Part 2 (2/2)
'Are you ready?' George asks politely.
'Yes,' I say, 'except that my black tie has been confiscated along with my cufflinks.'
George's fellow officer hands me a black tie, and a pair of cufflinks materialize. I can only a.s.sume that they had antic.i.p.ated my problem. I point out to George that his black tie is smarter than mine.
'Possibly, but mine's a clip-on,' he says, 'otherwise I'd happily lend it to you.'
'A clip-on?' I repeat in mock disdain.
'Prison regulations,' he explains. 'No officer ever wears a tie as it puts him at risk of being strangled.'
I learn something new every few minutes.
The two of them escort me to the front hall, but not before we've pa.s.sed through seven double-bolted floor-to-ceiling barred gates. When we reach the reception area, I am once again strip-searched. The officers carry out this exercise as humanely as possible, though it's still humiliating.
I am then taken out into the yard to find a white Transit van awaiting me. Once inside, I'm asked to sit in the seat farthest from the door. George sits next to the door, while his colleague slips into the spare seat directly behind him. The tiny windows are covered with bars and blacked out; I can see out, though no one can see in. I tell George that the press are going to be very frustrated.
'There were a lot of them hanging round earlier this morning waiting for you,' he tells me, 'but a high-security van left about an hour ago at full speed and they all chased after it. They'll be halfway to Nottingham before they realize you're not inside.'
The electric gates slide open once again, this time to let me out. I know the journey to Cambridge like the cliched 'back of my hand' because I've made it once, sometimes twice, a week for the past twenty years. But this time I am taken on a route that I never knew existed, and presume it can only be for security reasons. I once remember John Major's driver telling me that he knew twentytwo different routes from Chequers to No.
10, and another twenty back to Huntingdon, and none of them was the most direct.
I find it a little stifling in the back of the van. There is no contact with the driver in the front, or the policeman sitting beside him, because they are sealed off, almost as if they're in a separate vehicle. I sense that George and his colleague are a little nervous I can't imagine why, because I have no intention of trying to escape, as I abhor any form of violence. I learn later they are nervous because should anything go wrong they'll be blamed for it and something does go wrong.
When we reach the M11, the van remains at a steady fifty on the inside lane, and I begin to feel sick cooped up in that armourplated compartment on wheels. Our first destination is the Cambridge Crematorium, which is situated on the north side of the city, so when we come off the motorway at exit thirteen, I'm surprised to find that the driver turns left, and starts going in the wrong direction. We travel for a couple of miles towards Royston, before pulling into a large car park attached to the Siemens Building.
George explains that Siemens is where they have agreed to liaise with the local police before travelling on to the crematorium.
One enterprising black-leather-clad motorcyclist (journalist) who spotted the van coming off the roundabout at exit thirteen has followed us to the Siemens Building. He skids to a halt, and immediately taps out some numbers on his mobile phone. The policeman seated in the front makes it clear that he wants to be on the move before any of the biker's colleagues join him. But as we have to wait for the local police before we can proceed, we're stuck.
It is of course unusual to have a cremation before the church service, but the crematorium was free at 10 am and the church not until midday. The following day the press come up with a dozen reasons as to why the funeral had been conducted in this order from the police demanding it, through to me wanting to fool them. Not one of them published the correct reason.
Within minutes, the police escort arrives and we are on our way.
When we drive into the crematorium, there are over a hundred journalists and photographers waiting for us behind a barrier that has been erected by the police. They must have been disappointed to see the white van disappear behind the back of the building, where they slipped me in through the entrance usually reserved for the clergy.
Peter Walker, an old friend and the former Bishop of Ely, is waiting to greet us. He guides me through to a little room, where he will put on his robes and I will change into a new suit, which my son William is bringing over from the Old Vicarage. I will be only too happy to be rid of the clothes I've been wearing for the past few days. The smell of prison is a perfume that even Nicole Kidman couldn't make fas.h.i.+onable.
The Bishop takes me through the cremation service, which, he says, will only last for about fifteen minutes. He confirms that the main funeral service will be conducted in the Parish Church of St Andrew and St Mary in Grantchester at twelve o'clock.
A few minutes later, my immediate family arrive via the front door and have to face the clicking cameras and the shouted questions.
Mary is wearing an elegant black dress with a simple brooch that my mother left her in her will. She is ashen-faced, which was my last memory of her before I left the dock. I begin to accept that this terrible ordeal may be even more taxing for my family who are trying so hard to carry on their daily lives while not letting the world know how they really feel.
When Mary comes through to join me in the back, I hold on to her for some time. I then change into my new suit, and go through to the chapel and join the rest of the family. I greet each one of them before taking my place in the front row, seated between William and Mary. I try hard to concentrate on the fact that we are all gathered together in memory of my mother, Lola, but it's hard to forget I'm a convict, who in a few hours' time will be back in prison.
10.30 am
The Bishop conducts the service with calm and quiet dignity, and when the curtains are finally drawn around my mother's coffin, Mary and I walk forward and place a posy of heather next to the wreath.
Mary leaves by the front door, while I return to the back room where I am greeted by another old friend. The two prison officers are surprised when Inspector Howell from the local constabulary says, 'h.e.l.lo, Jeffrey, sorry to see you in these circ.u.mstances.'
I explain to them that when I was Chairman of Cambridge Rugby Club, David was the 1st XV skipper, and the best scrum-half in the county.
'How do you want to play it?' I ask.
David checks his watch. 'The service at Grantchester isn't for another hour, so I suggest we park up at Cantalupe Farm, and wait at the Old Vicarage, until it's time to leave for the church.'
I glance at George to see if this meets with his approval. 'I'm happy to fall in with whatever the local constabulary advise,' he says.
I'm then driven away to Cantalupe Farm in my armoured van, where the owner, Antony Pemberton, has kindly allowed us to park.
Mary and the boys travel separately in the family car. We then all make our way by foot over to the Old Vicarage accompanied by only a couple of photographers as the rest of the press are ma.s.sed outside St Andrew's; they have all a.s.sumed that we would be travelling directly to the parish church.
We all wait around in the kitchen for a few moments, while Mary Anne, our housekeeper, makes some tea, pours a large gla.s.s of milk and cuts me a slice of chocolate cake. I then ask George if I might be allowed to walk around the garden.
The Old Vicarage at Grantchester (circa 1680) was, at the beginning of the last century, the home of Rupert Brooke. The beautiful garden has been tended for the past fifteen years by my wife and Rachael, the gardener. Between them they've turned it from a jungle into a haven. The trees and flowerbeds are exquisite and the walks to and from the river quite magnificent. George and his colleague, though never more than a few paces away, remain out of earshot, so Mary and I are able to discuss my appeal.
She reveals an amazing piece of new evidence concerning Mr Justice Potts that, if substantiated, could cause there to be a retrial.
Mary then goes over the mistakes she thinks the judge made during the trial. She is convinced that the appeal judges will at least reduce my four-year sentence.
'You don't seem pleased,' she adds as we walk along the bank of the River Cam.
'For the first time in my life,' I tell her, 'I a.s.sume the worst, so that if anything good happens, I'll be pleasantly surprised.' I've become a pessimist overnight.
We return from the river bank, walk back towards the house and over a wooden bridge that spans Lake Oscar in reality it's a large pond full of koi carp, named after one of my wife's favourite cats, who after five years of purring and pawing at the water's edge failed to catch a single fish. After feeding our j.a.panese and Israeli immigrants, we return to the house and prepare ourselves to face the press.
David Howell says that he doesn't want me driven to the church in a police car and suggests that I accompany Mary and the family on foot for the four-hundred-yard walk from the Old Vicarage to the parish church. The police and the prison officers were doing everything in their power to remember that the occasion is my mother's funeral.
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