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"We three went to a children's party arranged, probably, by officers'
wives. Great excitement was, of course, engendered for Father
Christmas. I was slightly puzzled, for he arrived in a jeep. Next to
him, in similar white-trimmed robes but in green, was his driver. I was
given a squeaky banana. Such are the fragmentary memories of a four-
year-old I do not remember our mother being with us at that party,
but do remember a Major and Mrs. Brett who were very kind to us
three at that time, and who may have stood in. Perhaps the telegram from Egypt had arrived There had been a car accident: our father was in hospital with a fractured skull, unconscious. He had been the front passenger, returning from a regimental reception. The unlit Egyptian roads were pitch dark and there was little traffic. With only a motor bicycle approaching, the driver pulled out to pass a parked vehicle. The motor cycle turned out to be a lorry with only one headlamp working, and there was a head- on collision. The driver was restrained by the steering wheel, but, with no seat-belts then, my father was thrown though the windscreen into the front of the lorry. Communications were slow: there were no mobile telephones. He was taken to hospital where he remained unconscious. My mother was unable to travel to him, and had no telephone in the bungalow. The following day a further telegram was brought: "I am so sorry ", said the deliverer. My father died, without regaining consciousness, four days before Christmas, and just before he had been due to join us. I remember my mother saying to me in my bed, "Dad-Dad is dead". At that age you accept it. I barely remember him. After all, I effectively only had a week from which to do so. That is life. To this day, when I see young children that age I wonder how much of their busy lives they will later remember, and whether some unforeseen event awaits their family. " |