‘Sorry?’ I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.
‘I’m looking for a doctor to work in a prison,’ he repeated.
I was stunned by the thought. I had been so locked away in my village practice that alternative placements like he was suggesting hadn’t really occurred to me.
Dr Burn continued to explain the job. It was a part-time position at a youth prison for 15–18-year-olds, HMP Huntercombe in Oxfordshire, not too far from Henley-On-Thames. ‘Would you be interested?’ he asked.
The thought of prison conjured up images of fights, stabbing, hangings – the horror often portrayed in films. Could I really see myself working in that world?
On a deeper level, of course, I knew that my immediate mental image of prison life could hardly be accurate. And I needed to do something . . . Something new, something that would challenge me, something that would make all of this feel worthwhile. Something that might help people.
‘Yes!’ I said, actually shocking myself. I hadn’t given myself time to think deeply, I was relying on gut instinct, I had no idea what the salary was, I should have been asking so many more questions . . .
But how bad could 15–18-year-olds be? My boys, Rob and Charlie, were that age, so hopefully I would be able to relate to the inmates and perhaps they would view me as a mother figure and not a threat.
Had I really been that naïve? Yes. But I would learn.
He went on to explain that not many doctors wanted to work in prisons, as it was seen as an intimidating and unpleasant environment, dealing with difficult, unwilling, unpredictable and possibly violent people.
‘But’ – and he laughed as he said it – ‘anyone as outspoken as you should be able to handle a challenge!’
I couldn’t believe it, my candid words in the magazine had opened up a whole new world of possibilities. Dr Burn had recognised the fighting spirit in me.
Just because I was nearing fifty, why shouldn’t I try something new? It’s never too late to start over. Whether it be your career, your marriage, your lifestyle. That’s what I’d been telling my patients for years, and now it was time to embrace the unknown myself.
And maybe I could even make a difference to these boys’ lives.
*
Dear God, what have I done?
Back at home, I was questioning my decision. Had I been rash, accepting a job I knew practically nothing about?
I was sitting at the kitchen table doing some background reading into Huntercombe prison.
It was officially classified as a young offenders’ institution, having housed teenagers since 2000. It had originally been built as an internment camp during the Second World War and was turned into a prison in 1946.
Unlike adult prisons, which are categorised by letters, from A to D, depending on the seriousness of the crimes of the prisoners locked up, a young offenders’ institute has no grade. That didn’t reassure me though.
I’m not frightened easily, but I was filled with self-doubt as I read up about the crimes some of these teenagers had committed. It wasn’t just theft and burglary but also murder and rape.
I turned to David for advice.
‘Do you think I can do it?’ I asked
He was peeling the spuds for dinner and laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can, you’re more than capable.’ He smiled. ‘You always are.’
I loved the fact that he was so supportive of both me and my career. God knows how many evenings he’d spent alone, looking after the boys while I’d worked very long days or been called out in the middle of the night. He understood my drive and my need to help others. He understood I had worked too hard for my career to give it up.
‘I’m going to be treating teenagers who have committed some very serious crimes!’
It was hard to comprehend that boys my sons’ age could have killed someone, raped someone, abused a young child.
‘But they need a doctor, too. And I can’t think of a better person for the job,’ David said.
He was right. I wasn’t there to judge; my job was to try to make people better.
‘But it’s a prison. Have I got the guts to handle it?’
I heard the plop of another peeled potato being dropped into the saucepan of water, then David turned around and looked me in the eye.
‘Do I have to remind you of some of the brave things you’ve done in the past? Do you remember that bloke who had a knife to his throat . . .?’
Four years earlier . . .
Buckinghamshire
July 2000
It was a scorching summer’s day and I was sipping on an ice cold drink and having a quick bite to eat at my desk in my lunch break.
A gentle breeze lifted the curtains as it blew into my consultation room, tickling the back of my neck.
I battled to keep my eyes open; in that heat I could easily have dozed off for a few minutes. Suddenly the peace was broken by screaming and the sound of footsteps hurtling down the corridor.
My door burst wide open. One of my patients, Jenny Scott, was standing in front of me, breathless, panic stricken.
‘Amanda, you have to come with me now,’ she screeched.
Her normally perfectly styled hair was windswept and tangled. Her usual composure was shattered.
‘It’s Jonathan – he’s got a knife and he says he’s going to kill himself. I don’t know what to do. He’s at home . . . please come.’
Jonathan was Jenny’s husband, an alcoholic who suffered from severe mood swings. I’d been treating both of them for years. Without a second thought, I grabbed my bag, filled with all the equipment and medicines I carry to my home visits, and chased after her into the surgery car park.
She sped off in her car, but I knew exactly where to go. I’d been to their house on many home visits in the past.
It was less than five minutes from the surgery, in a pretty lane with beautiful houses on either side. Large homes, with large gardens and expensive cars parked in the driveways. Many people would look at the area and think that the people who lived there surely had to be happy. But, from my experience, inside many of those magnificent houses, behind the seemingly perfect façades, there lurked a lot of anguish and unhappiness. A significant proportion of the medical problems I treated were brought on by stress and financial pressures. I learned early on in my career that money very often doesn’t buy happiness
Turning into their road, the dappled sunlight trickling through the trees was replaced with the blue and white flashing lights of several police cars. They were parked outside the Scotts’ home. Half a dozen armed police officers wearing protective vests surrounded the house. I parked and got out of my car. What had I walked into? It looked like a hostage negotiation scene from a film.
Jenny was standing behind one of the police cars. She beckoned me over. A police officer stepped into my path, his hand outstretched, ready to stop me.
‘It’s okay, I’m his doctor,’ I explained.
The police officer moved aside and Jenny ran forward, a look of relief washing across her face.
‘Thank God you’re here, Amanda.’
Her whole body was trembling, but she wasn’t