Now I wish I'd been a bit more vocal when they were deciding where Jessica was going to be buried. I haven't been to my Mum's grave for months... precisely because I haven't been to Jessica's grave for months... because the two graves are practically side by side. I don't expect anyone's been to Mum's. I certainly don't think Dad has. Probably all the cleaning I did last year has been undone completely.
Will I ever be able to visit the grave?
Why didn't I when the first anniversary of Jessica's death came around?
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, 21 May 2007
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
Abort
I've been thinking I should write about this for a fortnight or so, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it.
A short while ago, an American woman was on the news for having successfully given birth to the world's 'most premature' baby. She was less than 22 weeks old, so - not surprisingly - her arrival was greeted with screams from the anti-abortion lobby.
And even though I've experienced what I've experienced, and even though I know people who've had abortions and later regretted it, I sat there watching the news, watching some anti-abortion woman ranting and raving about how abortion should be banned outright, and I just felt like throwing something heavy at the screen to make her shut up.
It's when I get into these moods that I think that if someone were to turn around and say, 'So you think you've got the right to kill your baby?' I would turn around and shout, 'Yes, I do! And I certainly don't think you've got the right to stop me!'
And I seem to be in these moods so often at the moment.
A short while ago, an American woman was on the news for having successfully given birth to the world's 'most premature' baby. She was less than 22 weeks old, so - not surprisingly - her arrival was greeted with screams from the anti-abortion lobby.
And even though I've experienced what I've experienced, and even though I know people who've had abortions and later regretted it, I sat there watching the news, watching some anti-abortion woman ranting and raving about how abortion should be banned outright, and I just felt like throwing something heavy at the screen to make her shut up.
It's when I get into these moods that I think that if someone were to turn around and say, 'So you think you've got the right to kill your baby?' I would turn around and shout, 'Yes, I do! And I certainly don't think you've got the right to stop me!'
And I seem to be in these moods so often at the moment.
Tuesday, 13 February 2007
Titles
I keep hearing titles of films which make some reference - explicit or implicit - to children. I haven't seen the films, but as soon as I hear the titles, I create narratives in my head. And all the narratives somehow return to deaths of children.
Little Children - a woman spends her life trying to cope with the fact that she will never have a relationship with a child older than the age of 4 because none of her children seem to be able to live past this age.
Children Of Men - a woman loses her children in a horrible accident caused by her irresponsible, immature husband.
The City Of Lost Children - a fable in which young children are whisked away from their parents to a place where their souls are used to feed the world.
Au Revoir Les Enfants - the story of a support group set up by people trying to cope with the deaths of their children.
Children Of A Lesser God - a family tries to deal with the loss of a child who was accidentally killed by a priest.
Is this becoming too morbid?
Little Children - a woman spends her life trying to cope with the fact that she will never have a relationship with a child older than the age of 4 because none of her children seem to be able to live past this age.
Children Of Men - a woman loses her children in a horrible accident caused by her irresponsible, immature husband.
The City Of Lost Children - a fable in which young children are whisked away from their parents to a place where their souls are used to feed the world.
Au Revoir Les Enfants - the story of a support group set up by people trying to cope with the deaths of their children.
Children Of A Lesser God - a family tries to deal with the loss of a child who was accidentally killed by a priest.
Is this becoming too morbid?
Monday, 5 February 2007
Letters
Ages ago I read a book by a woman dying of cancer. I think her name may have been Ruth Picardie and I think she was a journalist. The point is that at the end of her book, she included copies of some letters she'd written to her children which she wanted to them to have as a keepsake after her death. The thing I remember most about the letters is that they included details about what the children were like at the time the letters were written, tiny little facts like, "Your favourite crisps are salt and vinegar," or, "You have two sugars in your tea."
If things had been the other way around and I'd been dying of some disease and Jessica had been aged 1, what would I have included in a letter to her?
"Your Daddy and I always fill your room with the smell of lavender, because it makes you sleep better. We even wash your clothes in a special lavender water. Your skin always has a faint, delicate scent of lavender.
"Sometimes, when you can't sleep, Daddy takes you for a drive in his car, with one of his Philip Glass CDs playing very quietly. That always seems to do the trick. A few turns round the block and you close your eyes and start breathing gently. Then when Daddy parks outside the house, he sends me a text message to say he's back. I open the front doort as quietly as I can and he brings into the house, carries you up the stairs and into your room.
"Most nights, you sleep right the way through. I think you've been quite kind to us, really. I've heard all sorts of stories of babies wailing all the way through every single night for months and months, but you weren't really like that. We've had our sleepless nights, of course, but less than our fair share, I suspect.
"There's a look you sometimes get in your eyes which makes me think you must be quite intelligent. Sometimes, your Daddy and I will be talking and then, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see you watching us with this fierce intensity. Your little head wobbles from one of us to the other. I can almost hear the cogs in your mind whirring away. For a moment, you look as though you're about to shock us with a perfectly formed sentence, but you just flap your arms about, give a little gurgle and smile. And then Daddy and I forget what we were talking about, walk across to you and cover you with kisses.
"I love making you taste new things, like lime juice or parsley or cocoa powder or a tiny sprinkling of oregano. The looks that come across your face are absolutely priceless. You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your mouth and shake your head and squeal."
Would I have filled the letter with such lies? Would they have been lies had I really been dying of a disease and been filled with the knowledge that I was about to leave the world much sooner than I ever thought I would? Why wouldn't I have written the truth?
"It took me a long time to decide if I loved you. I sensed from Day 1 that I was very protective of you, but somehow that feeling was quite separate from any sensations of love. I often resented your presence. I sometimes wished I could forget you were there - so that I could just pop out somewhere, unencumbered - but I could never quite manage it. You were this constant PRESENCE. At least you were generally silent.
"And why was it always your father who took you for a spin in the car to get you to fall asleep?How did I get relegated to the role of 'door opener'? I used to sit there sometimes, staring at my mobile, wondering whether to put it on silent, just to make it difficult for him to bring you back into the house. I never did it, of course. Not sure why.
"I didn't really like the fact that the word 'mother' was now one of the words making up my identity. I remember once at Uni we were asked to put together a list of all the words which, in one way or another, described our relationships with the various people in our lives: words like, 'woman', 'sister', 'cousin', 'girlfriend', 'white', 'aunt', 'student', 'flatmate', 'patient' etc etc. Not a single one of us wrote 'mother', of course, but the lecturer did, and I remember finding that pathetic, somehow. It was also interesting how few of us in the group wrote 'son' or 'daughter'.
"I had no idea that I would scream and rant and rave and bellow and wail the way I did when I lost you. If someone had told me that that's what my reaction was going to be, I would have sneered."
If things had been the other way around and I'd been dying of some disease and Jessica had been aged 1, what would I have included in a letter to her?
"Your Daddy and I always fill your room with the smell of lavender, because it makes you sleep better. We even wash your clothes in a special lavender water. Your skin always has a faint, delicate scent of lavender.
"Sometimes, when you can't sleep, Daddy takes you for a drive in his car, with one of his Philip Glass CDs playing very quietly. That always seems to do the trick. A few turns round the block and you close your eyes and start breathing gently. Then when Daddy parks outside the house, he sends me a text message to say he's back. I open the front doort as quietly as I can and he brings into the house, carries you up the stairs and into your room.
"Most nights, you sleep right the way through. I think you've been quite kind to us, really. I've heard all sorts of stories of babies wailing all the way through every single night for months and months, but you weren't really like that. We've had our sleepless nights, of course, but less than our fair share, I suspect.
"There's a look you sometimes get in your eyes which makes me think you must be quite intelligent. Sometimes, your Daddy and I will be talking and then, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see you watching us with this fierce intensity. Your little head wobbles from one of us to the other. I can almost hear the cogs in your mind whirring away. For a moment, you look as though you're about to shock us with a perfectly formed sentence, but you just flap your arms about, give a little gurgle and smile. And then Daddy and I forget what we were talking about, walk across to you and cover you with kisses.
"I love making you taste new things, like lime juice or parsley or cocoa powder or a tiny sprinkling of oregano. The looks that come across your face are absolutely priceless. You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your mouth and shake your head and squeal."
Would I have filled the letter with such lies? Would they have been lies had I really been dying of a disease and been filled with the knowledge that I was about to leave the world much sooner than I ever thought I would? Why wouldn't I have written the truth?
"It took me a long time to decide if I loved you. I sensed from Day 1 that I was very protective of you, but somehow that feeling was quite separate from any sensations of love. I often resented your presence. I sometimes wished I could forget you were there - so that I could just pop out somewhere, unencumbered - but I could never quite manage it. You were this constant PRESENCE. At least you were generally silent.
"And why was it always your father who took you for a spin in the car to get you to fall asleep?How did I get relegated to the role of 'door opener'? I used to sit there sometimes, staring at my mobile, wondering whether to put it on silent, just to make it difficult for him to bring you back into the house. I never did it, of course. Not sure why.
"I didn't really like the fact that the word 'mother' was now one of the words making up my identity. I remember once at Uni we were asked to put together a list of all the words which, in one way or another, described our relationships with the various people in our lives: words like, 'woman', 'sister', 'cousin', 'girlfriend', 'white', 'aunt', 'student', 'flatmate', 'patient' etc etc. Not a single one of us wrote 'mother', of course, but the lecturer did, and I remember finding that pathetic, somehow. It was also interesting how few of us in the group wrote 'son' or 'daughter'.
"I had no idea that I would scream and rant and rave and bellow and wail the way I did when I lost you. If someone had told me that that's what my reaction was going to be, I would have sneered."
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
Sounds
I heard that wailing again last night.
It was exactly 2:48 am when the sound forced me out of my sleep. I felt my whole body go tense.
"Martin," I whispered, "Martin, can you hear it?" I reach across and rubbed his shoulder. He moaned slowly. I think I may have heard him say, "What?"
"I can hear it again," I said. "Listen."
He shuffled around slightly and pulled the blanket up over his head.
"Martin," I hissed, allowing my voice to become louder. "Wake up. You can hear it clearly now."
The wails were filling the air. I was sure I wasn't imagining it. I think I actually heard the sound of a car going past the house at the same time as I heard the baby's crying, which sort of proved to me that I wasn't making it up, because if I could hear one 'real' sound, then surely the other one must have been real as well.
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. I looked at the clock by my side again. Yes, I'd seen the time correctly: it was 2:49.
I cleared my throat. "Martin, you've got to get up." I pushed his shoulders again. "Martin, please!"
His voice emerged, thick and sleepy. "Oh, for God's sake, Pauline, what is it?"
"Listen!"
He turned to look at me, his eyes blinking. We remained silent for a while, looking at each other.
Suddenly, the sound was gone. Everything around us was silent.
"I just heard it a second ago," I said.
"Heard what?" he asked, lying back down again.
"You know what!" I pushed the blanket aside and walked up to the window, my feet cold on the carpet. "It was loud and it was clear. If you'd woken up ten seconds faster, you would've heard it too!"
He began pulling the blanket over himself again. "Pauline, please just let me get some sleep."
"But I heard it!"
"Yes, okay, you heard it. Now just get back to bed."
I walked over to his side of the bed and pulled the blanket off him. "No! I want you to stay up so you can hear it too!"
He looked into my eyes for a few seconds. Then, with a sudden release of tension, he bolted out of bed, grabbed a pillow and began walking towards the door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and turned around. His voice was low and rigid. "No! YOU can stay up. YOU can spend another night listening for this fucking baby! I am going to get some sleep!" He slammed the door behind him.
I turned to the window, straining my ears.
No more sounds came. After about ten minutes, I got back into bed and tried to get to sleep.
It was exactly 2:48 am when the sound forced me out of my sleep. I felt my whole body go tense.
"Martin," I whispered, "Martin, can you hear it?" I reach across and rubbed his shoulder. He moaned slowly. I think I may have heard him say, "What?"
"I can hear it again," I said. "Listen."
He shuffled around slightly and pulled the blanket up over his head.
"Martin," I hissed, allowing my voice to become louder. "Wake up. You can hear it clearly now."
The wails were filling the air. I was sure I wasn't imagining it. I think I actually heard the sound of a car going past the house at the same time as I heard the baby's crying, which sort of proved to me that I wasn't making it up, because if I could hear one 'real' sound, then surely the other one must have been real as well.
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. I looked at the clock by my side again. Yes, I'd seen the time correctly: it was 2:49.
I cleared my throat. "Martin, you've got to get up." I pushed his shoulders again. "Martin, please!"
His voice emerged, thick and sleepy. "Oh, for God's sake, Pauline, what is it?"
"Listen!"
He turned to look at me, his eyes blinking. We remained silent for a while, looking at each other.
Suddenly, the sound was gone. Everything around us was silent.
"I just heard it a second ago," I said.
"Heard what?" he asked, lying back down again.
"You know what!" I pushed the blanket aside and walked up to the window, my feet cold on the carpet. "It was loud and it was clear. If you'd woken up ten seconds faster, you would've heard it too!"
He began pulling the blanket over himself again. "Pauline, please just let me get some sleep."
"But I heard it!"
"Yes, okay, you heard it. Now just get back to bed."
I walked over to his side of the bed and pulled the blanket off him. "No! I want you to stay up so you can hear it too!"
He looked into my eyes for a few seconds. Then, with a sudden release of tension, he bolted out of bed, grabbed a pillow and began walking towards the door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and turned around. His voice was low and rigid. "No! YOU can stay up. YOU can spend another night listening for this fucking baby! I am going to get some sleep!" He slammed the door behind him.
I turned to the window, straining my ears.
No more sounds came. After about ten minutes, I got back into bed and tried to get to sleep.
Monday, 29 January 2007
Luck
I've been thinking about luck coming from unexpected quarters, ie blessings in disguise, the silver linings of clouds, all that sort of thing. Not in a general sense: specifically in relation to the death of a child. To put things very bluntly - and today I'm in a frame of mind which prevents my finding any reasons whatsoever for NOT putting EVERYTHING bluntly - I wonder if the manner of Jessica's death was 'lucky'.
Given that she had to die, given that Martin and I had to lose her... was the way in which she died a blessing in disguise?
I suppose what's brought this on is a forwarded email I received today about a child in a Third World country who has a rare form of cancer. His parents are trying to get people from around the world to donate money so that they can pay for a particularly expensive form of therapy which may well save the boy's life. [This is a digression, but I didn't make a donation. I suppose I'm just too suspicious of how real these emails are. But that's besides the point.]
The point - for me, anyway - is: if you've got to lose a child, then would it be better for the child to die of cancer or for the child to be plucked away from you suddenly and inexplicably, like Jessica was? Children die every single day, don't they? They must die in their thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. They must die in all sorts of different ways, some of which I'm sure must be so unusual or awful as to be scarcely believable. Are some of these ways 'better' than others? We talk of the elderly as having 'good' deaths, don't we? Why can't the same distinctions be applied to children?
When I take everything into account, I sometimes feel I have to concede that Jessica's death was 'good', as far as deaths ago... and as far as one can put aside the age of the person who has died. She wasn't in a horrible accident. She didn't have a terrible illness or disability. She didn't commit suicide. [Of course, she was too young to have been able to do that anyway, but I've discovered that children not much older than she was take their own lives every single day around the world.] She didn't have her life taken away by somebody else.
I must stop myself from dwelling on these things.
Given that she had to die, given that Martin and I had to lose her... was the way in which she died a blessing in disguise?
I suppose what's brought this on is a forwarded email I received today about a child in a Third World country who has a rare form of cancer. His parents are trying to get people from around the world to donate money so that they can pay for a particularly expensive form of therapy which may well save the boy's life. [This is a digression, but I didn't make a donation. I suppose I'm just too suspicious of how real these emails are. But that's besides the point.]
The point - for me, anyway - is: if you've got to lose a child, then would it be better for the child to die of cancer or for the child to be plucked away from you suddenly and inexplicably, like Jessica was? Children die every single day, don't they? They must die in their thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. They must die in all sorts of different ways, some of which I'm sure must be so unusual or awful as to be scarcely believable. Are some of these ways 'better' than others? We talk of the elderly as having 'good' deaths, don't we? Why can't the same distinctions be applied to children?
When I take everything into account, I sometimes feel I have to concede that Jessica's death was 'good', as far as deaths ago... and as far as one can put aside the age of the person who has died. She wasn't in a horrible accident. She didn't have a terrible illness or disability. She didn't commit suicide. [Of course, she was too young to have been able to do that anyway, but I've discovered that children not much older than she was take their own lives every single day around the world.] She didn't have her life taken away by somebody else.
I must stop myself from dwelling on these things.
Friday, 19 January 2007
Wall
I've been drawn away from writing about the party. I'll finish that particular story some other time.
I've been thinking of the consequences of the weather we've been having. A two year old boy was killed whilst out for a walk with his childminder. A wall collapsed onto him.
That's set me off thinking all sorts of thoughts, most of which I'd rather not be thinking.
Would that have been a better way? was the first question I asked myself. Would that have been a better way than Jessica's?
I've been trying to imagine how the parents would have been informed. I suppose my social diet of films and TV programmes is partly to blame, but I keep picturing a scenario in which the childminder walks into the house - trembling with fear - and sees Mr and Mrs Parent engaged in some hideously cuddly domestic activity, like making their own jam. Mrs Parent immediately senses that something's wrong. "What's the matter, Natasha?" she asks.
At which point Natasha falls to her knees, throws her arms around Mrs Parent's legs and screams, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I tried to save him, there was nothing we could do."
No, I think it's safe to assume that the reality was rather different.
At what point would the parents have come to know about what had happened? Which of them would have been told first? I expect it was the mother. Would it have been a phone call from the childminder? Was she in a fit enough state to make a call? The news reports are sketchy on details of her injuries. I suppose she would've called an ambulance first. And then what? Apparently someone on the scene gave the boy mouth-to-mouth.
What would it have been like to have been the mother of that boy, getting a phone call from the childminder.
"Hello."
[bawling, weeping] "Oh my God, Mrs Smith. Jakey's hurt. He's badly hurt. Oh my God!"
"Hello? Natasha? Is that you?"
"Mrs Smith, you've got to come quick, it's Jake." [a deep breath to compose her thoughts and control her crying] "He's just lying there. He's not moving. The man says he's not breathing."
[the blood's drained out of her voice] "Natasha, where are you? What's happened?"
"The wall. It was the wall. We were just walking and... [sobbing] oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry, Jakey, Jakey..."
"Natasha! Please, calm down! Where are you? What happened?"
[responding to the urgency in Mrs Smith's voice] "We were walking. Jakey and I. It was windy. You know, the storm. We were walking past this wall. He was holding my hand. There was this sudden gust of wind. And then next thing I knew, I was lying on the pavement, covered in bricks. And I looked around. But I couldn't move properly. And I saw Jakey's hand. It was sticking out from under... under a pile of bricks... and... and... oh my God, Mrs Smith, he's not moving, he's not moving."
"Where are you? Have you phoned an ambulance?"
[focussing again] "Yeah, yeah, we have. This man, he helped me up. And I called an ambulance. And they're on their way. And he's giving Jakey mouth-to-mouth."
"Where are you?"
"We're... we're near the Post Office in the Co-op. You know, just near the crossroads."
"Right, I'm on my way."
How far away was she from the crossroads near the Co-op? What if she was nowhere near home on that day? What if she was away on some business meeting somewhere in another county? What if she doesn't work at all, but hires the services of a childminder every now and then so she can have the ocassional girls' day out with her friends? What if she was in a bar enjoying an early marguerita, nibbling on olives and cheese straws?
When does she phone her husband? Before she gets in the car? During the journey?
"Something's happened to Jakey. I've just had call from Natasha. They were out for a walk and a... she said a wall collapsed on him."
"What??"
"And she's had to call an ambulance 'cause he's not moving. How soon can you get there?"
"Where are they?"
And so the vital piece of information is conveyed again and another person begins to speed towards the crossroads by the Co-op.
What's Mrs Smith thinking during her drive? Does she put on the radio to drown out her thoughts? Something loud and brazen. Does she hold onto the steering wheel so tight that her fingers feel sore for days afterwards? Does she feel a tear falling down her left cheek and then fling it away, biting her lips, determined not to lose control?
No, she's probably on the phone to Natasha all the way during the journey. She keeps checking her mobile to make sure she's got enough battery left. She tries to remember when was the last time she charged her Bluetooth.
"Is the ambulance there yet?"
[her voice now more rigid] "No. I phoned ages ago. I don't know where the nearest hospital is."
"Is he breathing."
[to someone else] "Is he breathing yet?" [back into the phone] "No, no he's not. The man says he can keep going with the mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance comes. [pause] It's Mr Smith on the other line again. What shall I do?"
"No! Don't hang up! I need you to stay on the line to me!"
[This will probably be the point about which they will argue for weeks and months. It might even be the thing that leads to their divorce.]
"But he keeps phoning!"
"NO! I've told him where you are. I'll call him myself in a minute."
[pause] "They're here! They're coming. The ambulance is here."
Mrs Smith can hear the sirens. Her stomach churns and squeezes tight. She thinks she's going to be sick but she pushes down the accelerator and keeps going. She hears car doors slamming. She hears voices shouting, Natasha talking, explaining the events again.
Was that a red light she just went through?
Suddenly, she realises Natasha's calling her again. "Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith, you there?"
"What? Yes, yes, what is it?"
"They're taking Jakey to... [speaking to someone else] Where? [back into the phone again] They're taking him to... [and she gives the name of the hospital]"
"Is he going to be ok?"
"They don't know. They've gotta take him to hospital."
"You go with him, Natasha."
"Yeah."
"Keep your phone on."
"Yeah."
"I'll start heading for the hospital."
"Yeah, all right."
Mrs Smith goes through a quick route-change in her head, makes a sudden left turn and is on her way to the hospital.
Natasha again. "Mr Smith's calling."
"No!"
"But... don't you want to tell him which hospital he's got to go to?"
"What?" [a pause] "Okay, I'll call him. But then I'm phoning you write back! Don't switch off your phone, even if the ambulance people tell you to!"
"Yeah, ok."
Mrs Smith phones her husband, spends about thirty seconds telling him the name of the hospital and the reason for Natasha's failure to answer his calls. Then she hangs up without telling him if Jakey's breathing. She tries Natasha's number, but there's no answer. The ambulance crew have probably told Natasha that the mobile would interfere with their equipment.
And then she really is left with her silence. Does she phone her husband? Who knows. I think I probably wouldn't have.
And then the rest of the story will probably be dominated by people in uniforms. Mrs Smith will arrive at the hospital and sprint into A&E. She'll see Natasha sitting on a chair, hands clasped together, eyes staring into the distance. She'll scream at the woman behind the counter: "Jake Smith!"
And then a small troupe will gather around her and she will be whisked away and a few minutes later a man in a white gown will use words like "head injury", "sorry", "sustained" and "nothing more".
And will Mr Smith be by her side at this point? And when will they get a chance to see their little Jakey?
And after they've heard the story again from Natasha, will they ever want to speak to her again? Will they grow to hate her? I don't even know her, I don't even know if she's real, but I hate her just the same. I hate the fact that she chose the route she did. I hate the fact that she was walking on the outside of the pavement. I hate the fact that not one of her limbs has been horribly mangled, that she doesn't need serious medical attention.
Maybe that's the one good thing about all this: today, I'm not too numb to hate.
I've been thinking of the consequences of the weather we've been having. A two year old boy was killed whilst out for a walk with his childminder. A wall collapsed onto him.
That's set me off thinking all sorts of thoughts, most of which I'd rather not be thinking.
Would that have been a better way? was the first question I asked myself. Would that have been a better way than Jessica's?
I've been trying to imagine how the parents would have been informed. I suppose my social diet of films and TV programmes is partly to blame, but I keep picturing a scenario in which the childminder walks into the house - trembling with fear - and sees Mr and Mrs Parent engaged in some hideously cuddly domestic activity, like making their own jam. Mrs Parent immediately senses that something's wrong. "What's the matter, Natasha?" she asks.
At which point Natasha falls to her knees, throws her arms around Mrs Parent's legs and screams, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I tried to save him, there was nothing we could do."
No, I think it's safe to assume that the reality was rather different.
At what point would the parents have come to know about what had happened? Which of them would have been told first? I expect it was the mother. Would it have been a phone call from the childminder? Was she in a fit enough state to make a call? The news reports are sketchy on details of her injuries. I suppose she would've called an ambulance first. And then what? Apparently someone on the scene gave the boy mouth-to-mouth.
What would it have been like to have been the mother of that boy, getting a phone call from the childminder.
"Hello."
[bawling, weeping] "Oh my God, Mrs Smith. Jakey's hurt. He's badly hurt. Oh my God!"
"Hello? Natasha? Is that you?"
"Mrs Smith, you've got to come quick, it's Jake." [a deep breath to compose her thoughts and control her crying] "He's just lying there. He's not moving. The man says he's not breathing."
[the blood's drained out of her voice] "Natasha, where are you? What's happened?"
"The wall. It was the wall. We were just walking and... [sobbing] oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry, Jakey, Jakey..."
"Natasha! Please, calm down! Where are you? What happened?"
[responding to the urgency in Mrs Smith's voice] "We were walking. Jakey and I. It was windy. You know, the storm. We were walking past this wall. He was holding my hand. There was this sudden gust of wind. And then next thing I knew, I was lying on the pavement, covered in bricks. And I looked around. But I couldn't move properly. And I saw Jakey's hand. It was sticking out from under... under a pile of bricks... and... and... oh my God, Mrs Smith, he's not moving, he's not moving."
"Where are you? Have you phoned an ambulance?"
[focussing again] "Yeah, yeah, we have. This man, he helped me up. And I called an ambulance. And they're on their way. And he's giving Jakey mouth-to-mouth."
"Where are you?"
"We're... we're near the Post Office in the Co-op. You know, just near the crossroads."
"Right, I'm on my way."
How far away was she from the crossroads near the Co-op? What if she was nowhere near home on that day? What if she was away on some business meeting somewhere in another county? What if she doesn't work at all, but hires the services of a childminder every now and then so she can have the ocassional girls' day out with her friends? What if she was in a bar enjoying an early marguerita, nibbling on olives and cheese straws?
When does she phone her husband? Before she gets in the car? During the journey?
"Something's happened to Jakey. I've just had call from Natasha. They were out for a walk and a... she said a wall collapsed on him."
"What??"
"And she's had to call an ambulance 'cause he's not moving. How soon can you get there?"
"Where are they?"
And so the vital piece of information is conveyed again and another person begins to speed towards the crossroads by the Co-op.
What's Mrs Smith thinking during her drive? Does she put on the radio to drown out her thoughts? Something loud and brazen. Does she hold onto the steering wheel so tight that her fingers feel sore for days afterwards? Does she feel a tear falling down her left cheek and then fling it away, biting her lips, determined not to lose control?
No, she's probably on the phone to Natasha all the way during the journey. She keeps checking her mobile to make sure she's got enough battery left. She tries to remember when was the last time she charged her Bluetooth.
"Is the ambulance there yet?"
[her voice now more rigid] "No. I phoned ages ago. I don't know where the nearest hospital is."
"Is he breathing."
[to someone else] "Is he breathing yet?" [back into the phone] "No, no he's not. The man says he can keep going with the mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance comes. [pause] It's Mr Smith on the other line again. What shall I do?"
"No! Don't hang up! I need you to stay on the line to me!"
[This will probably be the point about which they will argue for weeks and months. It might even be the thing that leads to their divorce.]
"But he keeps phoning!"
"NO! I've told him where you are. I'll call him myself in a minute."
[pause] "They're here! They're coming. The ambulance is here."
Mrs Smith can hear the sirens. Her stomach churns and squeezes tight. She thinks she's going to be sick but she pushes down the accelerator and keeps going. She hears car doors slamming. She hears voices shouting, Natasha talking, explaining the events again.
Was that a red light she just went through?
Suddenly, she realises Natasha's calling her again. "Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith, you there?"
"What? Yes, yes, what is it?"
"They're taking Jakey to... [speaking to someone else] Where? [back into the phone again] They're taking him to... [and she gives the name of the hospital]"
"Is he going to be ok?"
"They don't know. They've gotta take him to hospital."
"You go with him, Natasha."
"Yeah."
"Keep your phone on."
"Yeah."
"I'll start heading for the hospital."
"Yeah, all right."
Mrs Smith goes through a quick route-change in her head, makes a sudden left turn and is on her way to the hospital.
Natasha again. "Mr Smith's calling."
"No!"
"But... don't you want to tell him which hospital he's got to go to?"
"What?" [a pause] "Okay, I'll call him. But then I'm phoning you write back! Don't switch off your phone, even if the ambulance people tell you to!"
"Yeah, ok."
Mrs Smith phones her husband, spends about thirty seconds telling him the name of the hospital and the reason for Natasha's failure to answer his calls. Then she hangs up without telling him if Jakey's breathing. She tries Natasha's number, but there's no answer. The ambulance crew have probably told Natasha that the mobile would interfere with their equipment.
And then she really is left with her silence. Does she phone her husband? Who knows. I think I probably wouldn't have.
And then the rest of the story will probably be dominated by people in uniforms. Mrs Smith will arrive at the hospital and sprint into A&E. She'll see Natasha sitting on a chair, hands clasped together, eyes staring into the distance. She'll scream at the woman behind the counter: "Jake Smith!"
And then a small troupe will gather around her and she will be whisked away and a few minutes later a man in a white gown will use words like "head injury", "sorry", "sustained" and "nothing more".
And will Mr Smith be by her side at this point? And when will they get a chance to see their little Jakey?
And after they've heard the story again from Natasha, will they ever want to speak to her again? Will they grow to hate her? I don't even know her, I don't even know if she's real, but I hate her just the same. I hate the fact that she chose the route she did. I hate the fact that she was walking on the outside of the pavement. I hate the fact that not one of her limbs has been horribly mangled, that she doesn't need serious medical attention.
Maybe that's the one good thing about all this: today, I'm not too numb to hate.
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