The Journey

The Journey

Sometime within the next 48 hours I will make the 200-mile drive that takes me back to the little town I grew up in. It is a journey that I neither expected to ever make nor want to do.

I will meet up with old friends. We all have them. The sort that you can pick up the phone after five or even 10 years and they know your voice, and even more assuring is that you know theirs as well. That sort of feeling gives a permanence and comfort that money cannot buy. There will be six or seven of us, probably together in the same room for the first time in 30 years and tonight we will probably go to the pub and have a few beers. Tomorrow we have to go to a funeral.

These are the people I grew up with and shared so many good times with. We started off as neighbours and schoolmates and, although the times that we talk are now not nearly as frequent as the banter and laughs we used to share at our houses or the local pubs, the ties that bind are still very much there. These ties felt strong before but now feel even stronger.

Two people will be missing from this unplanned re-union tonight: Rich and Julie.

I have known Rich for as long as I can remember. We grew up in the same road. The first time I heard Electric Warrior by T.Rex was at Rich’s house. In his earlier years Rich was never seen without a pair of wellington boots on his feet as he roamed around our small and safe roads. Those were such happy and innocent days that are now lost for ever but remain imprinted on our memories.

Later on there were the parties at Richs house when his parents were away. These were basically carnage, but I think the Police were only called once. In the middle of all these times two important things happened that would decide his future way in life.

The first was his increasingly erratic (and I have to say -crap) taste in music. His son, Jonny, confirmed last week that the situation had not improved after over 30 years and that he could vividly remember at the age of 6 eating his breakfast to the strains of “Talking with the tax man about poetry” by Billy Bragg. Fortunately Jonny remains apparently unscathed.

The second was Julie. – A far more positive and beautiful influence. They started going out together and for a while they were a permanent fixture at The White Lion in West Kirby. When the pub was closing for 2 weeks for refurbishment it took a highly trained negotiator and five police officers to persuade Rich to leave the Pub. His empty lager glass was removed from his hand under local anaesthetic.

It was no surprise to anyone when they got married. Two sons, Jonathan and Christopher came along and life seemed happy and complete. The years rolled past and we lost regular contact.

It was nearly two weeks ago that I got the e-mail. Reading it again now I still feel the same sense of disbelief and shock at the words…”Christopher died on Thursday evening after a short illness”. He was just 15.

It took a couple of days before I spoke to them on the phone. I was painfully aware of the inadequacies of the English language, and indeed my own failings, in finding any words of comfort and sympathy that could possibly shine any light at all onto what is something that seems terribly dark. And I was angry. How could something like this happen to two of the kindest, most gentle people I have ever met?

Grief is essentially a very private emotion that by its nature tramples everything else into submission. As I sit here writing this I am minded that I remain an outsider to the true depths of emotion that Rich, Julie and Jonny are now feeling, both as individuals and as a now sadly depleted family unit. My daughter has even advised strongly against publishing this at this point in time as she feels strongly that this is an intrusion into what is essentially a very private matter.

But therein lies the problem that all of us at the periphery of this tragedy face. At what stage do you stop reaching out to people for fear that you are only adding to their distress when the only true motive is to try and alleviate it in some small way? I honestly do not know the answer.

All that we, as people who are lucky enough to be friends of this wonderful family, can do is to continue to offer our support, in what ever form we feel is appropriate, in the weeks and months to come. On visiting the house last week and seeing at first hand the floral tributes and all the cards it is abundantly clear that if a couple’s wealth can be measured in terms of the quantity and quality of the friends that they have, then they are truly blessed.

Rich and Julie are determined that Christopher’s memory will live on and that they will try and complete some of the things that he was destined to do. As they embark on this journey they know that they have so many friends who will be walking alongside them.

Donations to the Chris Salmon Memorial Fund c/o Quinns Funeral Service Greasby Tel: 0151 677 2299.