I did an OU degree in sociology and criminology, and then worked with the Mothers’ Union at Chelmsford and the then Bullwood Hall Prisons, providing play for prisoners’ children during visits. After I became a Reader, I was headhunted by James Ridge, the new chaplain at Chelmsford at that time, who offered me a voluntary job in the pastoral care of prisoners.
I retired from Chelmsford Prison in 2017, and I’m now an invigilator in a local secondary school. Watching children write is a very boring job, but somebody has to do it. When hands go up, we supply necessary items, like pens and rulers, and escort students to the toilet and deal with nosebleeds and sickness. We also have to reprimand any student flouting the exam rules, but, thankfully, that’s rare.
Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and I missed prison chaplaincy; so I also work at The Verne Prison for sex offenders, in Portland. The men I look after now are better behaved than in my previous prison. They tend to be middle-class, and wouldn’t normally break the law in other ways. They don’t have anything to prove, and they’re not trying to get drugs or alcohol in.
Most of those who come to Anglican services are there because they want to worship, and behave accordingly. Chelmsford was a higher category, and men were only allowed out to go to chapel if they had put their name on the list; so many only came to get out of their cells. Their behaviour was less than exemplary, and taking those services could be very difficult.
Men here have been judged in court and by a panel of jurors, often very harshly, and when they die God will judge them again; so who am I to judge them? I’m called to be there for them, and I suppose God gives me the necessary grace. I don’t know about the other chaplains, but our different faiths require similar things: that we treat people with respect and decency, and try to love them.
The majority faith of the prisoners at The Verne is Anglican, but most world faiths are represented. Some of the men don’t want to say what their faith is, because they think we’re going to try and indoctrinate them, but we don’t. We’re not allowed to proselytise, anyway. We’re there to care for people spiritually and in any way we can — not just the prisoners, but the officers and anyone else who works there, as well.
The spiritual part comes mainly when I take a service on a Sunday; the rest of the time, I just go round and listen, and talk if they want to talk. . . I don’t even know what faith they are unless I recognise them from chapel. Sunday mornings can extend into the afternoon if any of the men has a crisis.
On Monday mornings, I’m taking the Living with Loss course of six sessions, and I think there will be a need for this, on and off, for a long time. Prison bereavement’s very difficult, because there’s no one to talk to about their loss who knew the person who has died. We do what we can, and we usually go down to break the news, but sometimes prisoners are told over the phone.
Most prisoners try to put their grief in a box on a shelf, and that’s not healthy. There are listeners trained by the Samaritans available 24 hours a day, but that’s not the same as being with your family. If you’re outside, everyone supports you and talks about the person who’s died, and gives hugs and sympathy; and, after the funeral, there’s a wake, and there’s lots of physical contact and kindness.
If you’re in prison, and your mother dies, and you go to the funeral, you’ll be handcuffed. Although the officers are very discreet, everyone knows. You won’t be allowed any physical contact with anyone, or to go to the wake. If your family doesn’t want you there, you can’t go. And, sometimes, it’s so difficult you don’t want to go. Sometimes, a family will let the service be videoed, but other families say that you’ve let them down, and they’re disgusted by what you’ve done; so why should you have a video of the service?
Monday afternoons I spend on the older prisoners’ wing, just chatting to them and listening to any issues they have. It’s run as a community, and some of the younger men come to look after those who are in wheelchairs, or need help to get around. A couple of the lady officers there are particularly good with the men, and they’re all making Christmas decorations at the moment.
I’m very into shaking people’s hands, and making sure that I touch the prisoners. It’s very difficult to touch people naturally in prison. Even putting a hand on a man’s shoulder, I make sure I’m seen by an officer. I’m 74, and it’s automatic to touch somebody if they’re a bit sad — it’s a human response to human need; but we feel constrained all the time.
The hardest thing is the suicide of a prisoner. It’s particularly difficult for those that find him, and the officers and men on his wing, as well as his family. Tragically, it’s not unusual. The number of people in prisons losing their lives through suicide increased by 28 per cent in just one year, from 67 in 2020 to 86 in 2021. People on remand or serving sentences of less than six months are at particularly high risk.
Sometimes, the men have no hope for their future. They can lose their children through fostering or adoption. There’s a lot of sadness that men face, and, even outside prison, suicide is rising among young men. We have a system in place to keep a special eye on men who self-harm or express suicidal thoughts, but suicide is always a great shock, especially if the person’s never talked about their feelings, even with encouragement.
If a thief leaves prison, he’ll leave as an ex-offender; but all our sex offenders will always be known as sex offenders. One man here will leave soon, hoping he will die before he’s released, because his wife has died, his dog has died, and he will go back to his empty flat, and perhaps none of his friends will talk to him. People may call him names, or put dog excrement through his letter box. . . That’s the sort of thing that happens.
Christmas is a very strange time in prison. Each wing will have a Christmas tree, and the decorations officially go up at the end of the first week of Advent.
There’ll be no visits on Christmas Day. Many of the men are not allowed to see their children or even to send them cards and presents, but others will see them on a special family day arranged in the run-up to Christmas.
There’ll be three carol services at the prison: one on the family day, one about a week before Christmas, and one on Christmas Eve. There’ll then be a service on Christmas morning; so the chaplaincy team will be pretty busy during Advent and Christmas. There’ll also be social events such as karaoke, bingo, and a concert organised by chaplains and other willing staff.
Thanks to them, and from the church where our RC chaplain worships, there’ll be small gifts for all the men on Christmas morning — useful rather than exciting. The men will have a festive meal on Christmas Day, and there may even be mince pies. Despite all this, we’re very mindful of those who find Christmas quite an ordeal, particularly those who won’t see their children or any loved ones at all. And some just don’t enjoy it.
Of course, you can say they don’t deserve to celebrate Christmas and have fun, because they shouldn’t have done what they did, but it’s not as simple as that. It’s so difficult to get any volunteers in to help chaplaincy, because people can’t sympathise or empathise with sex offenders. I’d like to think that a few more Christians around the area would volunteer, but many people find it’s difficult to get past the revulsion they often have about sex offenders.
The church folk in a village a couple of miles from the prison, from where I take the Sacrament to our prisoners, are interested in what I do, as is my home church congregation. When the men asked me if I could get any unused or broken Christmas decorations to be revitalised, some were happy to provide them.
I don’t know how many people pray for prisoners at Christmas, but I would like to ask your readers to please do so. They really need your prayers.
“Yours are the eyes with which he looks compassion upon the world.” I always think about those words of Teresa of Ávila which spur us all on. The most rewarding thing is listening to the men say the confession, and singing the hymns during morning service. We never see the fruits of our labour, as we have no contact with the men once they leave prison.
I expect to be here as long as I’m physically able. I had a colleague, Sister Philomena, now in her nineties, in Chelmsford. The men love her. I’m also very interested in and supportive of the work of the Prison Reform Trust, and I’ll join it when I have to stop coming here. The work of the Prison Reform Trust is to influence public debate on prison conditions and the treatment of prisoners. It also supports those locked into our prison system — prisoners and their families — to ensure that those without a voice get heard.
The thing about prison, it’s not meant to be just punishment. The purpose of prison is retribution, incapacitation, deterrence, and rehabilitation. It’s there to take your freedom away, not your right to be treated as a human being. It’s really important for officers and chaplains to treat people with humanity. We also have to be role models; so it’s important that we all act decently.
As a child, I lived in Surrey with my two younger brothers. My parents were nominal Christians: they went to weddings, christenings, and funerals only. A neighbour heard me singing once, and encouraged me to sing in the local Church of England choir where I was later confirmed. I was the only girl not in a white dress — I was mortified.
I’ve always attended church since, although I did try Methodist, Baptist, and Salvation Army before returning to the Church of England. I was a Brownie, Guide, Sea Ranger, and a Cadet. At 18, I went into nursing, and I’ve been a Brownie Guider and a Beaver Scouter. I was married and have three children: twin sons and a daughter.
I now live in Poole, about two miles from the sea, with my civil partner, Bryony, and our border collie, Sputnik. My daughter lives near by with her husband and son, while my grown-up granddaughter lives not far away. Another grandson is 15, and lives with his mother in Thailand. Before retirement, we visited them every couple of years, but, sadly, we’re not able to do so now. My sons live away.
My partner and I will be taking the midnight service together on Christmas Eve at our own church, and on Christmas morning I’ll join other Christian chaplains for the morning service at the prison. I most look forward to singing carols, the midnight service, which is always so special, and seeing my daughter and grandchildren on Boxing Day.
The best sound for me has to be music, but the titles change from day to day. It could be Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending, Handel’s “Zadok the Priest”, anything by Meatloaf, Queen, ELO, or Abba; “Fields of Gold” by Sting, “Meet on the Ledge” by Fairport Convention. . .
Music makes me happy; so does reading, the sea, the beauty of nature, going to see musicals on stage, holidays, my children’s and grandchildren’s achievements, other people’s happiness.
My grandchildren give me hope for the future.
Injustice and discrimination make me angry, of which I see far too much.
I pray most often for the world’s starving to be fed — and for peace everywhere.
I’d choose to be locked in a church with the late Queen Elizabeth II — may she rest in peace. I’d like to thank her for all she did during her reign, and ask her how on earth she kept working for all those years, literally until the end. I’d like to ask her about her faith, and how she coped at times of adversity like family divorces, Princess Diana’s death, and the fire at Windsor Castle.
Carole Goddard was talking to Terence Handley MacMath.
prisonreformtrust.org.uk