Passing water and spoiling a good shirt

Maurice Gartshore

I was a young teacher then. Wed been near neighbours since the kids were born. Mike, an art teacher, Pam in Primary. They were childless and happy we had two and were fraught but we got on great swigging Mikes home brew and talking teaching. Cant remember what we did with the kids those nights! Then we moved away North where Id got promotion. We kept in touch however and they invited us to visit them in the school house in the Angus Glens which had come with Pams promotion.

A bright day and the hills variegated as a rare birds egg. Easter and the kids heads full of metaphors.

The house was along a single track winding between smooth hills with bubbling winter-swollen rivers and old arched bridges. It nestled solid and lovely like a promise kept. There was a terrace round it where we parked our little French car and sloping down towards a wall was a stretch of lawn.

We lunched and caught up on things, Pam with a new hair style, Mike bearded and looking much younger than his years. The Hirondelle flowed in the kitchen which was eggshell blue and big enough to eat in. Outside the kids were in their element running round the house, Carrie six, and Robin, three. It was like old times.

Then Carrie appeared at the door, a look of concern on her face. Robins in the car. Always something! Give yourself two children and you give yourself a few years of sibling rivalry, but wed told them never to go in the car so we hauled ourselves up and went to extract the little blighter. My wife arrived at the car first (women did, when children cried) and leaned in to extract our little Stirling Moss, to realise that there was movement. Movement towards the slope above the lawn. Movement towards the wall down there... I dont remember what went through my head but I ran round the car and tried to stop its just- discernible progress. Meanwhile my wife was leaning into the open drivers door trying to pull on the handbrake while a terrified little boy, not expecting forward propulsion, sat staring ahead little fingers on the wheel white with fear. When he turned and saw his mothers face he began to scream.

The car didnt stop and I slipped. My last memory was a worms-eye view of a grey car with a hysterical long-haired woman running alongside desperately grasping for the brake before the wall came. By this time it had slowly rolled over me and left me lying on the grass. It had gone over my back on its way. I hadnt realised then what had happened but I do recall that classic slowmo hurly- burly film that the brain reels at such moments.

She did stop the car. He got out and she ran hugging him to see what had happened to me. I know I could feel my legs, but I couldnt move.

Pam and Mike had appeared as the car gained momentum and Robin began screaming. They tended me and an ambulance was called. I remember my shirt being cut from my back by a pair of nurses scissors. They asked me if Id passed water and I said there had been a bridge on the way. No time for jokes so I didnt get a laugh, but it was my way of dealing with my fear.

That night was one of the longest I remember as I lay in pain unable to lie on my back but half turned and immobile while the brown clock at the end of the ward ticked slowly towards light. At some point from the next bed I heard the soft music of a man singing Bringing in the Sheaves Davys favourite song and one I would hear more of in the days to come. Now if Id been religious...

Id crushed two vertebrae but Id been lucky. I was in hospital for seven days where I was measured for a leather corset, had a tube inserted where no tube should ever be, had same tube removed and then learned to dread the words Have you passed water today?