(THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE IS DEDICATED TO ALL THOSE WHO LOST THEIR LIVES IN THE LONDON BOMBINGS JULY 7TH 2005, MAY THEY ALL REST PEACEFULLY IN A PLACE FREE OF PREJUDICE AND JUDGEMENT.)
By Julia Hulme
Mayhem in Mayfair
I knew that something was terribly wrong, but what it was I couldn’t say as I hadn’t turned the telly on to get the latest news of the day. My son Lachie and I had just arrived at the door of my sister’s apartment in Mayfair after an exciting morning admiring the enormity of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey and exploring several other major tourist attractions in central London. We were both giddy with the excitement of being in another country and still bubbling with traveller’s enthusiasm. However something seemed to tell me that things were not quiet right as the streets became emptied of the normal hustle and bustle of everyday Londoners. More and more police and ambulance and what I imagined Secret Service or MI5 cars to look like, streamed passed us.
From what I remember it was roughly around midday, maybe eleven thirty or so. Sirens and alarms were going off everywhere, they echoed violently along the cobbled walls and floors of London’s inner city alleyways. I knew the sound of sirens and alarms were fairly commonplace in London and it was not completely alien to see the occasional guard draped with an automatic weapon of some description, but this was different. The streets seemed suddenly deserted of local Londoners going about their daily business, but rather official looking heavy armed police, started to appear on every street corner. As I recall it was quiet an unnerving image, and something that Lachie and I had never witnessed back home in Geelong.
The sirens and alarms continued without waiver and it was now fairly obvious something shocking had occurred nearby. It was a frightening sound that perforated our ears and made our bodies tremble. Five years on I can still at times, hear that haunting sound of London sirens resonating in my head. The sound of life and death chaos is never forgotten. We hurried along the street, heads focused forward, eyes blinkered-like with the soul intention of reaching the apartment as quickly as was physically possible. Considering Lachie was only seven, he quick-stepped-it in time with my rapidly increasing pace without any argument. He was a little champion who cooperated obligingly and even at his tender age I sensed he knew something was dreadfully wrong.
An intangible intensity lingered in the air and on returning to the French-terraced apartment Lachie and I looked at each other somewhat baffled by what was unfolding just minutes from where we stood. I clutched Lachie’s hand tightly and we swiftly made our way up the stairwell to the relative safety of the Mayfair apartment. I remember thinking to myself “What the hell is going on?” and “Please God don’t let it be terrorists”.
The sirens continued to swirl in the air like a piercing vortex of all that is evil, almost as though someone had thrown a great cloth of darkness over the city. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, jumping in and out of its normal rhythm. Lachie’s small hand was red and sweaty from having been squeezed and pulled. Although he never complained once I knew it would be such a relief to reach the apartment and finally relax.
We got ourselves inside, unloaded our gear and settled down with a cuppa to watch the telly. What we proceeded to see was both hellish and terrifying, just minutes from where we now sat sipping our Earl Grey tea in a cosy London apartment had the most ghoulish atrocities taken place earlier that day. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and hearing, my mind went into hyper drive it was all too much for my brain’s processing mechanisms, so my body began to tremble and shake as I watched the latest update of the London bombings.
The lady on the telly explained that earlier that morning around 8.50am three bombs exploded within minutes of each other at various locations in the London Underground. She also sketchily reported that three trains had been hit directly and that there were massive casualties. Apparently another bomb exploded on a double-decker bus around the area which Lachie and I explored the day before.
Image after image of carnage and destruction filled the screen. Early reports were coming in that people had been killed on a London train, on several buses and that horrific damage had been inflicted upon various sections of the London Undergroud. Minute by minute media reports were coming in from journalists located in different parts of the city. At that stage there were comments about terrorists and bombings, peak hour commuters and innocent people having been killed and injured. Words such as “mindless, unfathomable and incomprehensible” were being used. My mind raced at double time, I was shocked to see what looked like images of injured people struggling out of torn and twisted wreckage. There was smoke and debris scattered like a child’s jigsaw on a London road, and a once cheerful and iconic looking double-decker bus was now nothing more than a piece of gutted metal scrap.
I felt so relieved and in a strange way blessed that Lachie and I were now off the streets and back in the relative safety of the Mayfair apartment. I was so thankful that we decided against riding the double-decker bus that day, but rather we compromised on the decision that we would ride one to see the sights of Paris when we went in several days time. Our timing and choice on this occasion had worked in our favour we were both safe and alive. I held Lachie tightly and with tears in my eyes I gently stroked his small forehead and thought to myself how precious and fragile life is.
Lachie and I both sat numbed and confused, trying to piece together the enormity of what had taken place only minutes from where we were, and then I thought of my sister Yvette who had taken the tube to Barnes that particular morning. What was the name of her station? Where did she get on the train? What time was it when she left this morning? Mentally I was having a complete melt down, I couldn’t even remember the name of the school she taught at. I had been so caught up in watching the devastation on the telly that I had forgotten about her journey to Barnes that morning. My gut dropped and my face paled, I felt sick and mealy again with fear and confusion.
My beautiful, bubbly, kind sister where was she now? and was she alright? I told myself to calm down, that everything would be okay, just find the diary with all the contact numbers in it, the one she’d told me about when we’d first arrived. The diary with the all-important emergency contact numbers from here to eternity, where did she say she kept it again? Think, think I told myself amongst chants of find the diary, find the bloody diary. I knew the diary had all her important numbers from Mum’s house back in Australia to her school in Barnes. Surely if I found it I’d be able to ring through to her school to check that she’d made it there safely that morning.
I ferreted around in the bedroom like a mad woman looking for the diary. I knew it was a posh school in Barnes, which was just outside of London. I remembered Yvette telling a story of seeing Jerry Hall there with her daughter who was a student. It sounded all very proper and uppity, a school for the privileged no doubt. I knew it was called Ibstock something or rather, but I certainly wasn’t sure. I opened drawers, lifted books and scratched around loose pieces of papers desperately trying to find the diary.
I could’ve kicked myself if only I’d paid more attention to where she kept it. I could feel the perspiration building on my forehead “Come on diary, come on diary “ my frenzied mantra continued and then I saw it. Thank God for that! I quickly fingered through the pages scanning meticulously over the names and numbers. There was Mum in Australia, various aunts and uncles, friends from Warrnambool, Gavin my husband, Yvette’s fiance’s folks in Melbourne, Yvette’s friends from school and oodles and oodles of unfamiliar names and numbers, many whom I suspected were colleagues from schools both here and back in Australia. My heart was pounding and my breathing was laboured where was the school number? And then I saw it written in bold letters at the bottom of the ‘I’ page. Ibstock College, Barnes etc… I rang through as quickly as I could, but the London lines were not working and I couldn’t get through.
I tried ringing many times, but it was hopeless. Phone-lines around the London area were jam-packed with both outgoing and incoming calls. It was impossible to make a call as the system was overloaded. Frustrating as it was Lachie and I went into lockdown mode. The lady and man on the telly were urging all residents living within the realms of inner city London to sit tight for at least the next twenty four to forty eight hours. It was advisable to stay off the streets and avoid going out unless absolutely necessary. I kept trying to ring the school, but I still couldn’t get through.
We sat and we waited. Lachie played and Lachie slept. I watched the telly and drank cup after cup of tea whilst keeping up with minute-by- minute reports as the telly was saturated with coverage of the bombings. I thought about and grieved for those who had lost their lives that morning and for those who’d been injured. I thought about their families and how life’s catastrophes can affect so many people in such far reaching and unimaginable ways. I wanted to ring my mum and husband to tell them how much I love them and wished they were here so I could hold them close. I wanted to hear my sister’s voice to know that she was ok and that I would see her at the end of the day. I felt alone and helpless as my mind meandered over what had taken place.
Then the phone rang… I jumped up like a firecracker and dived to the phone, it was Yvette’s voice at the end of the line. I cried in her ear with relief that she was safe and sadness for all that had happened.
It was such a relief hearing her voice, knowing that she was ok. Likewise, she was relieved to learn that Lachie and I were safely tucked up at the Mayfair apartment. With so many telephone lines down it had been impossible for many people to contact their loved ones. Yvette had been in touch with Mum and Gavin and they were both distraught and worried, as at this point no-one knew of our whereabouts. Lachie and I had been bunked down in the Mayfair apartment with no skerrick of communication to the outside world it had been a frustrating few hours.
For peace of mind Yvette stayed in Barnes that night with a girlfriend from Australia. The police were advising people to stay put, keep off the city streets and avoid large gatherings, at least until they had a hold on what had occurred and who was responsible for it. At that stage it was all very sketchy and grey as to who was behind committing these atrocious crimes.
As the day unfolded Gavin, Mum and several of our concerned Australian friends managed to get through to us on the landline. I think they were just relieved to hear our voices, to know that we were safe and to tell us they loved us. When terror and adversity strikes it does make us look at ourselves both inside and out. We do re-assess and evaluate all that is important and of value to us, and most of the time we are all the same, as often it is the simplest and most basic things that give meaning and importance to our lives. An encouraging touch, a warm smile the comforting smell of toast in the morning, and the shadows cast by the afternoon sun are all things that make life wonderful. I couldn’t imagine being without these pleasures.
My heart was with all those who had lost their lives and their families who would be trying to pick up the pieces from a day of mayhem and turmoil. Much would come out in the media about terrorism and al-Qaeda terrorist cells throughout London and Europe. Investigations by Scotland Yard’s terrorism branch revealed that at 8.50 am three bombs on the London Underground had exploded within fifty seconds of each other. They would also discover that at 9.47am another bomb ripped the top off a double-decker bus in Tavistock Square. The carnage was horrendous with fifty-six dead, including the four suicide bombers and around seven hundred people injured.
The police discovered those responsible were four local men all under the age of thirty with links to Al-Jazeera. In videotaped statements by two of the men it was clear that politics, government and war were motivating factors behind this stupendous crime …… but at the end of the day it was about innocent people having their lives cut short, a heinous crime to say the least.
Although it is now five years on since the London bombings I still vividly recall the mayhem of that awful day. Although Lachie and I were not directly impacted by the bombings, I poignantly recall the sights, sounds, tastes and emotions of “7/7” These abstract, yet powerful recollections remind me of how tenuous life can be. They will remain with me forever, engraved within the deepest realms of my mind, at times surfacing unexpectedly like an old friend, to remind me of how lucky we were that day. These remnants of thought are helpful in shaking away my complacency and serve as an ongoing reminder to me to value all life’s riches no matter how menial they are as life is so very, very precious and can be taken so very, very unexpectedly.
Sources:
(Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)
