St Petersburg, I am afraid, will have to wait. The trip to Middlesbrough the morning after my return was more important ...
A little over a year ago, I wrote in The National, Abu Dhabi, and repeated myself here, about an experience that challenged my classic returning expat's view on "nasty, greedy, surly Britain".
At King’s Cross station in London, I said, an official had combined duty and kindness to help a niece who had suffered an epileptic fit.
It was the third such fit to afflict Heather Falconer in the few hours since she had boarded a flight, with her mother (my sister, Sandra) and Heather's own small niece, to return from a glorious holiday in Canada. Sandra had, of all things, won the trip in a competition.
I picked them up at Heathrow and drove them across town for their homebound train towards Middlesbrough. At King’s Cross, Heather - apparently none the worse for her in-flight seizures - needed the toilet, but suffered some dizziness when alone and fell. Her mother and I were struggling with a mountain of luggage and knew nothing of her mishap.
This is how I described what happened next:
Ian could not have been more helpful. Told that my relatives’ train was not due to leave for another two hours, he offered to transfer them to an earlier service.
'Are you sure you can do that?' I asked. 'I’m the manager,' he reminded me.
Seats were found on a train leaving almost immediately. A porter and Ian himself helped me drag the cases towards the carriage where he’d found vacant seats. Phone calls were made to staff at the destination 350km away to ensure help was on hand for the arrival. My niece was still far from well but a paramedic was waiting at the other end and the homeward journey was completed without further hitch."
So why I am I returning to the subject, indeed to Heather, whose name I chose not to use in last year's articles?
Last Friday, I am desperately sorry to say, my wife and I stood by the graveside in Linthorpe, Middlesbrough and watched Sandra bury her youngest of six children.
Heather had died while in bed. Once again, she was alone; once again - according to the paramedics, who believe death was related to the epilepsy - she suffered a fit. I do not know whether immediate help would have saved her. But this time, there was no one to see her in her distress, to offer that help.
Nothing can remove the dreadful, aching feelings of loss and grief at the death, at just 24, of a pleasant, sparky, funny, determined, free-spirited and much loved relative.
But Canon Erik Wilson, who conducted the funeral at St Barnabas, went as far as any human being could in striking the correct balance of regret at the bereavement, affection towards the victim and celebration of her life.
He made no attempt to magnify Heather's qualities or overlook her weaknesses; indeed, citing the words of another priest before his own death from cancer, he made it clear that he would not do so. He described the girl we knew, from the kindness, loyalty and hatred of injustice to the defiant way she insisted on enjoying a drink and a cigarette whatever medical opinion might say. Among the congregation, there were many tears but also smiles and a little laughter.
These words do scant justice to Heather, and serve in part to compensate for what was missing from my own relations with her. The way families disperse around the country or world, and the ease with which contact is delayed or restricted, is unhealthy and wrong, but is also a function of the way lives are these days led.
Rest in tranquillity, Heather.
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