Female touch works in a man's world

She could so easily have been another of his victims.,

Four life sentences were meant to keep the man who had kidnapped and killed teenager Julie Dart, and subjected estate agent Stephanie Slater to a harrowing kidnapping ordeal, from endangering the lives of any more women.

But that doesn't run to women who work within the walls of our prison system.

When the most dangerous, volatile and violent are taken out of our society to make it a safer place, women like Lesley Creighton have the task of taking charge of them.

Day in, day out, Doncaster mother of two Lesley works with the kind of people she warns her sons about.

In her career as a prison officer, she has met more sex offenders, serial murderers, rapists, sadists, thugs and thieves than you or I could ever imagine.

These are the people she is paid to look after and she does it without turning a hair. "It's life - my life," she shrugs. "Without them, I wouldn't be in a job."

Back in '97 at HM Prison Wakefield, when Sams attempted to take the prison worker hostage, Lesley was the first officer on the scene. She acted on instinct. Her training took over from where fear should have been. She got to the scene to discover another prisoner had already leapt in and dragged him off the woman. Lesley took over, pulling the murderer out onto the landing and restraining him until more officers arrived.

Wakefield, a Category A male prison, was where she started her career 15 years ago at the age of 26. Her previous work experience? She worked behind a bar - and yes, she's heard all the jokes.

She describes her first day in the job - one of only 10 women out of a staff of 300 - as "a white knuckle ride".

"I went onto Three Landing with other officers, then I realised they had gone to unlock the cells and I was standing there on my own.

"It's not got the nickname Monster Mansion for nothing, that place. Most of the worst sex offenders and criminals serving extremely long sentences are in there. People anyone else would go out of their way to avoid. These men were walking past me and I was terrified; I just clung onto the railings."

At 26, Lesley weighed 8 stones. "I was a skinny little blonde; I thought I looked like Elle McPherson," she says, with a raucous, self-depreciating laugh.

You can't help liking Lesley. She comes across as tough as old boots, a tomboy. She'll proudly tell you that she's mouthy and "only takes shit once".

But there is obviously so much more to this woman. Lesley's softer side is apparent in her home life. When she’s not working, she’s walking her dogs, cooking the tea for son Daniel, now 21, his brother Conor, 13, from Lesley’s first marriage and her second husband, Paul, a principal prison officer.

The domesticity of it makes the tomboy blush - but then she goes on to confide that her hobbies are knitting - and baking cakes.

“I took home-made banana muffins in to the blokes at work the other day - they were gobsmacked,” she laughs, clearly pleased.

She cares deeply about her job. “I love it,” she says. Why? “Because I feel I’m making a difference.

“I don’t feel sorry for prisoners. but you have got to have compassion. When something happens to their families on the outside they are powerless. They’re in a cell eight feet by four feet and it’s on their minds 24-7.

They are still someone’s dad, brother, son. I thought they were all monsters when I came into this job. But you realise so many of them need help and a bit of TLC sometimes.

“I like working with lifers. You can get your teeth into them. Talking to them, sorting out their heads. Prison has to be about rehabilitation as well as punishment. And I do believe that you can change some people.”

She says doing the job well has nothing to do with being male or female; what every officer needs, on top of compassion, is common-sense, a sense of humour and good communication skills.

Still, it’s not a job that would appeal to many women. But Lesley is the daughter of a soldier. The fact that she grew up in Aldershot, with discipline and rules a way of life, goes some way towards explaining why the job appealed.

“My dad always wanted one of his kids to wear a uniform - I don’t think he expected it to be this one though,” she jokes.

But it was being a single mother that really equipped her for the job, she says. “I’d been hardened by the struggles I’d had in life. I’d had to work hard for everything.”

It was also the reason why she took up the career: “We were living on income support. We were doing fine - it annoys me when women say they can’t manage on what they get; you just have to be sensible. But I wanted a better life for me and my son.

“I wanted to be able to buy a house and a car. I saw a TV programme about the prison service. I thought it must be a stable career - there are always going to be prisoners. And at the end it stated what the pay was. It was a good wage in those days.”

Lesley was one of thousands of prison officers called out to strike last month in the POA’s long-running claim for a pay rise in line with inflation. It was the first time the association had taken industrial action since the Eighties and was fuelled by their belief that they are being short-changed by a 2.5 per cent offer, which the Government wants to implement in two stages.

“Few people on the outside understand this job,” she says. “We work in an environment they will hopefully never experience.

“When a murderer goes to prison, society forgets about them. But it also forgets there are people whose job it is to look after them 24 hours a day.

“I’ve worked on my kids’ birthdays, through their school holidays and on Christmas Days; you accept it. But my little one still says: “Mum, why can’t you just put their Christmas dinners through the doors and come home?”

Lesley now works at Doncaster’s Moorland Open Prison, the only officer to a ward of 60 prisoners. She works unarmed, but then, the only time she was ever issued with a protective weapon was in Wakefield jail. “It was a cubiton, a baton about the same size, and probably as much use, as a tampon,” she laughs.

And there were occasions in Wakefield when she did feel fear: “I got threatened a couple of times by psychotic inmates. But you have got to stand your ground and not let them see they’ve affected you.

“You think about it when you get home. You’ll be putting your little boy to bed and realising what could have happened.”

She doesn’t find the 1-60 ratio at Moorland Open intimidating: “Sometimes I feel like I’m dealing with 60 kids. They call for “Miss C” more times than my boys shout “Mum”! I think they do like me - because I’m straight with them and I try to solve their problems.”

She can’t say the same of her time in Newhall, Wakefield’s female prison. “Women prisoners are much more violent than male; they will think nothing of attacking another woman,” she says. “It’s very rare a male inmate will attack a female officer; there is no street cred to be gained. In fact another inmate would drag him off you. But women prisoners - they are arrogant, obnoxious - much harder to handle.”