|
Making Allowances
Chapter 1, Part 2
|
|
Mum finally returned as “Match of the Day” was
rolling its closing credits. The youngest of my uncles, Paul, Dad’s closest
brother, followed her into the front room, greeting us quietly with a pained,
half-smile. Mum spoke tiredly: “He’s in a bit of a mess, they think he’s out of
danger now”. But no-one wanted to make too many predictions or tempt fate.
This was someone’s life and, it had been, by all accounts, one hell of a fall. Bit by bit, the full extent of his horrific injuries
were revealed, in the light of the fading fire and the TV; three crushed
vertebrae, numerous and multiple rib fractures, a broken collar bone and a
fractured skull, various lacerations and severe concussion. His condition was
still described as “critical”. I learned, years later, that Mum had spared us the
emotional baggage, the things that Dad had whispered as he lapsed in and out of
consciousness. Nor that she had overheard a nurse scolding a whingeing patient,
declaring that he was lucky, and that the jockey in the side room may not make
it through that night. At the time, for any young teenage lad, the scale of
Dad’s injuries were about as much as I could bear. Mum reassured me that we would try to get him home as soon as
he was well enough, but that could be a long time yet and we should take each
day as it comes. Once again, from deep within
Mum came a firm resolve. As I went to bed she held my face between her
little hands and told me that I had to be strong, to face up to what was
happening and we would have to help each other get through this. I lay in bed for ages, sometimes in tears, trying to
comprehend my father’s injuries. Even
if he did make it, how would he emerge? I had visions of wheeling him around
town, having to bath him, help him to the loo, all sorts. Briefly, I felt anger,
but more than this I felt an acute sadness. I thought about the cricket seasons
of the future, the fun we had playing football in the garden; he was my mate,
above everything, and now he had been snuffed out in some tuppeny ha’penny
horse race that no-one really gave a shit about. The next day, Big H came back with the horsebox and
horse. I had made up the box with fresh straw. Silently, Big H led the horse
into the box, brought fresh water and without a word, mixed up a bucket of feed,
which he took into the box. “Hope you choke, ” he muttered, as the horse
began to nuzzle into the bucket he was placing on the floor. “Bastard, you.” Aware of my presence as he emerged from the box and
slid the lock shut, Big H explained his outburst. “Never took off...buried him…went straight through
the top of the ditch and landed on him”, he shook his head. It didn’t need
any elaboration. “But he’s going to be OK isn’t he?” “Well he’s a tough cookie.” Big H went on to describe how he had made Dad laugh in
the ambulance with a Germanic “For you, ze var is over”. I suddenly began to
feel much more hopeful. Strangely enough, Dad could not remember laughing. In
fact, on reflection, it was probably a medical impossibility. Big H had children
of his own and probably invented the story to make me feel better. I went to school on the Monday, word was getting around
by now but fortunately there were not too many questions, just a small number of
polite enquiries. There was not much that I could report other than what Mum had
told me, I tried to be positive and remarked that he was as comfortable as could
be expected, but it was likely that he would be in hospital for some time yet.
The day seemed to last like a month. It was hard to concentrate, hard to talk,
hard to think. It was plain hard. Tuesday was just the same, lessons were a
blur, I felt as if I was in a bubble. That afternoon, the school bus terminated about half a
mile from my house. A group of us walked
together until they all peeled off at the estate, leaving me to walk the last
quarter mile down the winding lane to my house. Alone at last, I felt relieved,
stronger for my second normal day completed. I decided to ask Mum if she would
let me visit Dad later in the week, if she thought he was well enough. As the bend in the lane began to unwind, I was
astonished by what I saw. There, in the middle of the lane, stood a figure,
supported by a walking frame; unsteadily, a hand slowly rose into a wave. It was
him. I started to walk quickly, then run towards him. As I
grew closer, my joy became tainted with a degree of shock. It was as if his
ordeal had aged him by a good ten years. His face was lacerated and drawn, you
could almost feel his pain. His gait was unsteady, faltering, but, God bless
him, he was smiling. “Hello, thought I’d meet you” he greeted, almost
breathlessly. “What the hell are you doing home? When are you going
back?” I demanded, almost unbelievingly. “I’m not”, he replied, “I’ve been
discharged.” “Discharged himself more like ”, I thought to
myself, the stupid sod, but I was glad to have him back home.
|
|
If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed. |
|
Hosted by www.HorseData.co.uk. The web's equine information service. |