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Audrey Edwards (1934-2025): the first Longford Prize winner

In 2002 the first-ever recipient of our Longford Prize was Audrey Edwards, whose campaign with her husband Paul to improve mental health provision in prisons was prompted by the death in jail of their son. The trust’s director, Peter Stanford, and others reflect on what an impact she made on them and the prison system.

Audrey Edwards was a remarkably-effective campaigner who stuck in the memory, but also an unlikely one, as her husband Paul acknowledges.  Audrey was, Paul says, ‘not one to fight on the barricades. By nature she was a sensitive and reserved individual.’  Yet together they sustained a decade-long battle following the death in Chelmsford Prison of their 30-year-old son, Christopher. They wanted to see better and better-informed treatment for those in jail with mental illness. Or, better still, for them not to be held in prisons.

Christopher was mentally-ill when he was detained for breach of the peace in November 1994. At Chelmsford, he was put in a cell with a paranoid schizophrenic who murdered him.  The Edwards’ brave and tenacious fight was to hold to account the public bodies who had contributed to their son’s death, and to make sure that no other parents would suffer the same appalling loss in such avoidable circumstances as they had.

The courage to move forward from personal tragedy

In 2002, our judging panel on which I sat offered this citation when awarding Audrey the Longford Prize. ‘Audrey and her husband Paul began a quest to find out what happened to their son that has developed into a campaign to improve mental health care for offenders.  The judges were greatly impressed by the courage with which Audrey Edwards had moved forward from personal tragedy to focus public attention on mental health and prisons.’

Remembering her today, another member of that panel, Juliet Lyon CBE, the long-serving director of our partner organisation, the Prison Reform Trust, writes: ‘it takes such courage and generosity of spirit to turn a terrible tragedy into something which could save the lives of others. Audrey’s work with Paul inspired some important changes in prisons from the introduction of basic mental health training for prison staff to assessment of people’s mental health prior to cell-sharing. Sadly the misuse of prison as a place of safety for people who are mentally ill continues to this day.’

David versus Goliath

Audrey received her award on stage in November 2002 from our first Longford Lecturer, Cherie Booth, celebrated human rights lawyer who was also the wife of Prime Minister, Tony Blair.  In the same year, Audrey published a memoir, No Truth, No Justice, which described what she characterised as a David versus Goliath struggle to get the police, the NHS and the prison service to address the failures that had led to Christopher’s death.

And in what proved a significant year in her battle, 2002 also saw a case the couple had taken to the European Court of Human Rights upheld. It ruled that Christopher’s right to life had been denied by his treatment after his arrest. Their campaign continued in the years that followed and they worked closely with Martin Narey who ran the Prison Service from 1998 to 2005. He was determined like them to improve treatment of those with mental illness in prisons and, to that end, commissioned a film featuring Audrey which was shown to all new prison officers during their training.

Disappointingly, it ceased to be used after Narey moved on, but the Edwards’ work did not stop, though Paul’s diagnosis with cancer saw it scaled back. They would comfort and advise other families who found themselves in the same dreadful circumstances that they had experienced.

‘Her strength and determination,’ says Paul, who survives Audrey along with their daughter Clare, ‘came from a mother’s devotion to her son, and from her Christian faith. She really believed that we must all try and do good in this world.’  Her example will live on. RIP

Running Up That Hill

As part of our Employability programme, we offer travelling scholarships to our award holders to enable them to see the world and build their skills and CVs.  This autumn two scholars attended the ‘Haven for Stories’ writers’ retreat in Umbria.  Here, one of them, Tim Kerr reflects on what he discovered.

The sun shone brightly on our final day in Umbria, piercing the Ryanair windows on the Saturday morning flight. It had rained most of the week of course, but I still squeezed in runs up and down the deserted Umbrian paths, looking over valleys bathed in mist and fog, occasional castle brick or terracotta roof poking through. The roaring wood fires and dark espressos on my return to Villa Pia would warm me back up, but the mist on the landscape would remain, symbolic of my state of writing.

I used to write more, in times where my experiences seemed more relevant, with something new to be unearthed by the process. I wrote when I was in prison. I wrote when I was released from prison. I wrote traipsing between the probation office and the DWP. Then, later on, as life settled, writing took a backseat to increasing work and further study. But like backseat drivers do, it nagged, and prompted me to apply to go on this writing retreat advertised in the Longford Trust’s Bulletin. It wanted to drown out the other backseat driver, the one who doubts.

Writer’s block

So now, I’m here, the week I’d been looking forward to for months: a retreat, away from work and with a stable internet connection. I thought I’d be free to write thousands of words a day, setting habits to make productivity gurus insist I take breather. But I couldn’t. Sure, I was sleep deprived. Stanstead was grey even under dawn light. But now I was faced with everything I’d wanted to write over the years, and struggled to pluck the most salient idea to commit to paper.

Movement, I’ve found, helps organise thoughts. And as the tutors, Alice, Elise, and Toby, explained on our first night, the writing is usually done in all the spaces where we aren’t scribing or typing. So, during a walk on the second day, through steps and jumps over puddles and branches, I discussed with Toby Bayesian statistics, medical negligence, and also my improbable and surprising life thus far. Ever the story teller, he talked about applying narrative structure to my experiences. We settled on me being arrested as the inciting incident to begin my story.

The feel of the foam mattress

Sat in the library of Villa Pia that evening, overlooking those misty hills, I tried writing about the night I got arrested: the feel of the foam mattress, the noises in the other cells, the thoughts juddering through my mind. But I was just directing words towards a memory I was no longer interested in.

I explained this to Alice in our tutorial the next day. And I came to the realisation that the point of this retreat, ‘Haven for Stories’, was not to write but to discover. Havens offer the protection to be open, and admit my utter boredom in writing about prison and drugs, the stuff I thought others wanted to read. Instead, I vowed to lean into a deep unknown: my father, who died when I was eleven, and who I know so little about. I committed to blogging this journey, as a regular writing practice, with Alice showing me the best platforms to use.

In a workshop the next day with Elise, I delved into my father as a character. Through writing exercises, I put myself in his shoes, and lived his formative years, imagining the things I never got to ask him. In a tutorial later we discussed how to research someone, including researching the places that shaped them. My trips to his birthplace, Glasgow, were mentally booked. Sadly, my knackered imagination was unable to visualise any airline besides Ryanair.

Deep and layered like lasagne

Over the week I was subsumed into Italian villa culture, thanks to Morag Cleland’s excellent staff at Villa Pia. The conversations I had with the other writers on the retreat were deep and layered, like the lasagne we had on Wednesday, which, incidentally, I learned does not have to have a tomato sauce within it. It’s just an arrangement of pasta. You can put what you like in there.

I could delve into the lives of others, and reciprocate, only possible through staying put, not reaching for my phone, persevering through every variety of carbohydrate as I slowly lost my obsession with productivity. Handy, as the sleep deprivation continued, half a tray of tiramisu at 10pm fully reflected by my mediocre Garmin sleep score.

Near the end of the week, I ran up to the highest point in the region. It was so misty I couldn’t see more than a few paces ahead of me. There was no view at the top, just turf churned up by tractor wheels. I ran back down, below the mist, and caught up with Toby again that afternoon. We now had a beginning, a structure, people and places to research. The fog was clearing. A parallel tale of my father and me. I didn’t need good writing habits, I now had motivation.

Reading aloud

On the final night, I read the work I’d developed throughout the week to the group. The other inciting incident in my life, the moment my father died, in 500 or so words. I felt privileged that I had a had an audience, and equally privileged that I could hear and be part of their work, too. Whilst writing is a solitary pursuit, the life that creates it is a team sport. I left Villa Pia with people to keep in touch with, on similar journeys, writing buddies, accountability, and maybe the odd person who will read my languid blogs.

I brought the sun home with me, and took it with me on my usual Sunday run around Hampstead Heath, the paths busy with people, priorities, dogs and prams. But the ascent of Parliament Hill was the easiest it’s ever been, my legs strong from the Umbrian valleys. I arrived at the crest, the view over the city clearer than usual. No mist, no fog, I could see where I was going. The rest of the journey would be downhill.

Our thanks to the Henry Oldfield Trust, to Villa Pia’s owner Morag Cleland, and to the writing tutors Tobias Jones, Elise Valmorbida and Alice Vincent for making our Travelling Scholarships to attend A Haven For Stories possible.

Getting my creative buzz back

Each year the Longford Trust offers its award-holders a travelling scholarship to widen their horizons and polish their skills alongside university so as to improve their career prospects.  This year two scholars got a chance to spend a week at a prestigious writers’ retreat in Umbria. Darren describes how time spent there inspired him to push forward as a screenwriter.

This year has been fortunate for me. After completing a Master’s  in screenwriting at the National Film and Television School with the aid of a Longford Trust scholarship, I have gone on to be selected as part of a writers’ initiative with a renowned production company, as well as other things that have me feel that I may finally have a career.

But, since graduating, I have returned home to dreary Wolverhampton, not the most inspiring of cities the country has to offer. On top of that, I really miss the writers’ room. The film school is a buzzing hive of creatives – communicating with each other on a daily basis, keeping the ideas flowing, with experienced professionals inputting gems of knowledge at every step of the way. I would spend hours in the school’s writers’ room, comforted by the tapping of keys from the numerous laptops, all bringing forth a vision from the mind onto the page.

A haven for stories

I got another chance to experience that sort of environment again last month, this time in the Umbrian hilltop village of Lippiano, at the week-long Villa Pia ‘Haven for Stories’ retreat, courtesy of a travelling scholarship from the Longford Trust. I almost did not made the flight. I realised I had forgotten my passport, the most important piece of luggage, when only thirty minutes away from Stansted Airport. Thank God for my brother-in-law!

When we landed at Perugia, I realised that I had no idea what to expect of the week. Of course, I expected to be writing, but what I’d be writing and who I’d be with, I hadn’t given any thought.

I decided on reacclimatizing my brain and getting some projects I had been putting off out of the way with the help of the three tutors Alice, Toby and Elise, all professional writers. But being as it’s been a long time since I had a real holiday, I hoped there’d be some fun in the sun along the way. There was fun, maybe, but the week was mostly devoid of sun. An astounding amount of rain poured from beginning to end. But hey, perfect weather to stay in and write!

After being picked up from the airport we arrived at the picturesque Villa Pia and were welcomed by lovely owner, Morag, and the (I think) local chihuahua cross Jack Russell called Lampo who frequents there at mealtimes. We retreaters immediately got to know one another.

A group with no barriers

Being a working-class roughneck from the Midlands, I often worry about my presence in the circles I’ve found myself in since embarking on this writing journey. But I can honestly say I felt welcomed and encouraged by the mixture of interesting people in the group. From important members of Olympic committees to ex-dealers trying to save the turtles, to heads of film companies, and current blogging sensations, I met many people on this trip who inspired me one way and another. And we were all there to write. The creative buzz was back.

Led by our established and experienced teachers we started on the Monday with talks and writing exercises to get our creative juices flowing, with an aim that on the Friday night we would all read a piece of our work at the gala. It was easy to see how intelligent and savvy our tutors were when it came to advising on our writing. Over the week I rewrote a treatment for a TV project, numerous drafts of a proof of concept script for another TV project, and the first pages of the pilot episode of a project. That was what I read out to the group at the Friday night gala.

With it being my first time in Italy, I was excited to try some authentic Italian meals and was not disappointed. Throughout the week the wonderful Villa Pia staff provided us with a lunch buffet and four-course dinner daily.  There were moments when I felt guilty, having already completed a Master’s and acquired an agent, because many of the intelligent and accomplished retreaters, much older than myself, were at the beginnings of their writing journey. At least at the beginning of taking it seriously, and had paid from their own pocket and travelled long distances to join in, whilst I was there thanks to the Longford Trust and the generous donor who sponsors the travelling scholarships.

What was really revealed

When people asked how I heard about the retreat, the conversation usually led to the revelation of me being an ex-con. I was worried about judgment from them, but felt none at all. They were intrigued about my story, and respectful of it. I felt reassured that writing was what mattered here.

The same opportunity is going to be offered to two scholars next year, too. For the lucky pair selected, I hope you get the best out of it. God willing that I can afford it. I’ll definitely be making the trip again in 2025.

 

Our thanks to the Henry Oldfield Trust and to Morag Cleland at Villa Pia, and to the writing tutors Tobias Jones, Elise Valmorbida and Alice Vincent for making it possible for our scholars to attend A Haven For Stories under our Travelling Scholarships scheme 

The barriers and the benefits of starting a degree in prison

Our new Longford Scholar Daniel Bracher, recently released from prison and completing his degree this academic year, reflects on what made him want to study, the challenges he faced, and why it has transformed his future. He urges others to give it a go!

Walking out of court and into custody is an experience that leaves an indelible mark. For many, it’s the start of a bleak chapter filled with negativity from all sides. For others, it can be a downward spiral, where circumstances continue to deteriorate.

I count myself as one of the fortunate few. Despite the challenges of custodial sentences, I was presented in prison with an opportunity to better myself and my prospects, and to transform the way I spent my time there. The cornerstone of that opportunity was education—more specifically, my decision to pursue a degree through The Open University.

At first, the decision to study was motivated by a simple desire to avoid wasting time. Prison offers little more than time, and I didn’t want to let it slip by without doing something productive. However, what started as a practical choice to fill the hours behind locked doors soon became a vital mental and emotional lifeline. Studying gave me a focus, a goal, and an incredibly effective way to distract myself from the often-harsh realities of life inside.

 What It Takes to Study Behind Bars

Studying in prison is far from straightforward. For one thing, there is no access to the internet. In an age when information is at everyone’s fingertips, trying to complete a degree without it feels like running a marathon in the dark. Library resources were scarce, and what little material was available was outdated. On top of that, navigating the interpersonal minefield that is our prison system presented its own challenges. It wasn’t uncommon to encounter delays in receiving course materials, difficulties in communicating with the university, and issues with organising my student loans.

There were also more subtle barriers. The prison environment isn’t exactly conducive to study, with frequent interruptions, limited quiet space and the overall atmosphere of confinement. Moreover, the inhumane COVID-19 lockdown measures within prisons meant that any chance to form study groups or connect meaningfully with fellow inmates who were students too was next to impossible. While I was fortunate enough to bond with a few others, the opportunities to fully collaborate or support each other were minimal.

Problem-Solving and Perseverance

Navigating these obstacles required ingenuity and perseverance. Every practical problem—from gaining access to essential resources to figuring out how to contact my university for support—was compounded by a system that often seemed indifferent, if not outright obstructive. I quickly learned that success wouldn’t come easy. There were times when it felt like the odds were stacked against me, and I had to get creative to find solutions.

Beyond the practical, there were also the political challenges within the prison system. Not every staff member was willing to support educational pursuits. In fact, finding staff who were both willing and able to help was rare. Many times, I had to advocate for myself, push through red tape, and take the initiative to overcome barriers that could have easily derailed my studies, and for many does. Without resilience and determination, I’m confident that my final degree classification would have been much lower.

Getting Help

Not all prison staff fit the negative description above. There is a select few who go above and beyond, offering invaluable support to inmates who want to better themselves. These individuals are rare gems, and they can make all the difference. However, the prison system is often a lottery—you don’t get to choose your establishment or the staff within it. For those lucky enough to encounter staff who genuinely care, the impact can be sentence-altering.

My own experience made me keen to share what I learned with fellow inmates. Every chance I got, I encouraged others to consider studying or pursuing something productive during their sentences. I wanted them to benefit from the hard-earned lessons I had learned, so they could avoid some of the pitfalls and obstacles that I faced.

How It Has Changed Me

Looking back, I realise that my decision to pursue education in prison was about much more than simply passing the time. It was about taking control of my future in a situation where so much fell out of my hands. Completing my degree now I am out will be a personal achievement that gives me a sense of purpose, structure, and hope. It has already showed me that in the worst of circumstances, opportunities for growth and improvement can still exist.

For others in similar situations, the road may not be easy, but education can be a powerful tool for transformation. It offers not just the possibility of a better future but a way to navigate the challenges of the present.

 If you are a Longford Scholar, past or present, and would like to write a blog for us, contact Clare Lewis

We need a new wave of trust in communities

Our scholar Andrew Morris grew up wanting to be a policeman but, he writes, his life took a very different course.  After the recent riots, he reflects on his own experience and how it has lead him to found New Wave Trust dedicated to rebuilding trust between communities and between communities and the police.

I have a catalogue of memories in my mind from growing up on the Angell Town estate in Brixton. It was the place I proudly called home, where my core beliefs took shape. It was also usually associated with deprivation and criminality (although it has long since been gentrified).

I can’t quite remember how old I was at the time, but I was taken to the West End as a young boy. I saw sweets, lights, people and in a souvenir shop a child-sized version of a police hat. For some reason I was obsessed by it. I immediately decided that I wanted to join the police.

Members of my family, usually Mum, my grandmother or my aunt, would tell me that, if I was naughty, ‘the policeman will take you away’. I knew that there could be nothing good about that and surmised in my own childlike way that wanting to be a policeman could not be all bad.  I was not yet of an age when I could possibly know the ramifications of three major factors on my future life: being black; coming from Angell Town; and wanting to join the police.

As time went on, I saw some of the injustices that coated the area where I grew up. Very often I would hear that something or other had happened, and it usually involved the police. I clearly recall listening to my grandparents talking about the Mangrove Nine, a group of activists tried and ultimately acquitted of inciting a riot in 1970 after protesting about police targeting a Caribbean restaurant in Notting Hill. Their trial, though, had happened five years before I was even born so, as I listened in to the family talk, I had no real concept then of what it all meant. But what I knew was that it was not good, and that it related to something called ‘racism’.

A window on the world

Growing up on Angell Town, our kitchen window looked on to a grassy area. What unravelled there is one of my most vivid memories of childhood. I was barely eight-years-old when, on 28 September 1985, I heard the word ‘riot’. My grandmother told me that a lady called Cherry Groce, who lived around the corner from us, had been shot by the police (leaving her paralysed for the rest of her life). That evening, as I was looking out of our kitchen window with my gran, I saw the 1985 Brixton riots spreading onto a pathway running between our kitchen and the grassy area.

I am not ashamed to admit that I was afraid. The most terrifying moment came when, for reasons that were unclear, the police entered our block and smashed the rectangular window in our front door with their truncheons. They did the same to our neighbours. Mercifully they did not then enter our homes, although I never did get my head around why the police would do what they did.

The fear that engulfed me that night was not because people were rioting. It was a fear of the police. Yet, despite this, I still had that desire to join the police.

‘My peers beat me for wanting to join the police’

Then came my juxtaposition. One day as a teenager I was bundled into the back of a police van with a friend from the estate. He had been arrested on several occasions. I, on the other hand, had not. Still, I was cuffed and beaten up by two officers who told me to ‘scream for your mum’. I didn’t scream for Mum, although I did cry out from the pain of the unjust and vitriolic assault.

I had already been given a beating from my peers because I had dared to tell them I wanted to join the police. Now it was the police being violent towards me.  The combination of the two certainly disabused me of the idea of joining the police.

Instead, my bad encounter that day with the police led me to campaign about police transgressions. I was mentored for four years in this period by Rudy Narayan, the well-known barrister and civil rights campaigner.

‘I never imagined I’d be offered a job in government service’

In 1998, when I was 21, I experienced in a single year the deaths of first my grandmother, then Rudy, and finally a lady called Arlene, who took a keen interest in my development. My way of dealing with it was to drink like an alcoholic. There followed a period of remand for a crime I had not committed, but I emerged from HMP Brixton with a taste for cocaine. A turbulent lifestyle of crime, drugs and debauchery ensued.

I somehow found the determination to leave London in an effort to kick my bad habits, but in 2007, after I had been clean for almost a year, my demons came back to haunt me. I was still displaying ‘using behaviour’. I was quick-tempered and aggressive, and that got me into trouble and led to me being handed an indeterminate prison sentence, also known as IPP.

Nearing the end of my sentence, something surprising happened. It had never crossed my mind that I’d be offered a job in government service before even walking out through the prison gates to restart my life. But I was. Towards the end of long-term sentences, there is an unwritten rule that, for the most part, you get a chance to prove yourself by being tested in an open prison, which is pretty much what it says on the tin. You aren’t locked in and could run off at any time. Therein lies the test!

I remember one day, while in an open prison, when we were invited to an employability talk in the visitors’ hall. I had nothing else to do, so went along with no expectations. Our visitor began talking about something called ‘Going Forward into Employment’. It was a government scheme. He referred to some job adverts scattered around the room and invited us to look at them.

I read one or two and I remember thinking, ‘this a pipe-dream’. But in the same moment I had a euphoric sensation. I had started to imagine myself doing one of the jobs that I had just read about. Then came the blow. ‘This scheme,’ it read, ‘is not open to life-sentenced prisoners, or this and that blah blah blah…’ My elation ebbed away.

‘The governor encouraged me to apply’

When the talk came to an end, I decided to speak to our visitor. ‘How can you come and tell me what I could have won,’ I challenged him, showing him the job advert. He shifted and smiled uneasily. As I walked away, I spoke to the governor who was there. He agreed with me and encouraged me to apply anyway. So, I did, and cast my cares into the sea of forgetfulness.

Then some time later something bizarre happened. A fellow prisoner came up to me and said, ‘you’ve got an interview’. I had forgotten about the application. I thought it must be a cruel joke. How could he know before me? But prison can be like that sometimes.

Sure enough I got a movement slip instructing me that I should be at the Working Out Scheme office (WOS) at an appointed date and time. Around 10 people were interviewed for the role. I walked into a room and met two representatives. Around half-an-hour later, they were done. I was left somersaulting in my mind about what else I could have said. They gave no indication either way of how the interview had gone.

‘I am proud of you. You got the job, well done’

About two months later I had left the prison on a planned overnight stay as part of my preparation for release. When I returned on 4 July, 2019, I was met by yet another prisoner who came up to me and said, ‘congratulations’. I was in a good mood having come back from time with family and friends, so I asked cheerfully, ‘what’s happened’? Simultaneously the governor came striding up to me with his hand outstretched! He shook my hand and said something I didn’t hear too often. ‘I am proud of you. You got the job, well done’.

I had been offered a role as an Assessment Officer at the Prisons’ and Probation Ombudsman, part of the Ministry of Justice. (The PPO investigates complaints from prisoners and those detained in secure environments.) I just couldn’t believe it. I mean how often does a convict get offered a job by the same government department that had the responsibility for locking them up in the first place?

‘Sometimes good things happen’

I kept thinking that it was not going to happen, just like the countless times that I thought I’d get parole and didn’t. But sometimes good things do happen. Four months later I had a parole hearing and told them that I had been offered a job at the PPO. I got the impression that they did not believe me. Once it was confirmed by my probation officer, the panel moved on as if they hadn’t just unnecessarily impugned the little bit of integrity I had left.

But, in the end, they directed my release and I left prison on 13 December 2019 and started work at the PPO the next month. In March 2020 the country went into national Covid lockdown. I was troubled in my work. I started harbouring fears that if I did or said anything deemed to be above my station, I’d be returned to prison.  I was treading very carefully. I felt like I wasn’t really free. I suspected I was experiencing a subtle form of bullying. Psychologically I was not in a good place, but I had no one to turn to.

‘A question of trust’

Several events eventually lead me to the conclusion that, at best, unconscious racial bias was present. I spoke to my union to get advice and guidance but they didn’t do anything. What I really wanted was for a tribunal to establish the truth, but without union support, my case couldn’t be heard.

Sometimes it can feel that all I have ever known is struggle – from growing up on Angell Town to fighting the injustice of a sentence with no end. Right now, like thousands of others, I eagerly await the termination of my IPP licence. It all comes down to trust – from losing trust in the police as a young man, to losing trust in the organisation where I worked. These experiences have never properly gone away because they haven’t been remedied.

And that is what has put me on the path to studying law at university. With the support of the Longford Trust, I have recently achieved my Diploma of Higher Education. Despite some of my uncertainties, I have not given into the temptation of adopting an anti-authority sentiment. Quite the opposite. I have founded New Wave Trust, which works to build brighter futures, break down barriers and tackle issues such as the ‘school-to-prison pipeline’, and to infuse what we do with lived experience wherever we have the capacity to do so. New Wave’s patron, Jackie Malton, is a former senior police officer. We became friends while she was volunteering in one of the prisons I was housed in.

The recent events in Southport, which then gave way to a climate of fear, violence and hate-fuelled rioting, have once again brought into sharp focus the vital work that needs to be done to rebuild trust. When I was growing up the tensions were often between the police and the community, irrespective of race, culture or creed. Today we appear to be finding ourselves with pressures between communities as well as with the police. My path going forward is to tackle this by fostering a mindset of renewed hope and determination. I hope as you read this you will be inspired to do the same.

My journey back from gambling addiction

Our 2024 graduate Sian McLear was 26 and had a successful career in finance when a night out at the bingo catapulted her into gambling addiction so strong that it ultimately saw her jailed. As she starts her post-graduate career with the Beacon Charitable Trust, the charity she credits with saving her life, she reflects on how she embraced her second chance though higher education with our help.

I can’t really pin point how or why my gambling turned harmful. I just remember going to the bingo with colleagues and having to open an online account to be able to attend. That’s when the promotions / hounding started. I had a significant win and an offer of a free bet or a stake of no more than £1. I remember thinking, ‘I’m going to win big again I will, I will’.

Before I knew it, I was secretly staying up all night playing slots on my phone while my husband was in bed asleep. I was physically incapable of stopping until every last penny in my bank account had been spent. I would then lie awake worried sick about how I was going to get all the money back.

Secrets and lies

I couldn’t tell anyone what I was doing. Just the thought of it made me physically sick. I started getting pay-day-loans and credit cards, but instead of covering the money I’d lost, I believed I’d be able to make more. So, the cycle continued. I’d got myself in that much of a mess I couldn’t see a way out of the debt which is when I turned to what I believed was the only way out: I stole money from work.

To me, though, it wasn’t stealing. I was just borrowing it and had every intention of paying it back. But when I ‘won big’ this carried on for three years on a daily basis with my mental health drastically declining. I was living a lie and nobody knew. I was having to hide my gambling and the state of my mental health from everyone around me.

‘My world fell apart’

I didn’t even want to gamble anymore. I enjoyed nothing about it, but yet I couldn’t stop. I thought about getting a new job, hoping it might help stop the stealing. I did not want to be doing what I was doing any more. It was causing me to self-harm. I hated myself and everything about me. Something had to give: on the day I found out I was pregnant with my son, I was sacked from my job and my world fell apart.

The scariest time of my life was waiting to find out when I would be going to court/prison. By this time my beautiful son George had been born. The fear of being taken away from him was terrifying. There were a couple of times I contemplated suicide. One specific time I drank half a bottle of my dad’s liquid morphine, not because I wanted to die, but because I wanted to be able to sleep and make everything go away.

I needed help but the doctor prescribed antidepressants for my addiction. As (at the time) I was pregnant, I didn’t want to take them. Thankfully, through my own efforts, I came across the Beacon Counselling Trust, a charity offering free support to those suffering with gambling-related harm. The support I received greatly helped to quell my fears and prepare for prison.

One bad choice away from disaster

I made a promise to myself that I would turn my situation into a positive one. I realised that we are all only one bad choice/mistake away from turning our lives upside down, and that it’s not the end. It does not mean this has to be our path going forward. It can be a new the start of a new beginning.

Whilst in prison, there were certainly days I felt like giving up but I knew that, if not for me but for my son, I was going to make something out of it. I decided I wanted to study, to help other people like myself and be able to make a difference.  I decided on a university degree. I was put in touch with The Longford Trust who were invaluable in guiding me through the university application process whilst I was in prison.

In fact, throughout my studies the trust has not only provided me with financial help but peer support which, to be honest, was way more valuable than the money. Having one-to-one support with someone who knew and understood my situation gave me the courage to fight my anxieties and worries.

Second chances

Four years on, I have just graduated with a BA in criminology and psychology from Liverpool John Moores University and have successfully obtained a job as an Education and Brief Intervention Lead in none other than the charity that effectively saved my life, Beacon Counselling Trust. I am now helping those experiencing what I have been through, as well as fighting to prevent it happening.

Writing this is not about wishing to share my story. What I am hoping to do is inspire others to believe in themselves. A prison sentence is not the end. It can be used to learn and grow. With the help of organisations such as The Longford Trust, there’s no stopping us.

If you or anyone else you know might be suffering as a result of the issues raised in this article, do get in touch with Gambling Aware, a national network of organisations working together to provide free and confidential support for anyone impacted by gambling.

 

Meet Our Three New Trustees

One of the joys of the Longford Trust, writes our Director, Peter Stanford, is seeing our award-winners go forward from graduation, the careers they build, and the lives they lead in wider society. So, it is with great pleasure that we are announcing that three recent scholar graduates have joined the Longford Trust’s trustee board.

Each of them brings to the trustee table first-hand experience of the criminal justice system, of  universities, and of the challenges that come when navigating degree-level learning during and after time in prison.   But that is just one part of it.  Because they have all gone on to achieve so much in their professional lives, they will also be sharing with us their particular expertise in the field where they are excelling. That will strengthen the mix of knowledge on the trustee board, and make the Longford Trust ever more effective in its work with our present and future scholars.

Tim Kerr

Tim, 34, is a doctoral student in Psychiatry at King’s College, London, where his research focuses on anxiety disorders. Alongside that he works at the Howard League for Penal Reform, our partner organisation, as Membership Officer. Both roles, he says, “directly arose” from being a Longford Scholar.

“My life is now a far cry from the one I had when I first encountered the trust. Relatively settled, in career and life, I am becoming a trustee in the hope of putting my still recent experiences to good use, to improve processes that I once went through, and prevent mistakes being repeated.”

Kyle McIntosh

Kyle, 27, graduated in mathematics and is a software developer at Arahi, a London-based company specialising in portfolio reporting, board-pack reporting and value creation. Some of you may remember that Kyle came up on stage at our 2022 Longford Lecture to talk about how our employability project had helped him find the perfect job post-graduation.

“With my lived experience and deep appreciation for the Trust’s mission, I hope to bring a unique perspective to the table. I am committed to leveraging my insights to contribute meaningfully to the board of trustees, ensuring that the voices of those with first-hand experience are heard in strategic decision-making processes.”

Elliot Tyler

Elliot, 26, graduated from Portsmouth University supported by one of our Nat Billington scholarships. He has gone on work as a criminal justice professional in an executive agency of the Ministry of Justice.  He is also nearing the end of a post-graduate qualification at Birkbeck, University of London.

“I believe that my own journey – as a sentenced prisoner turned civil servant – is an asset that can assist me in making a positive contribution to the charity. It is a privilege to contribute to what I interpret as the Longford Trust’s principles of second chances, shared humanity, and practical solutions.”

 

 

Hindsight is a Wonderful Thing

As he nears release, our Longford scholar Isaac Rasmussen is reflecting on the past decisions that led him from Royal Marine to prisoner. He describes how going to university is the first step on what he plans will be a career in journalism

As a serving prisoner I have done my fair share of fixating on one point in my life and asking myself where did it all go wrong? And, if I could change or take back that decision, would everything would be different. For me, the decision in question was to leave the Royal Marines.

In itself, it might not have been fatal. The problem was that no preparation was put in place to secure a seamless transition into civilian life. I fell back on the old Bootneck (Royal Marine) mantra “no cuff too tuff’’, meaning we’re always up for taking on the biggest challenges. We improvise, adapt and overcome – and approach it all with a sense of humour.

It was not long before it became apparent that this cuff was a little tougher than usual. I bounced from pointless job to no job to pointless job again. I moved up north as it had more affordable housing, and I still had friends there from the Corps (Royal Marines). But nothing filled the void the Corps had left. It was not long before I was ready to fill that gap with whatever would give me any kind of purpose and excitement, something that could happen to anyone in these circumstances, although some might be more vulnerable than others.

Preparation, preparation, preparation

I now realise, regardless of whether I decided to leave the Royal Marines or not, that if I had altered my mindset towards even the loosest of plans, I probably would not have found myself in trouble (within reason). Structure and focus in any positive direction would have prevented me from having a knee-jerk reaction to events and situations that life threw at me.  The military phrase I should have been focusing on is, “fail to prepare, prepare to fail”. It suits long-term goals infinitely better than “no cuff too tuff” which only works with short-term goals needing swift action.

I am learning, with the help of family, friends and now the Longford Trust, to balance taking risks with preparing properly.  Knowing that I will have a constant in Longford Trust from my first day of university to my release from prison and on to my first job and beyond helps to keep me grounded and concentrate on preparing for every eventuality. Through my mentor, or by engaging in the workshops and events, I can see that the Longford Trust understands where I have come from. It is a non-judgmental group of people I can count on for advice in a world that still does not quite understand the prisoner and the issues they face.

Turning Point

I now accept the decision to leave the Royal Marines had nothing to do with my subsequent failures and bad decisions. It is about how I went about things going forward. The real moral of my story is to not fixate on that single moment when you think it all went wrong. It is more likely that a pattern of events, fuelled by a pattern of behaviour, is what truly led to the negativity in your life. And the beauty of that truth is that it takes exactly same mechanism to improve things.

That means to improve your behaviour gradually over time, in regard of small events, and eventually you will see a change in your life for the better. The success can still feel as if it all happened by chance, but, if my experience is anything to go by, it didn’t. You effect the change habitually and you reap the rewards.

Education

Education is all around us. There is no such thing as useless knowledge. However, academia was never my strong suit. I always struggled in school. It was not because I didn’t understand what was being taught. I just did not really get on with the school system and so ultimately did not thrive.

Joining the Royal Marines meant that no more academia, for a while at least. But, of course, there were still things to be learnt at great pace and under great physical and mental pressure. I suffered, struggled, improved and struggled some more until I found a groove. The suffering never ended, it was me who got used to it. I even found a way to enjoy it. I have hung on to these tools.

I chose to study media, journalism and publishing because of my interest in becoming a journalist. During my time at my previous category C prison, I had ideas on studying history, but as time went on, I swayed more into the direction of studying journalism. From a logical point of view journalism offers more opportunities and different job types. Especially, with a course like the one I am on at Oxford Brookes University where journalism is grouped alongside media and publishing.  When I leave prison, that will help with as seamless a transition as possible into the job market doing something that will challenge me and keep me engaged. That is crucial to my rehabilitation.

On a personal level, I always dreamt from early childhood of somehow leaving my mark on the world. I didn’t know how, and to this day still don’t. Becoming a journalist is my way finally of finding the answer. So, here I am embarking on yet another journey in to the unknown. Studying will be a struggle, but no matter how hard it gets I know I have been here before and I am supported and equipped to get there in the end.

If you are a past or present scholar, or one of our mentors, and have a blog you want to contribute, contact Clare Lewis.

The trick is to realise that it is for you

Longford Scholar, Darren Robert, has just graduated in scriptwriting from the National Film and Television School. Today he is in the running for a dream job at the BBC.  Here, he traces it all back to prison and daring to believe that higher education could be for someone like him – and someone like you.

There are a few things in my life that have been consistent; my mom, brother and sisters (except when my mother kicked me out), the neighbourhood I grew up in, the friends I had from that neighbourhood, being broke, and the feeling that somehow, I was going to make it out and everything would be okay. For a long time, I thought music would be that way out, but after getting locked up again at 25, after just being released at 25, whilst in the midst of working on my mixtape, I thought this music thing might not work out.

Crime was never really something I wanted to do; it was just something I fell into. Even while I was making money serving the local addicts, I didn’t really care for it. Knowing I wouldn’t be let back into the free world until the age of 28, I felt like that would be too old start all over again. Whilst lying on the top bunk letting my mind wonder, something that had been pushed to the back of my mind for some years came to the forefront. I watched my early life play out like the opening to a TV show; the journey back home from church late on a Sunday night, driving through the bleak run-down street known for prostitution that leads into my neighbourhood right next to the vicarage with the wall spray painted ‘Give me life, give me a job pop’. I always wondered who pop was, and what kind of jobs he had to offer. The whole thing became so clear to me.

At that moment I decided that I was going to write TV. But I had no idea what I was doing. I just got a sheet of A4 lined paper, wrote names in the margin and wrote dialogue. I didn’t realise I had to set the scene, or how I was supposed to lay it out. After refusing to go to education in the prison for a few weeks, as I knew I could get an extra gym session instead, the officers told me I’d be going on basic if I didn’t get down there.

‘You shouldn’t be here, you should be in university.’

So, I went down, not wanting to lose my TV, and was put into an English class. English was pretty much the only thing I was good at in school academically, though my grades didn’t prove that. When I was young my mom would make me stand in front of the heater and do my spellings while she grilled me from the settee. So, I guess I owe my reading and writing skills to her.

In this English class on this one day that I went down to education, there was a substitute teacher from the Open prison across the road. Real nice lady, very smartly dressed, I even noticed the classy Rolex she had on. She gave me a piece of work to do, which was to read a paragraph, and then write a paragraph about it. I don’t remember what it was I read or wrote but I remember her reaction to it. ‘Ughh, with writing like this you shouldn’t be here, you should be in university!’

It was strange to hear knowing that my schoolteachers most likely felt I was exactly where I belonged. I felt very encouraged by her response, and in my head, I was thinking,‘funny you say that, I was just thinking about being a writer.’

I never saw her again after that day, but I consider her a guardian angel who came to point me in the right direction. I was shipped out a few days later to a Cat C prison. When the education people came to see me about what I’d like to do whilst at their establishment, I said, ‘I want to get into screenwriting’. I didn’t think that would be something the prison would offer but I had heard about Open University and hoped there may be something I could do through them.

Plus, I thought if I could do something like that, it would keep officers off my back about going to work. The lady found me a course with Stonebridge Associated Colleges in Scriptwriting for Film, TV, Stage and Radio. I also found in the prison library two sheer assets for what I wanted to do; Teach Yourself Screenwriting, and the script in book form to Reservoir Dogs, one of my favourite films. I’ll be honest, I took the books from there and kept them for myself until I was released, because I just knew that I needed them more than anyone.

‘Me of all people, an A+, I couldn’t believe it’

When the work started coming through, I got straight to it. I put up pictures of Bafta and Oscar awards in my cell for motivation (and also manifestation) and knuckled down, although it took me a lot longer to get work done as I was writing scripts by hand and learning as I went along. The tutor was very forgiving with the time I was taking, and as there were no deadlines. I didn’t feel pressured. He also seemed to like my work. I sent the last piece of work off after my release in 2016 and was ecstatic when they sent me back a diploma with an A+ grade. Me of all people, an A+, I couldn’t believe it. But I didn’t want to stop there. I wanted to continue learning. I just knew for certain I was on the right path this time. I looked up local university courses and finally settled on Creative Writing and Film and TV Studies at Wolverhampton University, where I started in September that year.

I had never written essays before and struggled with the academic side of things, but creatively I was doing well. I was learning the craft quickly and got praise for it by my tutors. But this was mostly in the form of short stories. There wasn’t much actual screenwriting going on. Having had to repeat a year as I lacked in some work, my final year was from 2019-2020. By this time, I had grown slightly bored of the course, as it wasn’t specific to what I wanted to do. A friend and mentor of mine that I had met on a media course whilst inside had told me about the National Film and Television School and said that’s where I needed to be. He said that’s the cream of the crop. It’s where shows like Eastenders come and cherry pick their writers. He said you go there, and you complete the course, and they give you an agent. I thought I should check it out.

‘I feel like I know who I am again, and where I’m going’

I had some mental pushback, believing that a school like that probably wouldn’t want someone like me, but when I went down for the Open Day, I saw an actual Bafta and an actual Oscar award in the flesh, and I was immediately sold! I knew I had to be here. I completely forgot about the undergrad and focused on the NFTS. It was risky, as the course only accepts 10 people per year, but I didn’t care. I filled in the long application form and attached a pilot script I had written and sent it off. On my birthday that year in July, I got the email saying I was accepted, and I was over the moon. But in December I was arrested again, and in January I was sent to prison for 6 months. I was due to start in February. I was gutted. I thought it was over. But the school stood by me and allowed me to defer. I started in 2022, made the move to Buckinghamshire and got to work. I had no idea how I was going to pay for the course, or my living, but luckily landed a scholarship from the BBC which covered it.

Two years and some change later, I am now a Master of Arts, Film and Television, I have an agent and I am in the running to work on a high-level TV show. None of this could have been done without all the help along the way from tutors who work to see people making use of their talents. Ever since I made that decision to start writing, I’ve felt like I know who I am again, and where I’m going. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s definitely been worth it, and now I can look forward to the future.

I truly believe that education is the key. The trick is to realise within yourself that it is for you too. Don’t believe what you’ve been made to believe your entire life, that you belong in a box, mentally or physically. Education can and will open your mind and your life to new realities, and you can bring forth the positive lifestyle change that you desire.

Don’t be afraid, make the decision.

If you believe you could do a university degree, too, contact Clare Lewis, the Longford Trust’s scholarship manager to find out how.

I haven’t got a clue what I’d be doing now otherwise

Current scholar David Shipley was 38 and half way through a sentence for fraud. More and more, his thoughts were turning to life after release. His offence meant his previous career was closed to him forever. Here he explains how overcoming his fears and embracing education in prison opened the door to a new future.

The Covid lockdown made prison life even more dull than usual. I ran laps, lifted weights and tried to pass the time by writing. I knew I enjoyed writing, but I’d always thought formal study was a waste of time. Writing was just something you could do or couldn’t, but I had all the time in the world.

And so, I researched courses and carefully wrote out an application for a prestigious Creative Writing degree. People who graduated had a good chance of going on to decent, paid work as writers. I didn’t meet the academic requirements, but they assured me all applications would be considered, so I diligently filled in all the forms.

Two weeks later I received a standard rejection letter, telling me that I didn’t meet the academic requirements of the course’. I felt terrible. I’d set my heart on this degree. It was going to give me a new future. And now it wasn’t. I was dejected and defeated, wondering why everything was against me.

It’s not only about having the right qualifications

My mum helped. She told me, ‘it’s their loss. Just apply somewhere else’. She was right. I decided not to give up and found a degree offered entirely online by the University of Hull. In most of the prison system, online study is not allowed, but I was in an Open prison at the time and, with Covid lockdown happening, there was more flexibility than usual about allowing some internet access for education.

Hull made it clear that they were more interested in each person’s life story and reasons for studying rather than qualifications or experience. They asked for an application letter and examples of my writing. I sent them an explanation of my crime, told them I was a prisoner, and how important writing was to me. Within days I got an acceptance.

 The course started in a week. Suddenly the reality hit me. I hadn’t written an essay in 20 years. Would I be able to keep up? Would they treat me differently for being a criminal? Would they all be kids? I considered withdrawing from the course before it started, but I didn’t, and from day one they could not have been more welcoming.

Staff and fellow students were curious. I was the only prisoner on the course (alongside a retired prison officer from New Zealand) but we were a pretty varied group. Ages ranged from early 20s to mid-70s, and students ‘attended’ from every part of the world.

I almost forgot I was in prison

I loved that course. Each day I’d leave my house block to ‘go to university’, and spend the day learning, reading and writing. I’d almost forget I was in prison. On the course we got brilliant feedback, and I came to realise that writing is as technical and teachable as mechanics, carpentry or computer programming. I learnt how to write fast and to a publishable standard and found myself getting better marks than I expected. As the course went on, they went up.

It wasn’t all easy, though. Even in an open prison, there’s a lot of nonsense. Fewer internet connections than prisoners studying online at that Covid moment in time meant time to work was strictly rationed. I often felt at a disadvantage compared to the other students who could pop online whenever they needed to check a source, order a new book, or just chat with the other students. One thing I did have, though, was time. In the evenings I read course texts, made notes, and thought about the next assignment.

 Studying gets harder post release

 After release, in some ways it got harder. I had an assignment due two weeks after I left prison. I just couldn’t face it. My life felt unstable, unmoored. When I emailed the university to explain, they couldn’t have been more supportive. They didn’t ask for documents or proof. They just said ‘have another month’.

Even with the distractions of a new life outside, social media and friends to catch up with, I finished my degree, securing a merit. Then began the slow grind of pitching for writing work. I now knew I could write. I just had to persuade other people. Inside Time was the first place to publish me. Then I began to pick up more commissions: at the Spectator; with CapX; and even some American publications. Being able to write fast, and to deadlines, helped a lot.

Where I have got to so far

 To my surprise, I realised that I wanted to keep studying. So in September of 2023, I started a PhD at the University of Southampton. I am researching the impact on children of having a parent in prison. Combining my writing career (@ShipleyWrites) and the PhD means I’m pretty busy, but I get to do interesting, enjoyable work most days. I feel so grateful.

 I haven’t got a clue what I’d be doing now if I hadn’t started that Creative Writing degree in prison. And it would have been so easy to give up when I got that rejection letter, or to succumb to my fears just before starting at Hull. I’m so happy I didn’t.

My degree has given me a career after prison, a sense of purpose, and a path for the second half of my life. We’re all capable of more than we realise. A degree could really change your future, as my experience shows. Why not give it a try?

The Longford Trust offers around 30 new scholarships each year for the duration of a degree course. To find out more, go to our website or contact Clare Lewis, our scholarship manager.