies conceived before the crime are proudly displayed; toddlers run around and are caught up by their proud dads - dads anchored to one spot. A young mum calls to her red-haired son, 'Carrot! Come 'ere!' Where is he going with a name like that? A man's voice calls out a cell number and a head turns enquiringly; a message is mimed across the room. A prison number, a cell number, a mispronounced surname - who is he now, this man you love?

'Finish your visits'. Time for the farewell. The joy and the pain of that embrace is somehow disorientating. Yet you have to move away and leave him with a wave and a kiss on you own fingertips. We walk across the yard under the gaze of men who have kissed no one today; some never do. Grab your bag and your pound coin from the locker and get out quickly. Find some privacy. You need to feel what you are feeling, cry for a while and then see if you manager to get through another week or so ... until its time to shave your legs again.

Louise Granger is a pseudonym. This powerful piece of writing won first prize in the Prison Reform Trust Article Competition 2000 and is reproduced with their kind permission.

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