Ever visited anyone in prison?

On Saturday my brother James his partner Lyn and I entered the reception building of the prison. We had our papers checked by two friendly officers, who marked the back of our hands with a ultra violet stamp. Then we were then issued with a numbered card.

We packed our belongings into a locker because you are not permitted to take anything into the main prison.

We were ready for some refreshments after the long drive. There was a small café, well stocked and with reasonable prices.

I was quite surprised to see garden produce for sale on a table nearby. There were large marrows and a variety of chillies among other fresh greens. How odd and I was about to ask about it when our number was called and we were escorted to the main prison building. Our papers were checked again. We had to walk through a scanner as if we were in an airport, but like the residents here, we were going nowhere.

The visiting is held in a large hall. A well equipped crèche and a small café were close by.

The rest of the hall was furnished with sets of four chairs round small circular coffee tables, joined together and so permantly bolted to the floor that I presumed the designers were determined not to make a thieves' kitchen of the place.

A door at the far end opened, and there was Roger in blue jeans, a fresh blue and white pin striped shirt, looking relaxed despite all he has been through. His beard was smartly trimmed. He looked thinner than he used to be, but pretty well considering his long, long struggle to get the injustice recognised.

We were ready for a good chat, but the hall filled rapidly with prisoners and visitors until it was packed. The result was an enormous hubbub. In fact, the noise was deafening, so it was more a good shout we had than the desited talk.

There we were crowded round that odd table, very close together as if we were plotters whispering secret plans. However, the heads might have been about as close as you could get, but we had to holler to be heard.

Somehow, despite the uproar, we managed to pass on the family news. Roger wanted to know, of course, about our disabled brother and sister.

I was thinking of the church bazaar table at Reception. Was it to raise funds for a struggling jail, or perhaps to line the pockets of a gardening prison governor?

It turned out to be much more innocent, if I heard Roger's shout correctly.

Some of the prisoners are passionate about gardening and the produce came from their hard work in the grounds.

James asked Roger if he was one of the green-fingered people, because he wasn't famous for such domestic pursuits before his ill-luck.

'We've got some great gardeners here,' Roger shouted, and shook his head. 'But it's not for me. I leave the botanics to Nature.'

I'm a vegetarian so I was interested to know if a meat-free diet was possible here. I supposed the meals weren't far removed from gruel, whatever gruel is. When I've read prison scenes in Dickens, I somehow imagined it might have been made from things like the ingredients for glue - hooves and melted horns, spiced perhaps with intestinal bits.

But Roger said it's all a stage better than that, and if a man is a vegetarian, he can have meatless meals. Even vegans are catered for, as long as they belong to a vegan society.

I wanted to ask my brother if he had seen the light and chose vegetables only. However, from the way he spoke - shouted - about meals without meat, I gathered he still loves his roast beef, or whatever passes for it here.

James said, 'What's new, Roge?'

'I've got one of the new digital radios. It's a marvel. My old one broke ages ago, and I am a radio man. It's really good to be connected to the Beeb radio stations again ... and in hissless digital.'

I won't say it's easy to get used to a shouted conversation, but all too soon a uniform managed to get his voice over the top of all the talk. It was the end.

Back in reception, a small crowd surrounded the gardening stall and we took a marrow home. It was a quiet drive. My head swam with echoes of the row in the hall, but we were mostly silent because it was so sad to leave Roger and the appalling miscarriage of justice that keeps an innocent man locked away in prison. Roger's story is here.
- Helen Whiteman