‘Java Joe eyed me closely to make sure I understood this elaborate language from the ancient book. Seeing I appeared to do so, he continued to quote: “It must not be thought that Sir Ferdinando (the architect, sir, you see) was moved only by material and merely sanitary considerations; for the placing of his privies in an exalted position he had also certain excellent spiritual reasons. For, he argues, the necessities of nature are so base and brutish that in obeying them we are apt to forget that we are the noblest creatures of the universe.”‘
‘ “Are you trying to be satirical at my expense?” I roared. But plainly he was not. He explained that to counteract these degrading effects, the author of the strange book advised that the privies in every house should be nearest to heaven, that there should be windows opening on heaven, that the chamber should be comfortable and that there should be a supply of good books and comics on hand to testify to the nobilty of the human soul.
‘”Why vex me with this recitation?” I demanded. “Is it not more appropriate that the privies in our prisons should be down in the bowels of the earth?”
‘Java Joe explained to me that he had thought much about this wonderful place, Crome, while passing his motions. He saw it all as a metaphor – although he did not know that particular word. From this vision of the good house his suggestion had evolved. Here he paused, searching my face with that good-natured gaze of his. I prompted him to go on.
‘”Us shits,” he said, “should be kept separate as far as possible from the sewers of your prisons. We’ve never been far from their stink in all our lives. We should be placed in a good place with a view of heaven. Then we might be able to stop being shits.”‘
Crispin looked about him to see what effect his story was having before he went on. ‘Was there anything in what Java Joe said? Maybe there was more sense than in all the rhetoric of my speech in the town square. I decided to act.
‘We had an empty island or two in the Seychelles group. To the north was Booby Island, a pleasant place with a small stream on it. What was to be lost? I had it renamed Crome Island and shipped a hundred of my criminals there, to live in daylight rather than darkness.
‘What a howl went up from the respectable middle classes! That men should enjoy themselves in pleasant conditions was no punishment for crime. This experiment would kill the tourist trade. It would cost too much. And so on…’
‘Let’s get to the end of the tale, Crispin,’ said Tom, with some impatience. ‘Obviously the experiment wasn’t a failure, or you would not be telling us about it.’
Crispin nodded cordially, saying merely, ‘We can learn from failure as well as success.’
‘Come on then, Crispin,’ said Sharon. ‘Tell us what happened to your criminals. I bet they all swam away to freedom!’
‘They were marooned on an island round which fierce currents ran, and could not escape, my dear. They dug themselves latrines, they built a communal cookhouse, they built houses. All using just local materials. They fished and grew maize. They sat about and smoked and talked. They were prisoners – but they were also men. They regained their self-respect. A supply ship protected by armed guards called once a week at Crome Island, but no one escaped.
‘And after their sentence was served, very very few reoffended. They had done what I could not manage to do, and reformed themselves.’
‘What about Java Joe?’ I asked.
Crispin chuckled. ‘He went to live voluntarily on the island; the convicts christened him King Crome.’
At this juncture Paula Gallin came and sat down at a nearby table, escorted by Ben Borrow. They were deep in conversation but, after they had ordered two sunglows, began taking an interest in our discussion, which certainly was not private.
‘We hope,’ said Belle, ‘to follow that example Crispin has offered. Earth is a planet full of prisons. It must never happen here. At one time, in a brief period of enlightenment, the British government permitted me to teach reading and writing to prisoners. The majority of people in prison, I found, were young bewildered men. They were ignorant and brutalised, two elements the penal system encouraged. Many had been brought up without a family. They had mostly been “in care”. They were truants from school, fly boys. Most of them hid deep misery under a hard shell.