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Making Allowances
Chapter 13 Part 1
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Let’s fast forward one year, to that fateful day, the day that changed everything.
My recovery had been slow; six weeks off work, eight weeks in plaster, another month or so walking with crutches. I was still limping quite badly at Christmas, but the physiotherapy helped, and the limp grew less profound. Walking, driving, carrying things became easier, but participating in any sport remained a rather distant hope at this stage.
I missed the football and cricket, the buzz of preparing, the actual participation, and the socialising that followed. I went to local matches but found the experience too painful. I needed to be an active part of the scene to feel that I fitted in. I did not feel the same as a spectator.
I tried all sorts of things; gardening, painting, decorating, some elementary DIY, but nothing replaced the cut and thrust of being involved in sport. I still enjoyed watching sport on TV, but longed for some involvement.
Ellie was very supportive, and did her best to keep me busy or entertained, but, I suppose inevitably, I started to spend more and more time at work, to try to fill the hours and hopefully impress the company. Neither worked; true I did get a promotion, but the new role merely brought more responsibilities and tasks in greater numbers. Ellie began to grow annoyed, not only at how I reacted to my loss of sport, but the way in which she felt the company was manipulating it.
I imagine it would have been precisely those thoughts that Ellie was harbouring on that fateful February night, when our lives took the most significant turn of all. I had been to meet some customers in Oxford. The meeting ran over time by at least an hour, which was bad enough, because darkness had fallen, and an icy blizzard was howling around the car park, making it look like one of those ornaments that look like snow-storms when they are shaken.
But worse was to come, within minutes a local radio message interrupted my station to advise that my route out of the city had been blocked by an accident. After a further uncomfortable hour of crawling along in the rush hour, I decided to cut my losses and find somewhere where I could get something hot to eat and drink.
Ellie was not best pleased when I rung and told her. She seemed to labour the point that had gone to a fair amount of trouble to prepare a meal, but accepted that the weather was worsening and that I should not try to rush home.
As I drove cautiously in the snow back along the A40 and observed the road signs for Cheltenham, I started to think about the forthcoming National Hunt Festival. If a lengthy icy spell were to set in now, I thought, then it would really mess things up, the fields would be depleted and it would really detract from the spectacle. I could even recall the Festival being postponed many years before. I hoped that this would just be a temporary situation.
I was still some ten or so miles away from my turning when I became aware that the road surface was becoming increasingly tricky; this stretch of road was very exposed to the elements and I suspected that there was probably a film of ice forming over the tarmac. The steering began to feel light and I could feel the car drifting around, so I slowed right down. This gave me plenty of time to see, and react to, what came next.
A set of headlights emerged on the horizon, but as they loomed nearer, I noticed suddenly that they were not moving in the expected direction. It was then than I caught sight of an object in the car’s lights. The car had tried to swerve to avoid it but lost control on the slippery road. Now, not only had it collided with the animal, which spun limply into the air, but it was now spinning across the road.
I had braked very early, pulling my car to the edge of the road close to a dry stone wall. I could see the danger, but was powerless to do anything about it. I could only watch in horror as the spinning car left the road, tipped off the sloping verge and smashed through the wall, before crashing nose down into the adjoining field.
I turned off my engine and grabbed my overcoat before leaping out of the car. Still feeling the weakness in my injured leg, I ran as quickly as the injury and ice would allow me towards the wreckage. I cautiously surveyed the dark road for a few moments, before I caught sight of the carcass of the unfortunate animal, a fox. There was no sound, no life, I felt relieved that I could not survey the full extent of the poor creature’s fatal injuries in the failing light. Quickly, I made my way towards the car.
The stricken car was a prestige model, a BMW 7 Series, with a personalised registration number MWD77. The engine had either stalled or been turned off, but the lights were on. Stones from the wall had scattered over a fair area, so the impact would have been considerable. I scrambled over the breached wall and down the slope to see what could be done. It was difficult in such poor light to see anything, even more so because the front headlights were buried in the grass. Nevertheless, I could make out two figures occupying the front seats. The front passenger door was the closest to me, but it appeared buckled, instead I tried the near side rear door, which opened and illuminated the inside of the car. For the first time, I saw the victims, the driver, an elderly man in his late sixties or early seventies, and a lady passenger of similar age. She was mumbling, clearly in shock, or pain, or both. Trying not to make her move suddenly, not being certain of her injuries, I called to her quietly.
“Hello? Hello? I’ve come to help.”
The lady stopped mumbling.
“Hello?”
The lady sounded confused.
“What? Who’s there?” She tried to turn around. I pleaded with her.
“Don’t move, stay where you are, I saw you crash and I’m here to help.”
“Don’t move,” I repeated, “ I’m going to leave this back door open and come round to the front and then you can see me”.
There was no reply.
I moved down the car and tried the door; it was locked. I looked into the window and could see the lady trying feebly to open the door for me. She looked at me as I stood back. She looked afraid. I tried to reassure her.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got to go back to my car and get a few things, then I’ll come back.
I’ve got a mobile phone, I’ll get some help.” I shouted. The lady nodded.
I ran back to the car, collecting my car’s toolkit, the mobile phone, my thermos, my briefcase and Ellie's’ travel blanket. I decided to drive the car a little closer to the scene to shine some more light onto the scene.
Returning to the car, I decided to force open the passenger door with a screw-driver. I figured that the car was likely to be a write-off anyway. I motioned to the lady what I was going to do and she nodded. It did not take me long to succeed. At last, the door opened.
“Hello.” I said, trying to smile. “I’m here to help. How are you feeling?”
“What happened?” the lady moaned.
“The roads are very icy and your car spun off the road.”
“I was asleep,” she mumbled, “where are we now?”
“In a field,” I replied, “the car went clean through a wall.”
The lady suddenly came to her senses.
“Oh God, my husband, Mitchell, Mitchell!!” she turned with an alarmed and pained expression to the driver, who was now stirring and mumbling from a slumped position, but in her doing so, the lady discovered that she was not able to move freely. She gasped.
“My shoulders, my neck, “ she winced. “I think they’re stuck.”
“You’ll have whiplash injuries,” I said calmly. I unfolded the travel rug and wrapped it gently around her, I poured a cup of coffee from my flask and handed it to her.”
“I take sugar, I’m afraid,” I smiled.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I will be fine now. Please see if you can help my husband.”
I ran around to the other side of the car but the door was so badly damaged, I knew I would not get in. I could, however, see that the man was lifting himself away from the air bag on the dashboard, but with difficulty, because of the way that the car was inclined. I must have caught his eye, because he waved his hand. I pointed to the window and made a winding motion with my hands, hoping that he would be able to activate the electric window controls, if they worked. He, and indeed, they, did.
The old man appeared to be far more aware of what had, and was happening. Immediately, I noted a distinct American accent.
“Hi there,” he greeted me with a pained grin, “helluva spin.”
“How are you sir?” I asked him.
“Well I- I can’t move my damn legs, but I think I’m OK. “
He turned to his wife, “are you OK, my love?”
She nodded, “A bit stiff, but I’m alright.” He patted her lap.
As they spoke to each other, I phoned for assistance. Fortunately, I knew the road very well and was able to give the emergency services pinpoint accuracy in locations and good detail about injuries and what would be needed.
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If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed. |
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