The blue mattress

Yesterday, the greatest questions ahead were : what car shall we take and what cheese should we buy?

Middle class problems, I know.

As a small group of friends, we came together, convening at mine and Sarahs little terraced house in suburbia and decided that the bigger car, the better - to fit more wine and cheese in.

And off we rode, the four musketeers of mischief for a weekend in the wild - well, wild for me.

I am not a hostel lover. It's a learned and chosen behaviour and loathing for several reasons; hostels for me are a reminder of my period of homelessness, where I spent the pocket change I had to put a roof over my head as a treat on occasion and as such, temporary, overwhelming, loud pockets of chaos in a period of my life I'd sooner forget and more so of late - they remind me of prison.

Now don't get me wrong, I write upon my computer, sat on a faux leather mock Chesterfield sofa, in a lounge with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, aching under the variety of items upon them - smut books, maps, John Grishams entire catalogue it would seem (and one wonders, has my mother stayed here?!) and many a board game of which I'm sure we will partake in later today with some wine.

Oak floorboards, with an age that tells you, you're sitting in a building of history and magnificence, but for all its beauty, there are stark reminders of prison life here for me. It's a bewildering mix of HMP Askham and HMP Styal.

I sat upon faux leather sofa's in Askham; in the ballroom - where a portrait of our late majesty Queen Elizabeth hung to oversee the women in her establishment, after all, when sentenced in the crown court it is indeed you vs Regina, and as such, we reside in the stately home of Askham Grange, prisoners. Pretty. But prison none the less.

Similarly, the floorboards there were beautiful and I'd find myself wondering what feet had walked upon them, woman after woman through those gates and the history of the establishment, post war Britain and a female governor, a matriarch and powerhouse of what rehabilitation could be in this country, Askham made it's name for all the right reasons. A template, for how things could and should be done.

It's the first thing I read when I arrived there - The History of Askham Grange, a fascinating book that showcased the history of the prison, the who, why, where. and how.

There's a book upon the table as I write now; the history of Wasdale Hall.

Worlds apart, yet spinning on the same axis.

And it's jarring.

My brain is in full PTSD mode and it's overwhelming.

A weekend away with friends to relax, recuperate, recharge and just be has found me reeling, sat alone in the silence of this room to write, whilst they walk and hike and take time together, I needed moments to gather myself and my thoughts and so, here I am friends, of course. An anxious mind, writes.

Sarah and I have had many conversations regarding a trip like this over the past year, because she of course recognises, my discomfort and pain at places like this. Shared accommodation is no longer a posh girls irritation and more a thorn in my side of moments of loneliness that know no measure.

Alas, we came, we saw, I did not conquer. My fear and anxiety is all consuming.

It began with the opening of the heavy door, one key, one turn, and a heavy push see's two sets of bunkbeds. 

Bunkbeds I could deal with, I had psyched myself up to overcome this and I stepped into that room with an open mind.

"Bottom bunk - I won't go on top,"

A selfish request perhaps, but quite frankly, I don't care right now.

I refuse to scale the little ladder, to launch myself in an unladylike fashion upon the blue mattress above.

Blue mattress.

I can feel the ground falling from under my feet, and I'm swallowed into the realms of hell or purgatory as prison was for me. The torment, the pain, but temporary.

When I was moved from my cell in Styal, I arrived on the houses, those familiar with the prison estate in Cheshire will know, it dresses well. Little Victoria-esque houses dotted up and down avenues like some sort of delightful community in the countryside. Look closer and you will see the bars, broken glass, blood spattered walls, the faeces, the filth and the utter disinterest in human dignity. Everywhere.

I walk, slowly, with my perspex bag of items from cell block to house, holding my mint green bedding in my hands.

There's one bunk left in a house of 22 inmates, in a shared room with two other women for now.

The two other women are loud, gregarious, obnoxious, territorial and domineering. This is theirs. And I am an outsider setting foot on their turf.

Top bunk.

I scramble up the creaking steps, above the head of one inmate, with my bedding under my arm and begin to make my bed. Stretching out the length of the mattress to tuck my sheet under.

"Tie it in a knot," one girl says

"It won't slip then,"

She shows me under her mattress.

Tied a both ends like a Hermes scarf, the sheet is snug to the blue mattress underneath. Well-used sheets so faded you can see the colour of blue as bright as the summer sky.

I tie the knot and I smirk to myself. I tied a knot like this just last week. For me. Not my mattress.

A sick joke only I'm in on.

I flap the wafer thin duvet from one side to the other and lo' - mint green wonderment, sheet, pillow and duvet rest neatly upon the creaking structure.

I spent weeks in that bunk.

I was so sleep deprived through perpetual insomnia invoked through hyper-vigilance, lack of medication, moments of psychosis, exacerbated by the noise. Snoring. Farting. Crying. Screaming. Sighing. The blare and glare of the tiny television shared amongst the three of us, but dare to change the channel and it would be a finger you would lose.

The sleep depravation got so bad, I could sneak out of my bunk in the early hours of the morning and go and sit in the "lounge" - I'd watch television alone, in the dark, and nod for short moments of reprieve, and then, I'd go back to bed for fear of being caught out of bounds so late.

Those of you who have read this blog will know, my first proper sleep in prison came in week 13, in the prison van, leaving Styal to go to Askham. Perhaps my body knew, a kinder fate awaited me.

I was thrilled, because I knew, no matter how great the anxiety of the unknown was, one thing was certain - I would be in covid isolation for 10 days, alone. No bunk beds. No bunk mates. No danger. Just me. On another blue mattress, now hundreds of miles from home.

Last night, I couldn't settle. Filled with wine and time, I lay, much like in prison, staring up.

Fucking blue mattress, and a sheet that hadn't been tied and as such, was slipping. 

Clearly the YHA haven't caught onto the prison hack, perhaps I'll share it before I leave?

I got up this morning, dazed and confused, with a sadness that sits deep within. I walked the corridor to find the bathroom and even that short meander left me reeling, dealing with the trauma of what jail was for me.

Fear. Perpetual fear and loneliness.

That's what prison does.

Regardless of any life you left outside the gates, it's impossible to permeate this prison walls.

Sarah got in the bottom bunk with me last night for a little bit, to soothe me, like a child. She read her book and I watched a murder documentary; which was a nice change from living next door to the actual murderers truth be told!

But I'll admit, with two more nights ahead of looking up at the blue mattress, this faux leather Chesterfield is proving more appealing as I contemplate sitting here with a rolled up hoodie, like my little prison van ride to York.

I have moments, where I wake, wander downstairs to make a pot of coffee, I get dressed, Sarah gets dressed; if we've been proactive, our clothes are laid out ready for the next day and the process is much more efficient but regardless, we both end up downstairs sipping coffee from our favourite mugs - it's a particular routine, but I wouldn't change it and it's what I missed most whilst away.

For my first ROTL release on temporary license weekend release home, I wrote practically War & Peace in my ROTL plan, documenting my meaningful activity of what I would do whilst at home - Saturday morning 9-10am coffee with Sarah, coffee machine on, proper coffee made, particular cups, sofa, handholding. 10-11am Saturday kitchen, 11-1pm walk into the city to hit a supermarket to buy ingredients to cook ostentatious, unrealistic meal from Saturday kitchen.

Most offender managers would have laughed it out of the jail and suggested I was making it up, but no, signed off, sent off and coffee was had. My bed was slept in. No blue mattresses for a weekend. And the warmth of Sarah and Gordon Ramsay the cat to remind me, there is a life after this.

Of course, those who know me, know it didn't quite go to plan when I came home, this idealistic notion of wife, and cat, and home and life, fell apart. If temporarily. It was a hard fight and climb to build it back. But we did.

And we build a new home, with a new bed, in a new space that we made ours. So it's a trial for me to leave it, even for a night, and it's a tribulation for me to sleep alone. I don't like it.

A weekend away to relax, spend time with friends and settle into all that's come to pass. It is a joy and it is a luxury and I am so grateful this is the life I have, I build and I choose. But that god damn mattress haunts me.

I live my life at 100mph these days, work, work, work, life, life, life, baby making and baby failing on loop, and I realise, as I sit, it's because I'm scared. If I stop. I think. If I think. I go back. If I go back, I'm scared I'll be trapped there. And I prefer life here. Happy. In the now.

I messaged my prison girls last night because I know they feel the same pains I do in their own way, we're connected through the experience but we're empowered by each other and our love for who we are, were and will be.

They messaged me positive loveliness and I found myself grateful. In a shared room with people who love me but can never understand the trauma, but supported with love and guidance regardless; rallied on and loved from friends from the past life who love me just as much and cheerlead through the realms of Facebook.

I don't think I can do shared accommodation again.

I certainly can't do bunk beds. My only exception is if Sarah and I achieve the impossible and create two children, when one seems close to impossible lately.

I'll make an allowance for cute, small people bunk beds.

But for 2024 Fran and future Fran, it's recognising my weak spots, and walking into trauma with my eyes wide open isn't brave, it's stupid.

I'll know for next time.

The Baird Review? GMP laid bare - like their victims.

 The Baird Review makes for dismal reading, in that, none of it's content is surprising but merely a reminder that the powers that be in this city and locality believe their power means more than the people they are paid to protect. Much like reading coroners reports, prison inspectorate reports, IMB recommendations for the prison system - it's clear, that in the criminal justice system there remains a toxic masculinity underbelly of power mad men who feel they wield justice of their own making. Be it strip searching vulnerable women, leaving men to parade and sit naked in cells, name calling and belittling language, from prisons to police stations up and down this country; the injustice and inhumanity and indignity is rife. It is, as Vera Baird noted "the culture in GMP seems to be one of exercising power they don't have, as and when they wish, without expecting to be held to account for it,"

This is a stark summary of the conduct of police officers as it's the kind of arbitrary summary one would expect from a crown court judge when sentencing. I have read and heard many a sentencing remark that skates across these sentiments all too well and yet, a criminal sentenced pays the price of such arrogance in their misdemeanour and deviant behaviour - why then are there no such consequences for this grotesque breach of trust and failing of duty for the GMP officers involved?

Do as I do, but not as I say.

The lip service public announcement with shallow and translucent apologies, masquerading as changed and learn-ed behaviours; but alas, and unsurprisingly, lacking in accountability and real acknowledgement.

If I stood in the dock before the judge and mumbled a half-arsed apology, citing a difficult period of time where I was "under pressure," - as GMP say is the reasoning behind this lapse in otherwise exemplary civic duty, if I dared to say I didn't perform my own civic duty to an acceptable standard, would I too get a slap on the wrist and be told to take heed and make use of "recommendations and learnings,"?

No.

I would be reprimanded for my lack of authenticity, depth of understanding of the impact of my actions, the harm they create and catalyse upon my victims and I would be sent to prison on the basis of a moral and legal breach of ethics and decency.

I'm just Fran.

I'm not a police officer. I'm not in a position of responsibility, but I do accept that when stepping outside of the lines, law and the morality that we live by - there are consequences.

I'm also Fran, who throughout my life has wanted, desperately to seek justice for my own moments in time that have been abused by men, but being statistical by nature and cynical even more so; I knew then, as I know now, no good would come of telling my truth in the hopes of justice, let alone conviction.

Because when a woman, particularly a woman who has been branded an addict, a sex worker, a fruit cake, a liar and a convict - the men in power, in their police stations up and down this country would greet such stories with disdain, disbelief, disinterest and much like the ladies referenced in the Baird report but somehow, in the most vulnerable moments of honesty and pain be found; criminal.

Worse; insignificant.

And apparently in Manchester, naked, abused and reminded of why we cannot put our faith in the people who are there to protect us.

I wrote in rage and sadness behind bars, mourning as we did, as women, the loss and tragedy of Sarah Everard. I was bitter and pained that every woman screaming from the concrete cells and barred windows, howled at the men who hurt them as we heard of another murder. Another abuse of power. Another woman lost to the violence of fragile little men with badges like little boys playing cops and robbers.

But these men don't play. They hurt. They kill. They laugh. They get away with it. Time and time again.

When does it stop?

Take a leaf out of Emmelines book GMP, for the love of god.

Let it be DEEDS NOT WORDS.

Because frankly, we've heard it all before.