In prison, women can become twice the person they are. Literally. All of a sudden they get off the drugs and become addicted to soft drink and confectionary instead. Junk food is consumed by the bucket load in DPFC, where the dietary staples are potato chips, chocolate bars, Coke and Red Skins. It was nothing to see girls pack on forty to fifty kilos in a year or two, and some women literally doubled in size. Although I, too, put on weight I was fortunate that I spent my days on my feet scurrying from one unit to the next so I didn’t swell up as much as others did. Besides, the girls in my unit ate quite healthily thanks to Sue’s amazing ability as a cook. Generally speaking, though, DPFC was a fat farm.
When women started to shrink again it was a clear sign they were about to be released. You’d be in prison with them for years and for the last month and a half they’d disappear into the gym every day to whittle away the Deer Park kilos. ‘Yep,’ I’d think, making a mental note, ‘she’s getting out soon.’ Inmates also had to complete a number of programs and jump through some administrative hoops in order to qualify for parole – Drug & Alcohol Support, Housing, Parole and the like. As a result little clues to their imminent release would be broadcast over the prison PA. ‘Smith to Programs’ and ‘Smith to Reception. Smith to this, that and the other.’ I’d turn to my friends and say, ‘Jenny Smith is getting out.’ Now the PA was squawking my name.
The situation in my unit was like an open wound. I’d be sitting and laughing with the girls after dinner when suddenly it would fall silent because everyone was aware I was leaving in a few weeks and nobody really knew what to say. Far from anyone being happy about my impending freedom there was a sense of sadness and dread because we knew the familiarity and comfort we shared was about to be shattered. The next morning the bloody PA would start up: ‘Tucker to Programs.’
As the final days of my sentence ticked by I felt as though I was see-through. I struggled to be heard, like a song on the radio that was fading out. Soon enough a new tune would be playing and I wouldn’t be around to hear it. The girls in the unit started discussing who was going to fill my bed when I was gone. ‘I know of a girl who has come into A5,’ I offered. ‘She’s going to be here for a while and is nice enough. Maybe you should think about getting her in.’ But my once powerful voice had become a distant echo of itself. After all, I wasn’t going to have to live with the newbie. I had quickly gone from being someone who felt as if she practically ran the prison to being voiceless, and it came as a massive shock. It’s not that the girls were being cold or nasty, I just wasn’t relevant to life anymore. My song had fallen silent. That’s when I started to realise I didn’t want to leave prison. Not ever.
It’s customary for long-termers to be given a farewell party on their final day. We chose a barbecue. For my last hurrah I stipulated that it would only go ahead if the prison officers were invited too. That raised a few eyebrows as it had never happened before, but I said it was either that or nothing. For years I had refused to abide by the old-school code of ‘us and them’ so there was no way I was going to start now. It was my final, parting gesture to acknowledge that the officers had been part of my prison journey, too, and many of them had been supportive and helpful – particularly in regards to my daughters. We ended up having a wonderful barbecue and, one by one during the afternoon, about twenty officers dropped by to spend time with me and wish me well. Towards the end Miss Johnson – the Scottish woman who had been the first real officer I encountered back in 2003 – asked if she could speak to me privately in my cell.
‘You sure can,’ I said with a smile.
As we stood face to face, Miss Johnson cleared her throat and pulled eight paperclips out of her pocket. ‘I can’t give you a gift or do anything special, so these paperclips are all I can offer you,’ she said in her lilting Scottish accent, and started clipping them together one by one. ‘The first five are for every year you impacted by being in here [clip]. And this one is for Shannyn [clip], this one is for Sarah [clip] and the last one is for you when you get out tomorrow, Kerry [clip].’
I was so touched I wanted to give her a big hug but that was against prison rules so I just gave her a tear-stained smile instead. I still have the paperclips.
Later on Brendan Money called me to an office in the new Programs building. ‘Kerry,’ he began as he stood up, ‘I just want you to know …’
They were the only words he managed to get out before I burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to leave!’ I cried. ‘Please! I don’t want to leave here. Let me stay. I can stay here and everything will be OK. Take it off my parole …’
Brendan Money had been the first male since my father who had invested anything in me unconditionally. He was patient, he listened to me – even when I was frustrated and at my worst – and he went out of his way to place immense trust in me. He was a towering figure of goodness and decency in my life and I never wanted to let him down. Bizarrely, by leaving prison, I thought I was somehow betraying him and everything he had done for me.
‘Kerry, you’re leaving. Tomorrow!’ he said, trying to sound excited for me.
‘I don’t want to go!’ I said in between sobs.
‘You’ve got to go home. We have to let you out.’
‘I don’t have a home. This is my home.’
Brendan Money sighed as I tried to pull myself together. ‘We’ve never had a prisoner like you before, Kerry,’ he said quietly. ‘In a way we’d love to keep you but you have paid your debt. You have served long years in this place and helped thousands of women in the process. I want to say thank you for everything you have done. I will always remember your time here as the Kerry Tucker era. But now you get to leave and make a good life for yourself and your girls. They need you, Kerry.’ I couldn’t speak through my tears so we left it at that. But I refused to say goodbye to him.
The following morning, on 9 November 2007, I was walked to the gate by a group of women including Renate and her little boy, who was now a spirited and hilarious four-year-old. ‘Where’s Aunty Kerry going?’ he asked with all the innocence of a child whose entire world was a maximum-security prison. Even sadder was the fact I didn’t really have an answer for him. ‘Where am I going?’ I wondered. For 1645 days I had thought of Shannyn and Sarah as little pots of gold who’d be waiting for me at the end of my sentence. But there I was, somewhere over the rainbow, and they were nowhere to be seen.
Their father had thought it might be too much for the girls to deal with a reunion seconds after I walked out of the prison gate, so he decided I could take time to get together with them properly – and on my own – in a day or two. After a tearful farewell at the gate my sister Cheryl, family friends Joylene and Sharon and other family members collected me and I was driven away from Deer Park for the last time. It felt as if I was in a dream. An hour or so later we arrived in Docklands on the edge of the Melbourne CBD for lunch in a waterfront restaurant. Members of my family were there, food and wine was ordered, photos were taken and people fussed over me. I had never felt so weird in my life.
Cheryl had booked us into a plush, expensive apartment in Docklands, and Joylene and Sharon had gone to the trouble of buying me my favourite Oscar de la Renta perfume and a beautiful white dressing gown to wrap myself in. It was a lovely gesture that was meant to make me feel extra safe and comfy but I just felt like a freak instead. I dearly missed my prison clothes. Soon I picked up on the fact that my family were talking about people I didn’t even know. A lot had changed in the years I was away. For one thing Mum had died, but there were also five babies born who I had never met. Cousins and nieces had married people I didn’t know. I realised I was the stranger in my family.
As the sun arced towards the west I started to grow very anxious. At 3pm I looked at my watch and got a massive jolt. ‘Shit!’ I said. ‘I’m going to miss muster!’ From that moment all I could think about was what the girls in the unit would be up to. What were they cooking for dinner and what was the newbie like? I was dying to sit down in the cottage and tell them about the dressing gown and the apartment and all the freaky new relatives who might as well have been extras in a movie. I felt trapped between my longing for my prison family – women I knew warts and all – and this strange new crowd who I didn’t really know from a bar of soap. I was thankful for the wine, however, otherwise I don’t think I’d have ever got to sleep. I sort of missed my cell.
The next day Cheryl – the most generous person I know – offered me the use of a chauffeur-driven car to go see Shannyn and Sarah. I met them at the gates of Swinburne University in Lilydale where Carolyn worked. It was neutral turf and my ex-husband drove us all to Chirnside Park Shopping Centre, reminding me that, ‘You’ve got two hours’, a little as if I was still under guard and wearing my prison blues. The girls and I piled out of the car and once alone, we just stood and cuddled. The air seemed fresher but after five long years, it was awkward. They were thrilled to see me but realised it was only for a couple of hours. There were no tears of joy, just a warm feeling of having them in my arms.
We made a bee line for the shopping centre – ground zero for re-entry into lost motherhood. And then it started. ‘Mum!’
And it didn’t stop. ‘Mu-uum!’
‘Mummy-yee!’
‘Maaa-aaa-aarm!’
‘Mummmargghhhh!’
‘M-U-U-U-U-M-M-M!’
If the little buggers weren’t badgering me every five seconds they were fighting with each other. Fighting! They played up and squealed and complained in the middle of the shopping centre so the whole world could see what a crap mother I was. I could not believe how lost I felt. I could easily manage the affairs of 300 criminals but out here I had no moves. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ! What am I supposed to do with these little people?’ I wondered. ‘Fuck! They’re annoying the shit out of me.’ Fortunately I knew better than to go with my gut instinct, which was to tell them both to shut the hell up or else they might wind up in the slot. Instead I figured if I could get food into their mouths they’d at least quieten down temporarily. Five minutes later we were hunkered down over McDonald’s in the Chirnside food court.
As the girls silently munched on their Happy Meals I could finally take a moment to just look at them and absorb what was happening. ‘I am with my girls,’ I thought with a mixture of wonder, pride and sheer terror. ‘We are free in the world together. My God, they’re beautiful. I love them so much.’
Just as I was feeling something approaching calm a woman appeared at our table from out of nowhere. ‘Hi Sarah! Hi Shannyn! How are you going?’ she almost sang as if she was Mary Poppins herself. The girls mumbled a greeting through their McNuggets. Apparently the woman was a friend of their father’s. Then, as suddenly as she’d appeared, Poppins turned on her heel to leave – without once saying a word to me or even letting her eyes stray in my direction. But she knew very well who I was. She made it two steps away before I was on my feet and in her face. ‘If you want to talk to my children in front of me you will introduce yourself because I am their mother, whether you like it or not. Understand?’ Poppins looked like a deer in the headlights as I pulled my best pencil lips and prison glare.
Golly gosh, this whole ‘fitting back into society’ business was hard!
About ten minutes later the girls and I were browsing in the aisles at Big W. ‘I really like that top,’ Shannyn said as she ogled a T-shirt that had sparkles sewn into it. Naturally, I wanted to please her – I’d have bought her a pony and carriage if they’d had any in stock. The next thing I knew we were lined up at the check-out with a clutch of clothes for the girls with money that had been deposited into my account by Cheryl. When we were second in line I noticed the EFTPOS machines were now different from how they’d been when I was sent to prison. I just knew I’d get to the check-out and appear a complete idiot. So, as the lady in front of me was paying her bill, I peered over her shoulder to see if I could work out what to do.
‘Excuse me!’ the woman said sharply as she spun around to face me. ‘Are you trying to get my credit-card details?’
‘What … the … n-no! I was just … just – No!’ I stammered as I shook my head. Day two. Out with the girls for the first time, and the police were going to come and take me back to prison by 5pm. ‘Look, I’ve just never used one of these machines before and I was trying to see how it was done,’ I explained. ‘Honestly. See – I’ve got my own card!’ I waved it and gave her a big smile. I may have figured out how to work the EFTPOS machine, but I still came out looking like a complete idiot in the process. Later in the afternoon as I sat and watched the girls on some play equipment I overheard snippets of the conversation going on around me among the other parents:
‘What about if we do it next Saturday?’
‘Why don’t we get everyone around next week for a barbecue?’
‘Can you bring the lawnmower around? I desperately need to cut the grass.’
‘You know what Bill’s like!’
‘Yeah, well, why don’t we meet at five o’clock at that little bar in Burnside?’
I sat there and marvelled. ‘Jesus! All these people have got a life.’ I was sitting among them but I might as well have been from another galaxy. I didn’t have a lawnmower. I didn’t have a house. I didn’t have a barbecue that people could come around for. I didn’t know that little bar in Burnside and I had no idea what Bill was like. I didn’t have any friends – not out here anyway. My girls were still fighting and complaining, which was pissing me off, and it was almost time for muster.