Seasons to cry

In the midst of an ordinary day there's a Thomas with a mind out of balance ready to snuff out the lives of anyone for no valid reason. And he did. He killed sixteen children along with Gwen, their teacher, that ordinary day. A shocked Dunblane policeman, his brain in neutral running on a kind of official automatic statement, said to reporters, “It was a random attack. We are not aware of any motive.” And the world cried for the children, their parents and relatives, their teacher and playmates, and for that sad bereaved community. Yes, and even for those who'd loved Thomas, knowing that there but for the grace of God... I wonder sometimes where he is now. What he's doing. How he, and especially his mother, are coping. It could have happened to anyone: it does. Cruelly. Savagely.

In my study I have a list of pupils who attended the schools where I've taught. Most died by accident, some through sickness, a few by their own hand. They were aged from between 14 and 23. The list reminds me that each person was a distinct and unique personality living with ne’er a thought that in the midst of life, in the twinkling of an eye, life could be snatched away. Sometimes I look at the school magazine to jog my memory as to what they looked like. One pupil I'll never forget. She's fixed in my mind forever. A seventh former looking forward to her next year at university, except another mind temporarily out of balance got in the way.

It was close to the end of the last term for the year. Senior exams had finished. Textbooks had been handed in. Lunchtime was halfway through and the seniors were gathering in the assembly hall to hear a visiting speaker. He promised to be interesting having appeared several times on TV as a radical and a stirrer. I was free, so I went along too. From the back of the hall I watched this particular student seat herself on the top step leading up to the stage, place the guitar she carried across her knees and tune it, leaning forward to hear the sound of the strings. When she was ready, she looked up, smiled and waited. The hubbub gradually subsided and when all was quiet and without any introduction she started to sing: 'Don't cry for me, Argentina'. She captivated us as her voice, soft and beautiful carried the words clearly and distinctly around the hall. (Of the speaker who followed, I recall only that he was a radical. Abrasive and blunt he strutted the stage, his message lost in the arrogancy of the delivery. I've never forgotten that student, or her presentation.)

A few months later I heard she'd been killed not very far from her home. Some youth, keen to impress her of his driving skills, persuaded her to accept a lift the short distance into town. She never made it. According to the report that came out later, a witness who was with her at the scene stated that when she discovered he'd been drinking it was too late to get out. He'd refused to stop and while she was terribly injured and knew she was dying he was not badly hurt at all. Sometimes the song brings it all back to me. Sometimes it comes back on its own, and sometimes I cry. Thankfully, there's a time and a season for that.

© Dennis Crompton 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2012)