DR AMANDA BROWN is a GP at the largest women-only prison in Europe, Bronzefield. She was a regular NHS GP for a number of years, until she gave up her practice to move into the prison service. She worked at a teenage detention centre, before moving on to Wormwood Scrubs and then finally to Bronzefield where she continues to practise to this day.

Also by Dr Amanda Brown

The Prison Doctor

The Prison Doctor: Women Inside

Stories from my time inside Britain’s biggest women’s prison

Dr Amanda Brown with Georgina Rodgers

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Dr Amanda Brown 2020

Dr Amanda Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

This is a work of non-fiction, based on real events. Names and identifying characteristics and details have been changed to protect the identity and privacy of individuals.

This book deals with sexual assault, substance abuse and other difficult topics. The author has taken great lengths to ensure the subject matter is dealt with in a compassionate and respectful way, but it may be troubling for some readers. Discretion is advised.

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008386924

Version 2020-06-09

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In loving memory always of my beloved

mother and father, and of their unconditional

love and the values they instilled in me.

‘But there is that within me which will tire

torture and time, and breathe when I expire.’

LORD BYRON

‘Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and

rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.’

RUMI

This book is dedicated to all the abused and

homeless women I have met at Bronzefield,

and to so many other fascinating people who

have been kind enough to share their stories

with me, with gratitude, love and respect.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘I’ve got no one and nothing, not even my own teeth’

MURDER

The word sprung out at me from the smudged screen of the computer and my heart sank. I was in my small and windowless consulting room in Bronzefield prison. I was halfway through an evening Reception shift, meeting new prisoners to assess and discuss their medical issues and prescribe any medication they might need. I was only two hours into my shift but was already feeling weary. Despite having met many prisoners who had committed murder, the impact of the word always caused the same reaction in me: shock, horror, and a deep sadness.

I scrolled up the screen to read the nurse’s entry.

Rebecca was 27 years old and it was her first time in prison. That in itself was a surprise. I have seen so many prisoners return time and time again, that when I meet someone who has never been inside before, it’s unusual.

Many of the residents’ lives are so chaotic, complex and traumatic, that for some of them prison is a refuge. A shelter for the homeless and often a place to get help with addictions. The women return for a variety of crimes, such as shoplifting, theft, robbery, burglary, fraud, arson, kidnap, GBH or ABH.

Rarely murder.

When I reached the holding cell, I saw the door was open and there were five women in there. Two were lying down on the stark blue plastic bench seating, looking extremely unwell, most probably because they were withdrawing from drugs. One was pale and sweaty, her hair sticking to her forehead and her eyes shut, as she tried to ride it out. The other was clutching her stomach, groaning miserably – not an unfamiliar sound to me. An overweight woman in a wheelchair stared blankly ahead of her. The other two sat quietly, and appeared to be shaken and fearful.

‘Rebecca?’ I asked as I looked around the room.

A girl’s eyes peered out from her curtain of long, deep brown hair like a cornered animal. She looked much younger than her age, with delicate features, a spray of freckles and intense eyes. She was wearing a knee-length skirt with tights and pale pink pumps, which were splattered with something dark, as was her pale grey top. I tried not to show the shock and surprise I felt, as I realised it was blood. She must have come straight to prison from the scene of the crime.

I led her back along the mottled-blue lino floor of the corridor to my room.

‘Hi, Rebecca. I’m Doctor Brown. Come and have a seat.’ I gestured to the hard and battered plastic chair. ‘I just have to go through some routine questions to make sure you are okay and see if you need any medication,’ I told her. ‘Alright?’

She didn’t reply.

I started to go through her notes. She looked shocked to her core. Her hands were trembling, and she fiddled with her cuffs, pulling them over her hands. I noticed that they were also stained dark and dirty with dried blood. I could smell it.

Metallic. Slightly sweet.

Rebecca’s eyes looked glazed and vacant; the look of someone who could not believe where she was or what was happening to her.

‘I can see here that you are charged with murder,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘I killed my partner.’ Her voice was clear but started to crack as she said the word ‘partner’.

I could see she was trying hard to stop the tears, which were pricking the corners of her eyes, from falling. She swallowed hard.

‘I stabbed him.’ She looked up at me through her fringe. ‘I just couldn’t take it any more. I couldn’t see a way out. The years of being controlled.’ She grimaced, and her voice became more defiant. ‘I was his punch bag. I just couldn’t do it any more.’

I was already fairly sure what she was going to say, having heard it so many times in Bronzefield before.

She rolled into her story, the floodgates opening. Sitting in front of me was a criminal, charged with the most serious of crimes, but she was just a normal person. She was well spoken, intelligent and articulate. She reminded me a little of the girl who cuts my hair.

Rebecca met her partner when she was 15 and he was 21. For a while, she said, they were just friends. When she was 17, he persuaded her that they would be better as a couple than as friends.

‘It sounds like such a cliché now, but he did everything for me,’ she said, her eyes downcast. ‘He treated me like a queen. He drove me to college, helped with my work, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. Everyone thought he was great; me, my parents, my friends. He was literally the golden guy. My mates really thought I’d lucked out.’

I nodded. ‘When did things change?’

‘It went wrong the first time we went away together. We went on holiday to Spain after I finished my A levels,’ she said. ‘He planned and paid for everything, said it was his way of celebrating the end of my exams. While we were there, he saw me talking to a man. I can’t even remember who he was now; a waiter, I think. We were just talking and laughing; it was completely innocent.

‘That was the first time he hit me.

‘He accused me of flirting. I had nowhere to go, so I stayed in the hotel room, cowering in the bathroom.’

I could see a flash of fear in her eyes as she recalled what had happened.

‘The next day, he was so apologetic. He was sobbing. He said he would kill himself if I left him. I’d never seen him cry like that. It was impossible not to forgive him. I covered up the bruises on my face with make-up and wore a sarong all holiday. I didn’t even go swimming in the hotel pool. I just sat on a sunbed, hugging my bruised ribs. God, it hurt so much that time.

‘That was just the start.’

It was a story that I had heard countless times before. The details and cast were different, of course, but the story of domestic abuse and violence is all too familiar. Men trying to control women and, so often, going too far.

Rebecca’s partner dominated her.

‘Then, of course, he persuaded me to not take the place I got at university – it was over two hours away from where we lived. He made me move in with him. He cut me off from my friends and family and monitored my every move.

‘He made me think I was in the wrong. Always. My attitude was wrong, my clothes were wrong, I looked like a slut,’ she explained.

I could hear the hurt and anger in her voice as she spoke. I knew that women like Rebecca often became increasingly intimidated, and frenzied with fear about when the next blow was coming, so they did everything they could to keep the peace.

‘When one of my colleagues at my office job told me I’d had “one bruise too many”, and asked me if I needed to talk, I felt I had no choice but to resign. I never went back to work. I even stopped going to see my GP in case they suspected him. He called home throughout the day to check up on me. I felt suffocated.’

Rebecca’s partner worked as an accountant and they lived in a nice part of Surrey, not that far away from the prison, with their five-year-old son.

‘So, what happened today?’ I asked gently.

‘I was in the kitchen. I was making his lunch. He always has it at 1 p.m. on the dot – he leaves the office to come home to check on me. I could see he was in one of his moods. He gets kind of twitchy, you know?’

I didn’t correct her tense.

‘He mentioned Jack. He’s not long been at school, and he’s had a few scuffles already in the playground. Just typical five-year-old boy stuff – a bit of pushing and shoving, nothing really. He said he wants him to be a man, like him. We started to row – about Jack, about everything. I hate the fact I’m stuck at home all day. All I do is clean the house. He won’t let me go anywhere or do anything. I even have to ask his permission to go to the shop to buy a pint of milk. I feel so lonely. So alone. All the time. Apart from Jack – he means everything to me. He gives me purpose…’ She tailed off, deep in thought, her face slightly brighter as she spoke about her son.

‘I can tell Jack knows what goes on. He always wets the bed when we’ve had a fight. He knows what his dad’s like; it’s all he’s ever known. Heavy fists and muffled sobs.’ Rebecca’s hair fell in front of her eyes and she pushed it away, then rested her head in one hand.

‘I couldn’t let him hurt my son like he hurts me. I just lost it, I… I’d been making sandwiches and the bread knife was on the surface, and the carving knife. I just grabbed the carving knife and stabbed him. I didn’t honestly realise what was happening until it was too late.’

It struck me how desperate Rebecca must have been to do something like that. How powerful that feeling of hopelessness and despair must’ve been for her to physically do that to him.

To strike him hard enough to kill him.

‘The only time he ever stopped hitting me was when I was pregnant. But once Jack arrived, he started again, saying I was putting the baby before him. Always seeing to Jack and never looking after him. There were so many times he almost killed me. Believe me. It was either us or him.

‘I got him in the chest. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t quite believe I’d done it. I’ve never hurt a fly. He staggered around for a minute or two, shouting at me, and then fell on the floor.’ Rebecca’s voice was dull and unemotional as she relayed what had happened. Her eyes were glassy and her face was expressionless. I imagined the true horror of the event would not sink in for many days, or even weeks or months.

‘I still couldn’t believe what I’d done. It was like I was in a dream that I couldn’t wake up from. The blood was spreading all over the floor, and he lay there completely still. I was panicking, but knew I had to do the right thing. I called the police and then my mum. Before I knew it, two paramedics arrived. The police must have sent them. They said he was still alive. They tried to save him, but he died within minutes of them turning up.

‘I wanted to clean up the kitchen. I got the mop out. I didn’t want to leave it for someone else to do, but the police wouldn’t let me. They brought me straight here.’

Rightly or wrongly, I felt for her. I could see she didn’t realise the enormity of what she had done. She was desperate, and like so many of the women I see, was despairing and couldn’t see a way out.

We continued to go through Rebecca’s notes. She didn’t use drugs and was not a heavy drinker and she had no medical issues. She was a young woman, who was fit and well.

‘What am I going to do about my son? Will I see him?’ Her voice sounded almost hopeful, that things would not change for her and her son.

For most mothers, being apart from their children must cause the most indescribable pain. I simply couldn’t imagine what that must be like for anyone, especially for someone with very young children.

‘You said your mum’s got him?’ I replied, softly.

‘Yes. She said she would pick him up from school. I guess he must’ve had his tea by now. Done his reading – he’s starting to read now. It’s amazing, and the books are so funny. He’ll be in bed by now, I suppose. I hope he has his favourite teddy.’ She paused, her mind ticking over, like most mothers, the things they do every night to keep their kids happy and comfortable. ‘When will I see him again?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know,’ I replied. All I did know was that the chances were, if she was found guilty to the charge of murder, she was likely to be in prison for a very long time.

I put my hand gently on hers. ‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. I hope you cope with being in prison, and that you will soon be able to see your little boy.’

The prison officer standing outside came in and led her away. That was the first and last time I ever saw Rebecca. I never knew whether she lived to regret what she had done, or if she was able to see her son regularly whilst she was inside. I simply got a snapshot of her existence, and happened to be there on what must have been the most shocking and tragic day of her life.

The Reception shift in Bronzefield involved seeing to the new prisoners who had arrived from one of the ninety-five courts the prison serves, or from police custody, before they were taken to the house blocks by the officers to start their stint behind bars. Many of them would be withdrawing from a medley of drugs and alcohol, and would need medication to get them through the night. My shift started at 5 p.m. and lasted until 9 p.m. but it was often not possible to see all the new arrivals in that time. They would be seen by the on-call doctor, if needs be. Whatever crimes they had committed, they still needed to be cared for. Some had very complex physical and mental health issues, arriving with bags of different medications: a jumble of boxes, bottles and pill packets, some of them empty, often many of them out of date. Sometimes it seemed to me like they had simply swept the top of their bedside table into a bag in anticipation of not going home for a while. These medications needed to be checked and prescribed on the computer, before the nurses could administer them.

I felt pensive after seeing Rebecca, and wondered how she would cope with the days that would follow, away from her son. I took a deep breath of stuffy air and padded out of my room, along the strip-lit hallway to the small waiting area.

A warming smell of jacket potatoes wafted out of the little kitchen area and made my stomach rumble, reminding me of the fact I hadn’t eaten since mid-morning. Food is provided in Reception for the new arrivals who won’t make it back to the house block in time for the evening meal. The kitchen is kitted out with a small fridge, microwave and chest freezer, supplying the basics, including bread for toast. Often dinner for the new arrivals is a simple jacket potato, with a dollop of beans and handful of cheese.

It was obviously a jacket potato day. For many of them, it would be their first proper cooked meal in days.

‘Hi, Doc.’ Melissa and Shamir, two prison officers, greeted me, smiling. We exchanged a few words.

‘It’s really busy tonight,’ Melissa said with a sigh. She sounded exasperated as she tried to sort out one of the girl’s possessions – a jumble of clothing and prescription medicine that she was passing over the large countertop. Behind the wide counter are rows upon rows of small lockers to house the women’s possessions whilst they are inside. When they are released, they are given back the items.

‘Yes, it looks crazy,’ I replied, scanning the scene in front of me.

The process of getting into the prison can be slow. Some cases are more complex than others. After prisoners arrive inside from their ride in the uncomfortable ‘sweat box’ to the prison, they are processed into the system. This involves searches, sorting their clothing, and getting their ‘welcome pack’.

I could see one girl being handed a white string bag, containing a handful of items, including a mug, a plastic knife, fork and spoon, toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, soap, conditioner, six pairs of knickers and socks, two tracksuits, a nightie, tea and coffee, and a hairbrush. These packs are compiled by the residents who work in Reception, earning from £2.40 to £3.20 a day, which they can spend how they wish on items like moisturiser, vapes and snacks. The girls can also take some of their own clothes to wear, if they wish, but many of them only have the clothes that they are standing up in. The prisoners then meet with the nurse, to go through their medical notes, and all those that require medication would be added to my list. There could sometimes be more than fifteen new residents needing to be processed, and sometimes I would need to spend thirty to forty minutes going through their medical history and medication. Any newcomer that had not been seen by the end of my shift would be seen by the duty doctor for any essential medication and then added to the GP list to be reviewed the following morning. It was a finely tuned process that was often exhausting and challenging. But at times, it was also very rewarding. It kept me on my toes, and it was definitely never boring.

There were women standing and sitting everywhere, up and down the corridor. The noise was bouncing off the walls.

One woman was screaming to the officer: ‘But I don’t wanna share a fucking cell. Last time I was in ’ere I was put in with a right wrong ’un. I ain’t sharing again. I got to ’ave a single cell.’

There were also happy shrieks and joyful whoops as girls were reunited with familiar faces from previous sentences. Also in the mix were a handful of girls who looked withdrawn, scared and bedraggled.

Some women were heading off to have a shower, clutching thin towels and small bottles of shower gel. There are showers within the Reception area along the main corridor, so once the women have checked their belongings in, many choose to have a wash, especially those who are homeless and may not have showered for days. Others were on the two phones, chatting noisily to their families and recounting the events of the day, whilst some girls queued patiently behind them, obviously desperate to speak with their families before they got locked up for the night. Several were walking to the toilets with small plastic pots, to provide urine samples, screening for infection, drugs, and if indicated, pregnancy.

Also milling up and down the corridor were peer support workers in blue T-shirts.

These are longer-term residents who help new arrivals find their feet and answer the many questions they may have about prison life. During their first few days in prison, residents are said to be at their most vulnerable, and are at high risk of self-harm. I smiled at one of the peer support workers, Amber, as I passed her. Petite, with dark features, she was always positive and upbeat. We often worked together in Reception and I loved her bright and warm company. She gave me a cheerful nod back as she guided a new arrival to one of the small interview rooms. Through the cacophony of noise, I could easily hear her talking with reassuring and soothing tones. This peer support can be invaluable in helping the women through the first few hours.

Some women were waiting in small holding areas to see the nurse or to go through paperwork. As I walked along, I could see another woman locked in a holding room, shouting at the top of her voice to be let out, and banging the door with her shoe, her dreadlocked hair sticking out in all directions and her eyes wild.

The noise ricocheted around me as the throbbing life of prison Reception played out its daily drama.

Scrolling down my list, I spotted a familiar name. Shannon was someone I’d grown to know well. Repeat offenders, sometimes called the ‘frequent flyers’ by prison staff, make up by far the majority of the women I meet. So much so that one of the questions on the medical template I go through when I see them is to ask when they were last released from prison. When Shannon came back into custody I was never surprised because she had been homeless for years. I was always glad to see her as I had grown to like and understand her. It was like meeting an old friend again and made my job so much more enjoyable. But every time she was released, I hoped I wouldn’t see her back again.

I looked into the waiting area and saw her sitting down with her head in her hands. Rather than jump up and greet me with her usual toothless grin and a ‘Hello, Doc!’ I could see she was agitated and crying. She was wearing a grubby blue tracksuit. I glimpsed the top of her head; her auburn hair was matted and greasy.

‘Shannon?’

She looked up and slumped back in her chair for a moment, a look of relief on her haggard and pock-marked face.

‘Come on,’ I said as I led her to my little room.

I shut the door and she gave me a hug as the various smells associated with living rough, like body odour, dirty feet, and foul breath, soon filled the air.

‘What’s happened? You’re never normally like this?’ I asked.

‘Doc… it’s good to see you. The judge… he said…’ She started sobbing. Messy and loud, snot-filled sobs. ‘He called me a worthless wretch.’

A worthless wretch, I thought, what an awful thing to say.

I was momentarily stunned by the language the judge had used. Judges can use their summary judgements to say what they like and whilst this is normally a standard administrative process, this judge had obviously made his personal views known. I couldn’t help but think about the vast gulf between the day-to-day lives of Shannon and the judge who had just sentenced her. Society and the judge might see Shannon as a useless criminal, but she didn’t see herself like that, and neither did I, because I understood the dreadful details of her life that inevitably had led Shannon to commit crime.

‘You are not worthless, and you are not a wretch,’ I told her firmly. ‘I really believe you can make something of your life. And I am sure you will, if you can get the help you need.’

I tore off a large piece of paper towel from the roll and passed it to her. She clutched it and wiped her dirty face. Shannon had substance misuse issues and I could already see the signs of withdrawal. Beads of sweat were visible on her forehead and she had goosebumps on her track-marked arms.

We started to go through the routine medical questions, though I knew Shannon’s medical history well. After all, this was the ninth time I had seen her in around two years.

‘Okay, let’s sort out your medication Shannon, so that you can go over to House Block One as soon as possible to get your methadone,’ I said.

Before my time in prison I had worked as a GP for twenty years in the community near where I live in Buckinghamshire, but had very rarely treated patients who had ever been involved with the criminal justice system. Like many others, the mainstream media soundbites meant that before I started to work in prisons, my opinion was condensed down into a narrative of ‘good people’ and ‘bad people’, with a clichéd list of ‘bad’ characters ranging from violent psychopath to petty criminal. The reality is far more complex.

Female offenders are some of the most vulnerable people within our society. Women make up just five per cent of the prison population in England and Wales, and the vast majority are imprisoned for non-violent offences, and are often sentenced for a matter of just weeks at a time. Many of them are caught in a vicious cycle of domestic violence, drug abuse and homelessness. Written off by society, they disappear into a world that most of us are oblivious to, of lost invisible souls who have no voice. I am now all too aware of the awful lives so many of them have to endure, as are many other people and organisations who work tirelessly to try to help in all sorts of different ways.

These are often brave, funny and kind women, who are trapped, and without hope so often of a better life, and they are at risk of being dismissed and vilified by society. They are human like us, and they face the same battles many of us do, yet their lives are just much harder.

There are many, many issues and obstacles in the way of them rehabilitating and breaking free of the way of life they are caught up in. Their lives are often desperate and can spiral into the most savage circumstances. Far too many of them are sleeping on the streets. If they are lucky, they may ‘sofa-surf’ with friends and family, but all too often they inevitably head back to the streets, having outstayed their invitation. The last time I had seen Shannon, she had been sleeping in a stairwell near Victoria station. She’d told me the day before her release that she was planning to return to her old spot and had given me a scrappy piece of paper with biro scrawl, which read ‘Elizabeth Bridge, Victoria.’

‘Come and try and find me, won’t you? When you’re next in London,’ she’d said, like any old friend inviting me round for a coffee. I wanted Shannon to hope for a better life for herself, however impossible it may seem given the shocking life she was living on the streets. In reality, her life was one of despair and hopelessness. Despair was sadly evident in so many of the people I had come to know through the course of my day-to-day work.

By far the majority of the women I see have experienced or continue to experience some kind of trauma. Many have a history of domestic violence and sexual abuse. They live in terror and this leads to substance abuse, self-harm, suicide attempts and serious mental health issues.

‘What are you in for this time?’ I asked her gently.

‘I nicked a laptop from Currys. Thought I could sell it to my mate, Mike – he’s always got cash.’

‘How long are you here for?’

‘Just twenty-eight days. I was only out two weeks ago.’

Women often serve far shorter sentences for minor crimes like theft and shoplifting and are locked up for a matter of weeks, before leaving to go back onto the streets, only to reoffend and come back in – hence the frequent flyer moniker. The longest sentence Shannon had received was two years when she was in her late teens.

She was now 26 and had been using drugs for over a decade.

‘How much heroin are using at the moment, Shannon?’ I asked. ‘Are you still buying benzos and pregabs as well?’

‘I usually spend about 100 quid on crack and a 100 quid on heroin every day,’ she told me. ‘I’m also taking about 40mg of diazepam and as many pregabs as I can get my hands on. The drugs and booze just get me through. Some days I feel like I’m drowning. It all just helps me to forget the evil shit I’ve been through.’

‘How much are you drinking now?’ I asked.

‘A bottle of vodka a day, if I can get it,’ she replied staring at her feet.

Shannon sat forward, grasping her stomach and wincing in pain because she had really bad abdominal cramps due to withdrawal.

‘I think I’m gonna be sick,’ she said, clutching her hand to her mouth.

I looked around the room for a disposable bowl and fortunately found one in the corner, which I quickly handed to her.

‘Here you go, Shannon,’ I said.

I sat and waited in silence until she felt able to continue talking.

‘I live from one hit to the next. I owe my dealers money and I spend my life in fear. They keep coming after me. Say I owe them more and more. I’ve lost track of it all now, and I don’t know how I’m going to pay them back.’ She sounded terrified. Women were not simply scared of violent partners. Men dominating these women came in all guises. Many women turn to sex work to keep their dealers happy.

She had also been sleeping rough for the majority of her adult life, heading to the streets with a measly bag of possessions and a sleeping bag to find somewhere she could call her own – even if this was a shop door, in a stairwell or under a bridge. Solving housing issues for this section of society is hugely challenging. Many organisations use online systems to process requests and details, but women without their own phone or access to the internet cannot get near them. Shannon always sold the cheap phones she got her hands on for drugs, and aside from the odd night in a hostel, she was on her own. She had no bank account. She had fallen through all the nets.

Over the many hours I had spent before then with Shannon trying to tackle her drug and alcohol dependency, I had heard her story in full.

‘My dad beat up my mum so badly when she was expecting me, it’s a miracle I’m here at all,’ she said. ‘Even after all that, she stayed with him. He was locked up when I was two and I never saw him again.’

Her mum worked three jobs to put food on the table and became involved with another man. Her new stepfather soon moved into the house.

‘He was a bastard. Mum had two more kids with him. He would play us all off against each other. It was like some sort of weird power game of cat and mouse.’

Her face looked pale and impassive.

‘We would all be beaten in turn. I was always the last because I’m the eldest. Listening to my sisters cry and scream before me was unbearable.’ Her voice started to crack.

‘I would hide under my duvet and put my pillow over my head, but nothing would drown out the noise.’

The tears started to fall as she relived the memory. I gently placed my hand on her arm, a little comfort as she talked.

‘My stepdad would beat and rape my mum in front of us, and he would come into our rooms after Mum left at night. She worked as a cleaner at the local leisure centre.’

‘He sounds like a really evil man,’ I said, deeply sickened by her awful tale.

‘First, it was just weird touching, but when I was eight, he started raping me. I could never scream, as he was so heavy. I felt I couldn’t breathe. I would just look at the tree outside my window and pray it would be over,’ she told me. ‘I never told my mum. I didn’t want her to be upset.’ The lengths people would go to protect the people they loved never ceased to amaze me, and often left me speechless. I frequently met people who took the blame for crimes they did not commit; from mothers who claimed the drugs in the house were theirs and not their kid’s, to girlfriends who provided an alibi or who covered up for their partners in other ways.

‘Me and my sisters were always hungry, and I sometimes passed out at school. I was terrified about my mum getting into trouble, so I would lie and say that I’d had some toast or cereal for breakfast.’

Thankfully, Shannon’s mum met someone new and their lives changed for a few years. The abuse stopped and there was more money for food, and birthday and Christmas presents.

When Shannon met her first boyfriend at 14, sadly the cycle of abuse started again. She became dependent on drugs and alcohol and started bunking off school. Her grades had never been good, and she was struggling to keep up. Eventually, her mum threw her out, because she didn’t want her drug use to influence her sisters. She ended up on the streets. She had no qualifications, and having lost contact with her mum and sisters a long time ago, she also had no support network on the outside.

‘I’ve got no one and nothing. Not even my own teeth,’ she said, showing me a gappy mouth with a few rotten, brown teeth, worn down to stumps from the years of drug use and neglect.

Those words seemed to sum up the story of so many women I had come to know during my time working at Bronzefield.

I knew Shannon’s history and needed to help her manage the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal, and to stabilise her on methadone whilst she was in prison. Realistically there was not enough time for her to detox from methadone, and there was also a risk of her overdosing on heroin after release if she was on too low a dose. It was not going to be easy for her; it never was.

I had learnt early on in my time at Bronzefield that the women themselves had to want to stop using drugs and conquer their addictions. No matter what I or anybody else did or said, it was up to them to make that choice and see it through.

‘I haven’t got any drugs in my lady pocket, Doctor Brown. Honest,’ she said. I knew that she had smuggled drugs into prison in her vagina before – it was an obvious way for many prisoners, as internal searches are not permitted.

She looked up and gave me a smile, so I would know. If she told me she had drugs on her I would have to report her, so I swiftly moved on to sorting out her medication. As we chatted away, the upset of the judge’s comments seemed to fade, and I started to see the old smiley Shannon emerge.

‘To be honest, in some ways I’m happy to be back and have a warm place to sleep. It’s getting proper cold out there now. My sleeping bag got soaked in the rain the other night and it just won’t dry. And I’m starving,’ she rattled on. ‘I can’t just sit there all day. Shoplifting gives me something to do. That, and riding round the Circle Line. It’s warm, and much more comfortable than just sitting on the street. I also feel safer when I’m not sitting on the street. I’m so scared the dealers will find me and beat me up again.

‘It’ll be nice to be with some of my mates again. We understand each other. I’ll keep busy in here, maybe try and learn something; get back on the education programme. It’s good to know I’ll feel safe at night again, for a while.’

This was something I heard again and again from the prisoners. Being in prison for many women is far safer than being on the outside. She was back in a place she associated with safety, familiarity, security, and even opportunity. With three meals a day and regimented timetabling, she also wouldn’t need to make many decisions for herself.

As well as addictions to crack cocaine – a crystallised form of cocaine – and heroin, Shannon drank heavily and was addicted to benzodiazepines and pregabalin. Highly addictive, benzodiazepines – referred to as ‘benzos’ by the inmates – are drugs like diazepam and Xanax and were originally prescribed for anxiety when they first came on the market in the 1960s. Many girls I see are addicted to high doses of these drugs because it calms them down. Pregabalin is another prescription-only drug used to treat epilepsy, general anxiety disorder and neuropathic pain. Like heroin, it induces feelings of euphoria and calmness and is hugely addictive, so there is a rampant black market for this drug. Many of the women I see say that it is harder to withdraw from pregabalin than heroin.

‘It’s just so awful,’ they tell me, with haunted expressions.

Shannon was addicted to so much that withdrawal from it all was medically a blurred picture. Her face was glistening with sweat and her hands were shaking. As she looked at me, I could see that her pupils were widely dilated. She would experience a whole range of debilitating symptoms over the coming days and possibly weeks, including diarrhoea, abdominal cramps, nausea and vomiting, shivering, sweating, anxiety, panic attacks and paranoia.

I started typing out a whole list of medications that she would need to enable her to cope.

Methadone is prescribed as a substitute for heroin and helps to ease withdrawal symptoms from opiates and reduce the cravings. Bright green in colour, it is a slow-acting opiate substitute and is prescribed in a liquid form. Most people that take it say that it tastes disgusting. In the past, all prisoners were expected to detox completely from methadone if they were due to remain in custody for more than three months, but this is no longer the case. Often, especially in the case of a short sentence, it has to be ‘titrated up’, to try to protect the user from overdosing on release, or to control their dreadful symptoms of withdrawal.

Prisoners are given their daily dose by the nurses at 9 a.m. but if the dose is not high enough, it won’t hold them through until the next day.

We agreed on a dose to build up to, and along with methadone, I prescribed all the other medications she would need to combat her withdrawal symptoms.

‘I know I say this every time I see you,’ Shannon grinned. ‘But you really are like a mother to me. Thank you.’

I stood up to give her another hug.

‘Good luck, Shannon,’ I told her. ‘Be good.’

‘I’ll try, I really will.’

Deep down, I knew I would almost certainly be seeing her again after her current stay. I always, always hoped girls like Shannon would get their lives back on track, but it felt like she had the odds stacked against her. The statistics state that the more previous custodial sentences a woman has had, the higher her reoffending rate; the reoffending rate for women with eleven or more previous convictions is eighty-three per cent. It’s sad but it makes sense that just as women’s paths into crime are chaotic and complex, so their paths out to a better life are likely to hit just as many bumps along the road.

I glanced at my watch. It was just past 8 p.m. and I was feeling really tired and ready to go home. Despite the fact that I had been working in prisons for many years, I had never become immune to the rawness of it; the shock, fear, relief, sadness, shame, despair. It was a melting pot of extremes, and emotionally draining. So often, I was all too aware that I had very little to offer the people I was meeting, as I could not change the fact of where they were and what they had done. All I could hope to do was to try and offer a bit of kindness and reassurance, and to relieve any physical pain and suffering they may be going through. I try my best, if I possibly can, to take the edge off their undoubted apprehension, as I realise it must be so overwhelming and intimidating for some people to find themselves in prison. It is strange that whatever their crime and however awful, it fades into the background momentarily and I just see them as a scared and shocked human being. I am so used to the environment that I feel totally comfortable within the prison walls. But I find myself trying to imagine seeing it through their eyes, and wonder how it would feel if I was sitting in that chair opposite me.

As I was finishing off my notes on Shannon, Amber popped in to ask if I would like a cup of coffee.

‘I would love one. Thank you, Amber,’ I replied without giving it a second thought. ‘How has your day been? Any gossip?’ I asked her, hoping for a little light relief. Amber always cheered me up, as she is blessed with such a wonderful sunny nature and positive outlook on life.

‘Nothing much, Doctor Brown,’ she replied. ‘Same old, same old. I’m really happy though, because my family are coming to visit tomorrow, and I can’t wait to see them. Also, I’m reading a brilliant book – a thriller – which is really gripping.’

We chatted for a few minutes about the book and then she went off to get me a drink. It felt good to have people like Amber around. During my time working in Reception, I had become very close with the women who worked there and we tried to look out for each other. I thought how lucky I was to have them with me; we were like a little family and there was a lovely sense of belonging between us. Whenever I felt a bit down, they always managed to cheer me up.

A prison officer wheeled the next patient along the corridor, manoeuvring the heavy chair with some difficulty, taking a number of turns to get into my room.

In front of me was a black woman, in clean clothes and bright mauve lipstick. She was very overweight, with rolls of flesh sagging over the side of her chair.

I glanced at her notes. Gloria was 68 and had a multitude of medical complaints, including a condition that affected her joints. I read that she had already undergone two hip replacements. She also suffered from type 2 diabetes and hypertension, and was unable to walk due to the severe pain in her knees. This explained the wheelchair.

‘Hi Gloria, I’m Doctor Brown…’ I started telling her about what I was doing and why she had been sent to see me.

I went through my usual questions, one of which was to ask what she had been charged with.

Gloria explained that she had been charged with fraud, but she denied any involvement.

‘… but I didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘I got caught up in something I didn’t understand. I didn’t realise it was illegal. I’ve been given three years, Doctor Brown. Three years! Surely that’s not right?’ She looked at me imploringly. ‘I’ve never been in trouble before in my life.’

Gloria had come straight from the court where she had been sentenced, so it was clear that whatever she felt, the judge felt differently.

Fraud is not an uncommon crime, and includes benefit fraud and other far more elaborate types of fraud, including complex money laundering. This is one of the convictions that many women really struggle to come terms with. They often feel angry that they have ended up in prison as they didn’t realise the severity of what they were doing.

I asked her about her long and complicated medical history. As we chatted it was clear that Gloria’s main support was from her husband, Reg. They lived north of Manchester on their own and didn’t have children. They only had each other.

‘It’s not going to be easy for him to come and see me, is it?’ she said, looking despondent

‘When you get to the house block, have a chat with the officers,’ I told her. ‘They’ll be able to help you, and tell you what you need to do next to try and arrange a visit.’

I knew the prison did their best to help residents maintain family ties by facilitating visits and contact, but of course, as with most things in life, there are forms to fill and protocols to follow.

‘Who’s going to help me get in and out of bed?’ she asked. ‘Reg does that for me. He gets me up, cooks my breakfast and helps me get dressed. He sits me in front of This Morning on the TV, before he goes to get the paper.

‘I’ll be lost without him,’ she continued. ‘I just don’t know how I’m going to cope.’

She continued to tell me about their daily routine, down to the finest detail, with Reg featuring in every element of her day. I felt for Gloria. Her sentence was years, not months, and it was going to be hard for her to adjust, assuming she ever would.

Thirty minutes later, I had completed her notes on the computer and prescribed everything she would need for the time being. She looked relieved but nervous.

‘They will get my pills to me on time, won’t they?’ she asked, her eyes flicking from me to the computer and back again.

For many women, the fact they are not allowed to keep their medication with them, that it is handed out by the nurses, is another loss of liberty.

‘The nurses will give your medication to you each day,’ I explained. ‘Once you are settled, you will have an in-possession risk assessment – it’s called an IPRA – to see if you can look after your own medication. But up until then, I’m afraid you’ll just have to go to the nurses for it.’

She looked resigned to the fact that there was nothing she could say to alter the situation.

She added: ‘The other thing is I also suffer from claustrophobia. I hate being in lifts, and any small space, in fact. Even being in this room makes me feel nervous.’

Gloria’s new home would be a small cell, with only enough space for a narrow bed, sink, desk and a toilet. With a door that would be locked. And many doors would be locked behind that door.

As I finished my shift that evening and walked across the car park to make my way home around the M25, I wondered how Gloria, Rebecca and Shannon, and the other women I had met that night, would cope with the new phase of their lives. How prepared they would be for the many challenges they might face, and how they would handle them.

Chapter Two

‘I know I am being punished but I don’t want my child to be punished too’

‘Just look at his tiny fingers.’

I was sitting in the little consulting room in the Healthcare wing one morning during my regular clinic. In front of me was a new mother gazing into her buggy. Inside the buggy was the most beautiful baby, his face all scrunched up, his fists clenched and hot cheeks glowing. His eyes twitched and opened momentarily like he was having the most vivid and exhilarating dream. At four weeks old, the smattering of milk spots on his nose, cheeks and forehead, a common and completely normal skin condition that babies get, were starting to fade. Megan had tucked him in carefully, with a soft grey blanket decorated with ducks, covering him to his chest. On his head, he was wearing a knitted blue hat.

‘He’s gorgeous, Megan. I’m really happy for you.’ I smiled at her. ‘Congratulations.’

‘I never thought I could love something as much as I love him,’ she continued, looking tenderly at him. ‘Dylan has made me want to be a better person, to do better, y’know?’

I nodded.

As a mother, of course I knew. There is something about having children that makes most people determined to be the best versions of themselves they can possibly be.

My regular GP clinic at Bronzefield does not discriminate. In addition to dealing with lots of drug and alcohol issues, patients arrive with a whole selection of medical complaints, some more serious than others. From time to time, this includes new mothers, who enter my clinic with their little charges in tow. They are just like any other mothers of newborns outside prison: usually exhausted and often with grey shadows under their eyes, sometimes pale and feeling sore after the birth, but more often than not, completely in love with their babies.

She brushed her hand through her cropped, dyed red hair and gazed lovingly at her son.

‘I do feel guilty he’s been born while I’m in here,’ she added. ‘I don’t want him to hate me for it when he’s older. But I’m going to make it up to him. Do better. I know I’m being punished but I don’t want him to be punished too. I’m trying to make the best of it.

‘My room on the MBU is great, I love it there. I’ve made it really cosy and Dylan has his little corner with all his stuff. I never knew babies could get through so many nappies and clothes!’

Alongside the house blocks at Bronzefield is an established twelve-room Mother and Baby Unit (MBU). As well as rooms for single babies, there is one room specifically designed for mothers of twins, taking the child capacity to thirteen. This allows women who give birth while they are in prison to stay with their children until they are 18 months old.

Megan had moved to the unit as soon as she returned from hospital just after she had given birth.

‘I was like a whale before Dylan was born, my bump got to a room five minutes before I did,’ she laughed. ‘I was enormous!’

‘How was the birth?’ I asked.

‘I went by ambulance to the local hospital. It was a bit weird, having the officers there with me, but at least I didn’t have to be cuffed to them. The rules have changed, apparently,’ she said.

‘They were outside the room and I was screaming and shouting so much I had a sore throat afterwards! They were nice though, and joked that their ears were ringing when it was all finally over.’ She then smiled sadly. ‘I could choose a birthing partner to be with me, and I’d have loved my mum to be with me, y’know, or my sister, but they live too far away.

‘I can’t wait for them to meet him at next month’s Stay and Play Day at the MBU. Mum is absolutely desperate to meet him.

‘The birth went on for hours. It was so painful, I thought I was gonna die,’ she said, rhythmically pushing her buggy backwards and forwards in the tiny room. ‘Honestly, it’s a bit of a blur now. But he’s okay, and that’s all that matters, really, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is, you’ve done really well… I hope you’re managing to get as much rest as you can. It’s so important,’ I told her. ‘So, how can I help you today, Megan?’

‘It’s my tits. They’ve both been a bit sore, but now the left one’s red and feels rock hard and like it’s on fire. It’s really painful too!’

‘Okay, let’s have a look and see what’s going on. Can you lie down on the couch and let me examine you?’

Megan lay down and then pulled up her Nike jumper and released her breasts from the greying nursing bra.

‘The bra ain’t very sexy – one of the other mums on the MBU gave it to me, but at least there’s no one else to see it, thank goodness,’ she laughed.

‘Don’t I count?’ I smiled.

Her left breast was engorged, red, and felt hot to touch. Her nipple was also cracked and tender.

‘It’s agony when I feed him,’ she explained. I popped the thermometer in her ear and took her temperature, which was slightly raised. It was clear that she had mastitis, an infection that occurs in the tissue of the breast, most commonly during breast-feeding.

‘Are you still managing to breast-feed him?’ I asked her.

‘Yeah, all he wants to do all the time is feed, feed, feed. He’s a right greedy guts!’ she said. ‘It took a while to get the hang of it, and my god, my tits were a mess at the start – but we got there in the end.’

‘You look like you’ve been doing a brilliant job,’ I told her. ‘He is a really good size.’

She beamed at me with a wide smile, proud as punch. ‘Yeah, he’s put on 200 grams this week… I feel close to him when I feed him. Loads of the other girls don’t wanna do it, say it messes up your body and going on formula is easier. But I’m gonna try to stick with it, at least while I can.’

‘Good for you,’ I said. Breast-feeding is an excellent way for new mums to bond with their babies and feel close to them, which is perhaps even more important when in prison than at home, where they would most likely be surrounded by friends and family.

Another of nature’s powerful tools.

‘Keep feeding him as much as you can,’ I told her. ‘It might help to ease the pain a bit. Just make sure he is properly attached.’

‘He’s going to the nursery in two weeks though,’ Megan added. ‘They’ve told me I need to go back to work. I’m doing a course in catering, which I love, and I’m really hoping I can open my own little business selling sandwiches in offices when I get out of here.’

‘I hear wonderful things about the nursery,’ I told her. Within the MBU, which is set apart from the main accommodation units, is an OFSTED-registered nursery, Little Stars, which allows the mums to do their prison jobs and education with the rest of the residents, whilst their babies are looked after by nursery nurses, from around the time the babies are six to eight weeks old. ‘It’s a lovely place,’ I told her. ‘Bright and airy with a wonderful range of colourful toys and games. There are cots for the babies to nap in and the doors open to a courtyard area, with lots of outdoor toys, like ride-ons and a little toddler climbing frame.’

‘I know, the other girls rave about it. And I already feel like I know the staff there really well. They’re always helping us out. I dunno what I’m gonna do about feeding him then,’ she added. ‘Guess he’ll have to go on the bottle. I’m feeling so exhausted though. I don’t know how I’m ever gonna get back to work.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ I told her. ‘I’m sure you will manage. You strike me as being very strong and determined.’

I thought back to when I first met Megan when she first arrived at Bronzefield. I was working in Reception that evening. She had been in a very controlling relationship for about three years. She had never been in prison before and was so scared and shocked, as she said that she had not expected to be given a custodial sentence. She didn’t even know she was pregnant when she came in, but as part of the new Reception screening process, most of the new residents have a pregnancy test when they arrive, as well as having their urine screened for drugs and alcohol.

I remember how surprised and initially distraught she was when she found out that she was expecting.

She had been charged with conspiracy to supply class A drugs, along with her older and dominant ex-boyfriend. She said that she was aware that he had been involved with dealing drugs in the past, but he had told her he was no longer doing it. She said she was totally unaware that he had drugs hidden in the flat that they shared, until the police raided their property.

‘I later found out there were drugs hidden in his sock drawer, and in all his designer trainers in our bedroom – he had loads, rows of ’em,’ she told me. ‘The first I knew about it was when I was woken up at about six in the morning, with a team of police leaning over me, telling me I was under arrest. I nearly shit myself I was that scared.’

The judge said that it was impossible that she hadn’t known that the drugs were there. Megan had sobbed throughout the Reception process, and she was still crying when my Reception shift was over.

I continued to see her from time to time over the next few months, and as her pregnancy advanced, her excitement and hope grew at the rate of her expanding belly, which was wonderful to see. She had been in touch with Birth Companions, a community-based organisation that holds weekly meetings with perinatal women within the prison, who had helped her prepare for motherhood. She was intent on being there for her baby, and being a good mum.

‘I feel like one of the lucky ones, being able to have Dylan with me,’ Megan said. ‘I made an application, and different groups of people decided it was the right decision for me and for him.’

‘He knows we’re talking about him,’ I joked, as Dylan made gentle gurgling and snuffling noises.

We both peered back into the buggy, as he stretched his arms out from where they had been tucked closely into his chest.

‘I want to start afresh. I mean, I’m only 22, and my family have stuck by me and will help me – help both of us – when we get out of here.’

‘That’s great that your family are so supportive,’ I said.

She looked thoughtful.

‘It must be so hard for the girls who don’t get to look after their babies. There was one girl on the block where I lived, whose baby girl was fostered out because her family wouldn’t take her. Her sentence was really long – a few years, I think. She was worried that her daughter might end up being adopted, and she would lose her forever. She was so desperate. It must be heartbreaking.’

When the women are in prison for a long time and there is no family available to help out, babies might go into foster care temporarily until the mother is released, or be adopted with the mother’s consent, a process called voluntary adoption.

In some cases, when the sentence is long, the baby will initially be looked after by the mother in the MBU, and then will start to spend increasing amounts of time away from the unit with family members or a foster family, to cause minimal trauma to mother and child. Babies are also taken out of the prison environment regularly, to the local parks and a nearby toddler group, so they can get used to the unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells, and to acclimatise them to life on the outside.

In cases where the baby is taken away from the mother and adopted without their permission – involuntary adoption – the sorrow can understandably be deep and profound and can make it even harder for the women to tackle their addictions and other issues. A powerful stigma exists for women who have been deemed by the courts to be unfit to look after their child or children. It is very hard for everyone involved, but ultimately, the decision always has to be made in the child’s best interests. There are many, many people involved in the care of both the mother and the baby. Mothering simply adds a whole new layer of complexity to the female prison experience and there is rarely a perfect solution.

‘I see many women in the MBU that have the chance to start afresh,’ I told Megan. ‘You are doing a great job.’

‘I hope so,’ she said, smiling and softly stroking Dylan’s little hands. ‘I just want to move on from my old life. The MBU feels really safe and I’m learning loads. The health visitors are teaching me and the others different things – how to cook, sterilise bottles, and how to get the best out of my playtime with him as he gets older.

‘It’s great being with the other girls. We’re all going through similar stuff, so we understand each other. You should see lunchtimes when we all sit together with the babies. The bigger ones make such as mess – it’s absolute carnage!’

I laughed. ‘Yes, babies don’t often follow the rulebook.’

Megan smiled.

Megan had been given a three-year sentence, but would most likely serve eighteen months in custody and the rest on licence – meaning she would spend the remainder of her sentence on the outside, but would need to stick to certain conditions, including keeping in touch with supervising officers, not committing any offences, and residing permanently at one address. This meant that unlike some mothers, hopefully, she wouldn’t be split up from her baby. If women come into prison with babies under 18 months old, they can apply for a place on the MBU, and if they get a place, they have all the normal responsibilities of parenting, from changing nappies, to bath-time, playtime and everything in between. Apart from when their babies are in the nursery, the mums are encouraged to be fully responsible for the welfare of their children.

‘It never ends,’ she told me. ‘No telly time for me.’

The mothers are also given the opportunity to shop for their babies’ things using a combination of their own funds and child support money. This helps them with issues like budgeting, so that when they return home, buying nappies, formula and other items for their babies would not feel unfamiliar. When Dylan was old enough, Megan would be able to wean him herself, using food she had bought and cooked for him.

‘Some of the other mums shop from Asda for their babies. Those Organix toddler biscuits taste so good! They’re better than the food they serve us,’ Megan chuckled.

The unit also offered a therapeutic environment and sessions around parenting, as well as practical help. The very regime of prison – the rules, the regularity of food being provided, no drugs, no domestic violence – promotes bonding with children and is ideal for young women like Megan, who need the support.

‘The team are so helpful and always have time for us,’ she told me. ‘I know some of the other residents think we have it easy on the MBU, but we don’t. It’s a tough graft!’

‘It is,’ I smiled. ‘Being a mum is very hard work!’

I prescribed a course of antibiotics and painkillers on the computer for Megan, so that she could start them straight away, and told her to come back and see me if her symptoms persisted.

‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘You’re welcome. It was really good to see you again,’ I said, and with that she wheeled her buggy and baby out of my little room and off down the corridor.

As I watched her go, a memory flashed into my head of the day I had to go back to work when my first son, Rob, was three months old. Apart from all the usual hormonal and emotional fluctuations of the postnatal rollercoaster ride, I was also struggling to imagine a future for my beloved little boy.

When I was thirty-four weeks pregnant, I was referred for a scan to check the placental flow as my bump was measuring smaller than it should’ve done at that stage of the pregnancy. I wasn’t nervous going to the scan, and I thought it was routine, so I drove there myself. I had seen enough pregnant women to know that the size of the bump often did not reflect the size of the baby. I didn’t for a moment imagine there would be anything wrong.

The consultant I was referred to in Oxford was very quiet and seemed to spend an eternity scanning me until he finally announced: ‘I can’t find his right leg.’

As he said that, my head started spinning and even though I was lying down, I felt as if I was going to pass out.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked in disbelief, wanting him to say he had made a mistake, that it wasn’t true.

He continued in an unemotional way to give me a medical list of other possible problems that Rob may have; complicated syndromes that I had never heard of, that could be associated with a limb not developing.

‘But we won’t know what else may be wrong with him until he is born,’ the consultant said.

As he carried on talking, I became more and more terrified until I convinced myself that my poor little baby was going to face a life of unimaginable difficulties.

I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know how I made it home.

Over the next ten days, my fears spiralled out of control as I imagined all sorts of dreadful scenarios. I couldn’t imagine the future and felt like I was living in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

I struggled to eat and sleep and even just to think straight in the end.

I lost a stone in weight in that time, and when I felt that I just couldn’t cope any longer the decision was made for me to have a caesarean section when I was thirty-six weeks, as there was a growing concern for both my sanity and Rob’s welfare.

I hoped and prayed with all my heart that it would only be his leg that was missing, and that all the fears and dark imaginings that had formed and grown in my mind would not prove to be a reality.

Holding him in my arms and looking into his tiny face for the first time, my love for him was immediately overwhelming, overpowering and beautiful. My fears of multiple problems were unfounded, to my massive relief. But despite my incredible love for him, I thought I could never truly be happy again. He was born with a very short bent right tibia, no fibula, and he only had three little toes on his right foot. It was obvious that he would have to undergo major surgery to enable him to walk, and would forever be dependent on a prosthetic leg.

It is impossible to know, when our children are babies, what the future will hold for them. I shed so many tears in those first few weeks, that I began to wonder if I would ever get through a day without crying. Little did I know then that he would turn out to be one of the happiest and most positive people I have ever met. He loves life with a passion, and after leaving school travelled all over the world with a spare leg in his rucksack. While on his travels he skydived and did the biggest bungee jump in the world with his one leg strapped for safety.

I still remember the dreadful thought of leaving him, and of how nervous I felt about going back to work. I had convinced myself that I had forgotten all the medicine I ever knew, and felt I had lost every tiny grain of confidence I ever possessed, especially as I’d never had much to start with. I felt the same dread of separation and loss of confidence just before going back to work when my beloved second son Charlie was three months old. It was no easier second time around. Even though it was over thirty years ago, the memory was still so clear and vivid.

By definition, the fact Bronzefield is a prison for women means it is full of mothers and the human female chains that form our society. Around two-thirds of women in prison have dependent children under the age of 18 at home. There are mothers whose kids have been taken away from them; mothers whose kids are temporarily being looked after by others; new mothers looking after their babies on the MBU; and, sometimes, mothers who have harmed their children.

In many cells are photos of kids – baby photos, school photos, holiday pics – little gummy faces staring down from the confined walls. Alongside these are scrappy bits of paper with drawings of rainbows, cars, princesses, footballs and everything in between; a complete range of children’s wonderful creations and imaginings to cheer up their rooms and make them feel a bit more homely.

Around 18,000 children per year are separated from their mothers due to imprisonment, yet only nine per cent of them are cared for by their fathers in their mothers’ absence, and only five per cent remain in their own home. One fifth of the mothers in prison were lone parents before imprisonment. The impact must be far-reaching. There is an army of women out there who take on these mothering roles. It may begin with a sudden phone call from the police station or social services. Sometimes it is only when a mother gets to Reception that she will tell an officer that she has left her child or children with a friend or neighbour who will be expecting her to pick them up. What a terrifying thought for a mother to know that she will not be able to see her children, and for her to think of the fear and shock that they may be feeling.

Many women must struggle with their identity as mothers when their children are not with them. How can you be a mother in the truest definition of the word when you are not there to care for them? The separation of mothers and their children is definitely one of the most painful aspects of being in prison for a lot of the women I meet, and the trauma of this severance must cut both ways. There are people whose job it is to aim to improve the ties between mothers and their children, but once mothers are in prison, it must be really difficult.

I was driving into prison to work a Saturday afternoon shift, and I could see a wide variety of people of all ages and ethnicities arriving to visit friends and loved ones. Some people were being pushed in wheelchairs, some had walking aids and appeared to struggle to walk, but they were all there to support the person they cared about.

As I drove up to the prison, I reflected that many of these people may have travelled a long way, and by that time the children and elderly guests might be exhausted and running on pure nerves. I could see babies being pushed in buggies along the pavements and young children skipping and laughing with excitement at the thought of seeing the person they loved. It was a strangely heart-warming sight, but at the same time it was also quite sad and thought-provoking. It was hard to imagine the huge range of emotions everyone might feel in that single day: from excitement, heightened anticipation and apprehension before the visit, to joy and happiness at being reunited, through to profound sadness and grief at being parted again. I imagined there would be many tears shed later in the day when it came to saying goodbye.

As I was pulling into a parking space, I noticed an elderly lady who appeared to be struggling a bit to get out of her car a few spaces along from me. I could see that she was on her own and so I offered her a helping hand, which she graciously accepted.

She asked if I could pass her walking stick and handbag out of the car.

‘It’s my arthritis,’ she said. ‘I can walk, I just find long distances hard and it can be quite a trek across this car park.’

‘Yes, I know it can, and it’s worse on a miserable old rainy day like this,’ I said. ‘Are you here for a visit?’

‘Yes, to see my daughter, Denise. She’s been here for four years. Are you here for a visit too?’

‘No, I work here. I’m due to start at two,’ I explained.

The lady told me that she had spent the last four years as the sole carer for her twin nine-year-old grandsons, after her daughter and her daughter’s partner were both imprisoned. She didn’t tell me what their crime was, and I didn’t like to ask.

‘We’d been led to believe that they wouldn’t be given a custodial sentence, so it came as a massive shock,’ she explained. ‘It just doesn’t seem right to take a mum from her kids, but I s’pose that’s what happens if you get on the wrong side of the law.’

Sometimes women arrive in prison while their children are still at school, not for a minute even thinking they would be given a custodial sentence when they set off for court that day. They would more likely be thinking about what they would be serving their kids for tea. Similarly, there would be children up and down the country at school expecting to go home as normal, without any idea that it would be someone different picking them up. There are no tearful goodbyes, just separation, cutting through their lives as sharp as a knife.

‘I never thought I’d end up looking after young kids at my age though,’ the woman continued. ‘It’s so exhausting but I love ’em to bits. Every day of her trial, I sat listening and waiting, hoping with all my heart for a good outcome. It wasn’t to be.

‘On the day she was sentenced and led away, the only two thoughts I had were, “How am I going to tell the children?” and “How on earth am I going to cope?” I was devastated.

‘But I couldn’t just turn my back on them and say I wasn’t going to look after them.

‘The boys were only five at the time. When their mum was sent away, I picked them up from school and they came back with me. We felt invisible. I went from being their nan to their parents but there was no way they were going to go into care. They are my grandsons; I was determined that was not going to happen. Heaven forbid.’

We started walking slowly towards the entrance where the Visitors’ Centre is located next to the staff entrance.

‘How are they doing? Are you coping okay?’ I asked.

‘They’re alright on the whole I suppose, but they have definitely been affected. I know, deep down, they’re hurting. I try to reassure them as much as I can. At first, I wasn’t sure how much to tell them, and just told them that their mum still loves them but she had to go away for making a mistake. They’re a bit older now, so I try to be honest with them about what’s happening and why. But I’m never sure whether it’s too much or too little. I mean, I’m no professional.’

Many women have told me that they simply do not tell their kids they are in prison. They weave elaborate stories about being in hospital, working away from home, or joining the Army. One 63-year-old resident told me that she had told her five-year-old granddaughter that she was in Wales painting a castle for the next six months.

‘It’s just easier that way,’ they say to me. ‘No need for them to deal with the reality. It’s all very well us being here, but they have to deal with it out there. Go to school and hear people gossip. I don’t want to put them through that.’

‘You can only do your best,’ I told the lady as we walked through the car park, hoping to reassure her a little.

‘Trouble is, other people get to know your situation and the boys have been badly bullied by some of the kids at school, and on the street where we live,’ she explained. ‘Kieron still wets the bed. I’ve been into school loads of times to try and sort it out, and they say they will, but it still happens. They still get bullied.

‘They’re on a trip today with the Cubs, but I try to bring them to see her as much as I can, to keep the relationship going, but it can be hard as the visits are a bit difficult sometimes. Occasionally Kieron doesn’t want to come with us. He’s quite angry about everything. Again, between school and me, we’re doing our best to help him, but he lashes out at us and I know his behaviour is bad. As he grows up it’s getting worse. I worry that they’re going to end up going down the same road as their mum. That would totally destroy me. I think the world of them.

‘She calls us as much as possible, but it can be a struggle to know what to talk about sometimes. She’s got a job, and has done some education courses, and she seems to be doing her best to make a better life, so she can support the boys when she comes out. I hope so, but it might take me a lot of time to trust her again.

‘I try to give them a normal life as best I can but it’s hard,’ she said. ‘Money’s tight, too. I had some savings, but it’s all gone so it’s really tough now. We’ve had to use food banks before.’

‘Do you manage to come and visit much?’ I asked her.

‘I’ve only been once this month. We live over two hours away, and the petrol’s so expensive. Sometimes I just can’t afford it,’ she said.

‘Oh, that must be really hard for you,’ I said, trying to imagine how on earth she managed to cope.

‘But on the whole the kids enjoy visiting and love playing with all the stuff they have here. It feels pretty informal and I always give them two pounds each for snacks. They have to go through quite a lot of security, of course, but they always get a big hug off their mum, and I think that’s probably the best bit for them,’ she added.

‘It must be wonderful for them to have a lovely hug from Mum, and even better for her. I bet she looks forward to that more than anything else,’ I replied, knowing how comforting a loving hug can be.

As we arrived at the entrance to the prison, we wished each other a happy day and went our separate ways, but I found myself thinking about how challenging life must be for those two boys and their grandmother.

The number of visits each resident is allowed from family members and friends is determined via their status, which is based on behaviour. There is an Incentives policy in place, so if prisoners work hard, stick to the rules and exceed behaviour expectations, they can improve their status. There are three levels: Bronze, Silver and Gold. New residents go to prison on Silver and it can take them as little as eight weeks to achieve Gold status. Commendations are given out for good behaviour and with three commendations they can receive Gold, which leads to additional privileges, such as an increase in the amount of money that can be sent in, access to Avon beauty catalogues and quarterly social events. If residents get two behavioural warnings, they have a meeting with a senior officer to discuss what is going on and to see if they need additional support or help. After that meeting, if they get one further warning, there is an official review, which could lead to demotion. There is now an add-on scheme called Incentives Plus. If a resident gets five commendations in a month, they are eligible for an additional privilege, which could be access to the Vita Nova café, a free eyebrow shape at Shades of Beauty, an additional £5 from their private cash allowance, or a visit in the private family room. This system recently replaced the older IEP (Incentives and Earned Privileges) scheme, where the levels were known as Basic, Standard and Enhanced, but the premise is the same, and many still refer to the previous terminology. At Bronzefield, Silver residents can book a maximum of four visits per month, and Gold residents can book a maximum of six visits per month, all of which can be of two hours in duration.

Some manage to get visits regularly, but sometimes it may be much less frequent, possibly months before they can see their children due to the distance the family have to travel and the expense that involves. Certainly, for most women, these visits are what they live for and gives them hope and purpose – a shining light of joy on the horizon.

There are fewer women’s prisons in the country as a whole, so the average distance for a female inmate from her home to Bronzefield is around fifty-five miles. But they are at the mercy of the system, and an eight-hour round trip for a family to see their loved one is not unusual. Having a mother in prison can stretch what may already be fairly tight finances even thinner. Families may lose the income generated by a woman if she had been working, and extended family members such as grandparents may be forced to give up work or cut down their hours to care for children. Other factors that might stop visits include the fact that they may be scheduled for when children should be at school, or they have no adult to accompany them because their guardians are working.

There are family support workers on hand to help promote familial relationships, and to ease the stress of what must be quite an unusual setting for mothers to see their children. In real life, it’s not often that we sit opposite loved ones and talk constantly, but the reality of these visits is that prisoners and families sit across a table and probably try to maintain conversation about ‘normal’ things – especially if children are present – and that they may feel awkward if they can’t keep the conversation going. Residents can apply for a visit in the family room, so they are not surrounded by other visits, but the same rules apply.

The prison also runs family days every other month in the gym, open to all residents regardless of their privilege level. These visits coincide with school holidays and have themes, depending on the time of year, with a big party around Christmas, filled with presents, excitement and talk of Santa’s visit.

These days are undoubtedly a huge highlight for many mothers behind bars, but they must also be a very bittersweet reminder of what they are missing.

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