Walton Jail, Liverpool 1971. This is the prequel to Christo’s previously published, From Prison to Pune
All around him metal bars reflected the harsh yellow and silver light from a single overhead fluorescent tube, while the constant clash of metal sent shock waves through his exhausted brain. The smell of carbolic and sweat emanating from the lurid green walls stained with tobacco smudge and yellow spit reminded him of a city centre urinal. Men in black uniforms rushed hyperactively down corridors, shouting and jangling heavy bunches of keys. Out of this chaos Ernie recognized his name repeated several times –
‘White! This way, at the double!’
Rumour had it that the prison Governor’s office was the old ‘topping shop’ where the last person hanged in Liverpool’s Walton Prison, in August 1964, had died eight years previously. The walls were the same one-coat smudgy green as the reception area. One wall sported metal racks from floor to ceiling, loaded with dusty brown files. The other was bare, save for a few military photos and a picture of what looked like a village garden party. On the large mahogany table a file lay open. Next to it was a white rose in a wine glass and a neat row of envelopes with red ribbons attached.
The Governor was a squat figure in his late 50s with short dark hair. Unique among prison officials, he was not wearing any kind of uniform, unless one counted a well-cut suit and regimental tie. He looked up suddenly and leaned forward. The prisoner found himself under the glare of a pair of steely blue eyes.
‘Mr. Donaldson tells me you tried to hang yourself with a bedsheet last night. Is this true?’
‘Yes, sir, I…’
‘Suicide is a cowardly despicable act, White!’ the Governor interrupted. ‘It’s illegal. It gives us a bad name and won’t be tolerated! Do you understand?’ The last words were spoken with particular vehemence.
‘I won’t put you on a charge this time but be warned; any further attempts and you’ll find yourself down the block.’
Leaning back, in a more conciliatory tone he continued, ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’
‘I’m innocent, sir! There’s been a mistake,’ the prisoner replied. The Governor grimaced in irritation, paused, stroking the side of his face and glancing down at the file on his desk.
‘I see your lawyers are lodging an appeal. Meantime I will arrange a welfare visit,’ he said.
‘Mr. Donaldson!’ he looked up suddenly, addressing the tall prison officer standing smartly at attention behind the prisoner. ‘Take White back to the Wing and arrange a half-hourly watch for the next 12 hours, thereafter at your discretion.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Chief Officer Donaldson replied, briskly shepherding White to the door.
As they left the Governor’s office Ernie felt a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder….
‘The first few weeks are always the worst, son. Don’t worry, you’ll settle down soon,’ he heard in almost a whisper. Perhaps an experienced officer like Donaldson sensed there was something different about this 38-year-old Mancunian, who seemed to have none of the sly bravado of so many inmates.
The Prison Probation Office, or ‘The Welfare’ as it was known, was separate from the main prison complex, on the other side of the yard, and was a popular tea time haunt for deputy governors and senior officers alike wanting to get away and unwind. Andy Liddle was the youngest member of the welfare staff and full of the anti-establishment zeal of the 60s generation he belonged to. He looked up as the PO entered. Donaldson was a popular visitor.
‘Gov. wants a welfare visit to a newbie on B Wing,’ he said, handing a file to the desk clerk. ‘…As soon as possible, please Mike.’
The icy blast of cold air that slapped him in the face as he stepped outside caused Andy to hunch his shoulders and walk awkwardly with his head down, while another squally blast scattered seagulls screeching across the sky, reminding the welfare officer how close they were to the sea.
Once through the somber Victorian main entrance, he passed Chief Officer De Koch’s Security Command Centre, full of high tech devices and heavy sticks. He paused, keys in hand, before another metal gate – and took a deep breath before entering B Wing. As the gate clanged behind him the smell of carbolic, slop and body odour all but overwhelmed him. The sound of cheery piped music continued to irritate long after he had got used to the stench. He barely noticed, as he passed them, the zombie crew of old lags too worn-out for the wire stripping workshop, as they mechanically polished metal railings.
Liddle was greeted affably by Chief Officer Donaldson, who guided him up the central metal stairs to a first floor cell, outside of which sat a PO he didn’t recognize.
‘He’s no trouble, just needs a bit of time and encouragement,’ the prison officer said.
Andy wondered if this applied also to the bored and listless-looking junior PO. When he entered the cell, the prisoner was sitting on the lower bunk, his head in his hands.
‘Mr. White, I’m Andy Liddle from the Welfare Department,’ he introduced himself. Surprised perhaps at being addressed as ‘Mr.’, the prisoner looked up, and to Andy’s surprise stood up and held out his hand. He was a man of average height, with a pleasant, intelligent expression.
As they talked, Andy learned Ernest White was a successful businessman who owned an amusement arcade in Manchester, and was a practising Catholic. Unlike most newly-arrived prisoners, Ernie was willing to talk about the crime and sentence. He had been brought in by the local police for questioning in connection with the murder of his wife, Margaret, who had been strangled with a kettle cord in the home. Speaking calmly, only the trembling of his hands betraying his distress, he described from his viewpoint what had happened. He had apparently been having an affair…
‘It was all my fault. I’d lied to her about being away at a conference. I blame myself entirely. If I had been with my wife it wouldn’t have happened. I deserve to be here!’ he repeated with increasing anguish.
Clearly, his sense of guilt and reluctance to explain his whereabouts on the night of the murder was a gift to the police and made him a prime suspect. This was topped up by the usual Merseyside police practice (when they want to convince a jury) of planting the kettle cord in his coat pocket. Full of guilt and remorse about the affair, he had done nothing to help himself, and the jury took no time in finding him guilty.
Over the next few weeks Andy found himself looking forward to his meetings with Ernie. The man had a sense of humour and a spaciousness about him which Andy found curiously relaxing. He would stand up with an ironic air, gesturing him to the only chair in the cell, and they would both laugh. To his surprise Andy found himself sharing some of his own problems and anxieties, which seemed so petty in comparison to Ernie’s.
They worked together on his appeal and Andy became increasingly convinced of Ernie’s innocence. No more so than one day when Dave stopped him on the Wing. Dave was a tall, lanky young man with an animated expression and extravagant gestures who was that rare thing, a thoroughly normal, well-adjusted crook. He loved his ‘job’: burglary, lived life to the full on the outside with a new car and new woman each time, and accepted the occasional prison sentence as the price of getting caught.
‘Hey, Andy,’ he said. ‘That Ernie, he’s a laugh! He’s as innocent as a baby! Me an’ some of the lads were kidding him, saying things like: ‘Hey, Ernie did yer hands burn? Got any blisters?’ He hadn’t a clue what we were talking about! It takes a lot of strength to strangle someone with a kettle cord, Andy!’
Andy wrote letters to the Guardian, the local MP, the Home Secretary and others whom he felt could help. None of those who replied had much sympathy, especially with the idea that a fellow prisoner might be a better judge of guilt than the mighty men of the law!
He knew how popular Ernie was on the Wing, with the many illiterate and uneducated prisoners, for his willingness and ability to help with letters and petitions, including those prized MP’s letters – whose replies ended up on the Governor’s desk with red ribbons for priority attention. He was, however, surprised one day to find Ernie sitting out on the landing behind a desk with a huddle of prisoners standing around him. He imagined, as he observed Donaldson looking on benignly, how the PO must be congratulating himself on finding the perfect solution that relieved his staff from tiresome requests – which they both resented, and were ill equipped to fulfil.
Andrew began to find himself having nights of disturbed sleep, with vivid nightmares of releasing prisoners, leaving cell doors unlocked, or handing over his keys to some of the most dangerous prisoners. In increasingly depressed moods, these ideas began cockroach-like to also invade his waking consciousness. When he passed Security in the mornings he imagined De Koch eyeing him from his booth with particular malice and suspicion.
Arriving early one morning after a particularly uneasy night, he gave a wry chuckle as he observed the arrival of another early bird. Officer Frank Jenner was clearly in a good mood – Andy heard him exchanging jokes with the dog handlers at the Gate. The merry jangle of his keys must have felt familiar and reassuring on this bright sunny day. The security boys were always ready for a joke with old Jenner. Andy felt a twinge of jealousy. They would of course be kidding him about his upcoming retirement. As Jenner unlocked the door of the Wing Andy heard him cheerily greeting a few of the prisoners and staff. He must be looking forward to his leaving tea party in the Welfare that afternoon! It was rumoured that the Governor might show up. Even more, he would surely be looking forward to the much heartier time he would have down the local with fellow officers that evening. He at least had something to be cheerful about!
Andrew quite enjoyed Jenner’s party, despite the presence of the Governor. He was rather fond of old Jenner, who was full of stories of hangings that had happened at Walton during ‘the good old days.’ He wondered if he would now sit at home cheerily sharing with his wife his stories of the great murderers and executions he had known.
After the party Andy returned to the Wing to see Ernie, but a shock awaited him. The cell was empty! Donaldson had not returned yet from the party. The officer at the booth, the same one who had been outside Ernie’s cell on that first day, greeted his inquiry as to White’s whereabouts with a supercilious smirk: ‘He’s been transferred. Friend of yours, was he?’
Andrew gulped hard to restrain the sobs he felt rising in his chest. Any show of emotion now would simply confirm what most officers already thought about the Welfare. He saved it for home, when the floodgates burst and a whole year of pain and frustration overflowed. Further inquiries as to Ernie’s whereabouts drew a blank. Transfers were a security issue. The Home Office was impenetrable. He eventually learned of the failed appeal through court records.
A few months later, having resigned from the Probation Service, Andy grew his hair long and travelled overland to India. Years later he looked back with a mixture of sadness and nostalgia on those youthful years in Liverpool. He never did find out what had happened to Ernie. Had he been transferred to one of those new, supposedly more humane open prisons? Had he died incarcerated, or had modern forensics proved his innocence? …even Google couldn’t help.
Andrew Liddle was me, the author. This is a true story (subject to name changes). Ernie’s story is a preview of From Prison to Pune, or The Leaving of Liverpool.
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