Dr Amanda Brown - The Prison Doctor - Women Inside

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.