Behind The Wire

STYAL women’s prison in Cheshire is never far from controversies surrounding drugs, suicides and shabby living conditions. But what is the truth? Lois Hough was granted exclusive access into the prison to see what inmates endure

The train was eerily empty for a Wednesday morning rush hour. So deserted in fact that no-one got on or off for my entire journey.

I was Styal bound on the Manchester to Crewe line, to visit a group of women held at Her Majesty’s pleasure. As I chugged through Stockport, a pub was being boarded-up. In West Didsbury, police photographed a burned-out car in a side street. The gardens of Handforth should have been beautiful, but the trampolines were rusty and Barbie dolls were left naked and strewn in the long grass.

I wondered how many of these council houses had lost a mummy to Styal.

From housing estates to land estates, I arrived at Styal and began the walk to the prison through a winding country lane. I passed quaint cottages with thatched roofs and doors cloaked with ivy. Detached houses with double glazing had at least three smart cars on their gravel drives. This cosy village with its golf club and private fishing lake is just like the village of Midsomer, except without the murders, though murderers live here. It is such a serene place to house the most violent women in Britain.

I was early for my meeting with the Gov­ernor so sat on a bus stop bench outside the prison gates.

‘Welcome to HMP Styal and Young Of­fenders Institute,’ an official sign said. ‘We strive for the best.’ If only, I thought.

Prison vans came and went, at least four in fifteen minutes. A car pulled up before me, and a couple in their late fifties helped a little girl from her booster seat. It was visiting hour.

“Time to see mummy,” grandad said. The kids grow so fast.

A minibus arrived and out poured three families to see their loved ones, chatting excitedly, as though this were a trip to the seaside. Ship ‘em in and ship ‘em out.

It was time to meet my Governor who had agreed to let me see the prison but was very suspicious of my cause. I walked to the main entrance and took a peek behind the wire. I thought I was on a film set.

Most of the women live in Victorian hous­es. These individual two-storey red-brick houses stand on a tarmac road complete with streetlamps and road markings. Each house is reached by a paved path separated by a tidy lawn, and each has a bronze number on the front door.

There are 16 houses in all that hold up to 20 women each. Every woman has a key to her room, though the front doors of the houses are locked by staff at night. To complete this model village is a chapel – a black and white timber-framed building with a steeple and a weather vane. I bet that cockerel knows a secret or two. A Union Jack is flying at full mast. If it wasn’t for the 20-foot high fencing, barbed wire and CCTV, this would be an ordinary street in an affluent town.

The Governor is approaching me, clip­board in hand and bodyguard in tow.

“You haven’t taken any pictures have you?” was the first thing Governor Denise Greenlees said as we shook hands. I reassured her that I hadn’t.

We make our introductions and she is worried that I have already seen too much. We don’t enter the prison gates. We turn around and walk to an old office building on the outskirts of the site.

“Before we let you in, we want to know a bit more about you and your project,” she says as we sit down in an interview room no bigger than a cell. Suddenly I feel like it’s me under the spotlight.

I tell her that Styal has had a hard time of late in the press.

“Styal has the highest rate of suicide in all women’s prisons in the UK,” I say. My audience wince.

“An inspection last year uncovered a number of faults, including poor facilities and a lack of staff training.

“The purpose of my visit would be to see the improvements you have made. It really is in your best interests,” I lie.

She shuffles some papers and clears her throat. “Sorry, what inspection report was this?”

“It was the Anne Owers inspection report, published in September after her visit to Styal.”

A blank expression. We move on and I am showered with more questions.

What is your fascination with prisons? Do you know any prisoners in Styal? Have any of your relatives been to prison, Styal or otherwise? What exactly do you want to see at Styal? Will you name me in your article? Who will read your article? It won’t be published, will it? What if you show it to an employer and they want to publish it?

I couldn’t help but feel interrogated, and that Styal had something to hide. Dying to know the big secret, I waxed lyrical to be certain they would show me around. But it was in vain.

“I’m sorry but I can’t give you a tour to­day. I’ll talk it over with the Head Governor and I’ll give you a call on Monday. I have your number.”

Denise certainly did have my number. She had two of my numbers because I had called her constantly for a month to arrange this visit.

I didn’t get a phone call on Monday. But I did get an email.

“The Governor has decided that we are unable to facilitate a visit to the establish­ment for you at this time.”

That was it. After all of our communication, I couldn’t help feeling short-changed. We had dis­cussed my project, back and forth for four weeks, and had even arranged dates for a possible tour.

What had I said or done to make them change their once keen minds? Did I know a little too much? Were they scared about what I would see?

The irony to this story is that their reluc­tance to let me in has been more harmful than a visit ever would have been.

What are you hiding, Styal?