Einstein : Not everything that can be counted counts. And not everything that counts can be counted.

Friday, 25 May 2007

Christmas past.

Merry Christmas
Picture the scene. Its 3 days before Christmas. Dave, as I'll call him, their only son has come back on home leave. He's in the Army. He's 18 years old and is looking forward to time with his family after a tour abroad and some beer with his mates.He meets up with his best friend who I will call Steve. They go out for a couple of bevvies, meet up with some more friends and over the night and the talk of foreign places, keep no count of what they drink, why should they ? Steve plans on leaving his motor bike in the pub car-park and walk home with Dave, who will be at his parents nearby.It gets late, too late and somehow the decision is made for the both of them to ride home on the bike. Don't know who made it but too late to change it.

The tree at the roadside, on the bend, never even flinched. The bike ? Well that was left in bits all across the road. Amongst the bits were two dials that held some secrets. They gave the road speed and the engine revs at the time the bike, Dave and Steve met the tree. The people who can work these things out gave about 70 mph. Some of us tried to help them, to help the bendy-toy like bodies and the mess inside the helmets. They still groaned for help but nobody could have helped. Some of us preserved the scene but we were unable to preserve their lives whilst the ambulance crew told us what we already knew. Others busied themselves with directing the passers by out of the way and towards the detours around the scene.

Then someone had to go to visit the homes of these unfortunate lads, just young boys out for a great time. The parents of Dave knew exactly that we brought bad news, even before their doorbell rang. Parents can sense things, read your body language. Just exactly how do you tell someone that their only son was not coming home for christmas ? How on earth do you try to share their dread to try to make it easier for them and easier for yourself.You can't, no training can prepare you for this moment. Are you the parents of Dave ? etc etc etc. You know and they know, but hope that you have made a mistake, that they have not heard you correctly, that this is some sort of a nasty dream. But it is not. Your mouth is dry, you got that funny thing fluttering in your stomach, you try not to stutter or mumble and get your message across clearly, concisely, as humbly and respectfully as possible.

The parents of Steve wondered what trouble he had got himself into this time and couldn't see the signs, too quick defending their son against all comers and thought there had been some form of conspiracy. There had been no conspiracy. Only some terrible, terrible news. Then they were quiet. We leave them to their grief. Here we are necessary trespassers but only for a short time.

Whilst we were left with protecting the scene for a closer examination the following day it dawned on me. At 3 o'clock in early hours of a cold and frosty night a new picture emerged that no-one had seen before. A tyre mark, illuminated by the frost that ran for an awful distance around the bend, that bend, nearer and nearer towards that damned tree. Clear and vivid as though it had been painted onto the road. No-one else had seen it, just me. Closer and closer until it also met the same tree. Again the tree never even flinched. It all came back again, more vivid than before.

People moaned because the road was closed, how inconvenient. But they probably enjoyed their Christmas. I never slept for 3 days, never slept properly for weeks but I did have a Christmas. Like the birth of your child, the laugh of your loved one or the thoughts that make you smile, somethings you never forget, even the darker, helpless moments when you realise just how insignificant you really are. We never found out who was driving or pillion. We only knew that two families would have a miserable Christmas. Lots of friends of the two families would be full of sadness. We just put it down to another life experience that helps us to deal with the next life experience in the hope we make a better job of it next time.


The Thin Blue Line said...

Really good post. Some of the things that bobbies deal with, so that everybody else doesn't have to, can really effect you.
And telling somebody that their son's just died is so difficult. Or dealing with the scene, seeing the sorts of things that will stay with you forever.
Good one W.E.B.

Annette said...

This is a very emotional blog.
Not just about the parents but the way the police have to tell the parents what has happened.