I spent 45 years in and out of prison – I’ve turned my life around at 70

Getting off the train at Waterloo, I felt a complete sense of loss. 

The army, the place I’d called my home for the past six years, had just cast me out – all because I was gay. 

Suddenly I’d gone from having a uniform, a job, a purpose to nowhere to stay and nothing but a green rucksack on my back.  

Going home wasn’t an option. I’d already tried calling, but Mum hung up on me. I wasn’t welcome. So, with what little money I had, I rented a room in a seedy little bed and breakfast near King’s Cross. 

I could only afford a five-night stay though, after that, I was on my own. And that’s where my life took a turn. 

Homelessness led to crime, crime led to prison and this cycle repeated on and off for more than 40 years. I was existing rather than living. And only now, with some help, is that changing. 

I knew I was gay from the age of 10 – something my mother absolutely hated and made no attempts at hiding. She gave me an incredibly hard time and even put me in a psychiatric hospital aged 17 for conversion therapy.  

My dad, however, was lovely and always did his best to support me. It’s only because of him that I escaped the hospital. But I knew home wasn’t safe for me anymore. 

I needed to get away and the only way for me to do that was join the army. 

You may think that I’d feel even more out of place there, exposed even, but actually, I felt more at home than ever. 

The army gave me almost everything I wanted: Structure and purpose, a sense of camaraderie and a sense of belonging because a number of my fellow soldiers were also (wrongly) forced to hide their sexuality. 

So when the Special Investigations Branch (SIB) – the name then given to the detective branches of all three British military police arms – started interviewing people at the camp, I knew I had to tread carefully. 

Despite the fact that homosexuality had started to be decriminalised in 1967, a ban continued in the armed forces until 2000. And so I became one of many who was questioned by the SIB. 

My interview took place on a Monday in August 1978, and just a week later I was discharged. My services were ‘no longer required’. 

That’s how I ended up in London with no place to go. 

After running out of money to afford the B&B, I had just enough to buy a sleeping bag and a ground mat so that I could sleep rough. 

My very first night sleeping on the street some drunken idiot urinated on me. I tried to find a night shelter but they didn’t cater for women back then. There was no chance of a safe bed, let alone a shower. 

I then went to a public toilet area thinking I could at least use the sink to wash up. But once again, I was kicked out. ‘I don’t have tramps in here,’ said the woman who kept the place clean. 

This became my life: Sleeping rough and battling for basic things like somewhere to clean myself or food. It was exhausting. 

Then about a year in, I got desperate. I just wanted a bath, some hot food, a decent night’s rest and as I still had my army chequebook, I figured I’d try and get some cash back. 

I knew it was wrong. I knew the cheques were no good. But as guilty as I felt, I couldn’t stop. 

The first time I did it I got £45 back from a small shop, which was more than enough to afford a trip to the slipper baths (a public bath) and some food. So, I did it a few more times. 

In total I received about £160, but what I didn’t realise at the time (or if I did, I didn’t want to acknowledge it) was what I was technically doing was fraud. 

I soon learned though because the police came and dragged me away from Cardboard City – the name given to the hundreds of cardboard boxes that occupied the space in the underpasses between Waterloo Station and the South Bank that had become my home. 

I was charged with kiting – a type of fraud that involves using cheques to access funds, which either do not exist or are not authorised – and sentenced to the maximum of two years in prison. 

I’ll never forget what the judge said as he sentenced me. He said my ‘deviant lifestyle’ had led me to commit crime and that he would ‘make an example of me’ to deter others doing the same. 

The difficult part came after I was released. I was back at square one with the added obstacle of a criminal record

To be honest, because of my time in the army, I didn’t find it hard at all. I knew how to make my bed and was used to strict rules and a schedule. Compared to sleeping on the street it was a step up. 

The difficult part came after I was released. I was back at square one with the added obstacle of a criminal record. 

So, when someone I met in prison offered me a place to stay, I jumped at the chance. They, along with their family, were the first ones to show me kindness in a long time.  

However, that kindness came at a cost. 

For almost the next almost three years I was completely at their mercy. During that time, I engaged in organised crime and did all sorts of things I’m not proud of, all because I felt I had nothing left to lose. 

Unsurprisingly, I wound up in prison twice more and felt I would never escape this ‘life’. 

Then, in 2018 I got a call from my sister out of the blue. ‘Mum’s not very well.’ She said, urging me to reconnect. 

I didn’t see the point but, for some reason, still made the journey up north to see her. And when she answered the door she was nothing but smiles. 

Mum had Alzheimer’s and had no memory of who I was or that she hated me. I decided then I would move closer so that I could visit her every day. 

Right before I moved though I’d committed another crime so it was only a matter of time before the police tracked me down. 

When they knocked on my door in 2020 I didn’t fight them. I admitted my crimes but told them I intended to plead not guilty because I was looking after mum. And that’s exactly what happened. 

For the next two years I became her full-time carer while awaiting trial, and that time for us was precious. On several occasions she turned to me and said: ‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re very kind’, and she told me that she loved me 12 times. 

Eventually I decided to come clean. ‘I’m your daughter,’ I said one day. ‘No, you’re not,’ Mum replied defiantly. ‘I sent her away years ago, but I shouldn’t have done.’ 

At that moment, my life changed. Something that had been broken inside of me for years began to mend. And though she died in April 2022, I’m so glad we had that moment. 

Two weeks after she passed, I was sentenced to another three years in prison. I accepted it but vowed that this time things would be different. 

I didn’t want to repeat the same cycle I had been for decades now, I wanted to do and to be better. I finally knew I wasn’t a bad person, I’d just done bad things.  

This time I signed up to every course available to me like psychology classes and, knowing I had to make amends where I could, I even agreed to meet some of the people my crimes had affected. 

I also volunteered as a Listener – someone who is trained by the Samaritans to support women in prison struggling with mental health – and let me tell you, it was the most important role I could have taken on. 

Mental health issues are rife in prisons and I met, sat and spoke with countless women who were struggling. Some were first timers missing their family and coping with the crushing shame, others were women who should have been receiving professional psychiatric help rather than serving a sentence. 

I like to think I helped some women, but others needed more than just me. 

In total, throughout my various prison sentences, I knew seven women who died by suicide – one of whom I shared a cell with. It’s not something I’ll ever get over and I can’t help but think more should have, and could have been done to help before it was too late. 

I’ll be 70 next year, but for the first time in my whole life, I feel like I’m worth something

That’s where charities like Nacro can help. 

I personally didn’t come across them until I was released in January 2024, but they’ve helped me in more ways than I can count. 

They assisted me in getting a house of my own through and a grant so I could buy furniture. And they’ve also supported me with my mental health, too. Thanks to them I’ve got my confidence back.  

I’ll be 70 next year, but for the first time in my whole life, I feel like I’m worth something. And because of that I am continuing to try and do better. 

I’m not proud or excusing all the things I’ve done in my life, but I am owning my mistakes and that in itself feels wonderful. 

Without their help there’s no doubt in my mind that I would have gone back to crime eventually. But they’ve shown me I can move on, I can still make my life whatever I want it to be. 

I’d love to one day work with those with mental health issues or maybe care for others with Alzheimer’s – both of these ideas seemed impossible before I learned about Nacro. Now I just want other prisoners, or people who like me feel like they’re out of options, to know that there is someone out there who cares and who can help. 

Don’t let yourself be defined by what you’ve done, be defined by what you’re going to do. 

Because I’m finally living rather than just existing. I just wish it hadn’t taken so long.

As told to Emma Rossiter

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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