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even
Australia – not to mention many friends from the West Country where she spent
most of her life.
    The Order of
Service has been selected by Mary and reveals so much about the thought and
preparation my wife puts into everything. She must have taken hours selecting
the prayers, hymns, readings and music, and she hits just the right note.
Bishop Walker once again officiates, and my stepbrother, David Watson, gives a
moving address in which he recalls my mother’s boundless energy, love of
learning and wicked sense of humour .
    I read the
final lesson, Revelation XXI, verses 1–7, and as I face the congregation,
wonder if I’ll manage to get the words out.
    I’m relieved to
discover that I don’t have to spend those final moments with my mother
accompanied by the press, as they at least have had the courtesy to remain
outside.
    The service
lasts for fifty minutes, and is about the only time that day when I can
concentrate on my mother and her memory. Not for the first time am I thankful
that she didn’t live to see me convicted, and my thoughts turn to the
sacrifices she made to ensure I had a decent education, and was given as good a
start as possible, remembering that my father died leaving debts of around five
hundred pounds, and mother had to go out to work to make ends meet. I tried in
the later years to make life a little easier for her, but I was never able to
repay her properly.
    The service
ends with ‘ Jesu , Joy of Man’s Desiring ’,
and Mary and I follow the Bishop and the choir down the aisle. When we reach
the vestry, George immediately joins us. A member of the press has called Belmarsh to ask why I was allowed to return to the Old
Vicarage.
    ‘You’ll have to
say your goodbyes here, I’m afraid,’ he tells us. ‘The Governor has phoned to
say you can’t go back to the house.’ I spend the next few minutes shaking hands
with everyone who has attended the service and am particularly touched by the
presence of Donald and Diana Sinden , who my mother
adored.
    After thanking
the Bishop, my family join me as we begin the long
slow walk back to the prison van parked at Cantalupe Farm. I glance to my left as we pass the Old Vicarage.
    This time the press become even more frantic. They begin to holler out
their questions like a repeater gun.
    ‘Are you
expecting to remain a lord?’
    ‘Do you hope to
win your appeal?’
    ‘Do you want to
say anything about your mother?’
    ‘Do you
consider yourself a criminal?’
    After about a
hundred yards or so they finally give up, so Mary and I chat about her
forthcoming trip to Strathclyde University, where she
will chair a summer school on solar energy. The date has been in her diary for
some months, but she offers to cancel the trip and stay in London so she can
visit me in Belmarsh . I won’t hear of it, as I need
her to carry on as normal a life as possible. She sighs. The truth is , I never want Mary to see me in Belmarsh .
    When we reach
the van, I turn back to look at the Old Vicarage, which I fear I won’t be
seeing again for some time. I then hug my family one by one, leaving Mary to
last. I look across to see my driver David Crann in
tears – the first time in fifteen years I’ve seen this former SAS warrior show
any vulnerability.
    On the slow
journey back to Belmarsh , I once again consider what
the future holds for me, and remain convinced I must above all things keep my
mind alert and my body fit.
    The writing of
a day-to-day diary seems to be my best chance for the former, and a quick
return to the gym the only hope for the latter.
3.07 pm
    Within moments
of arriving back at Belmarsh , I’m put through another
strip-search before being escorted to my cell on Block Three. Once again, James
the Listener is waiting for me. He has from somewhere, somehow, purloined a
carton of milk, a new razor* and two, yes two, towels. He perches
himself on the end of the bed and tells me there is a rumour that they are going to move me to another block