A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss

A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss
Julie Nicholson

On 7 July 2005, Julie Nicholson's life was changed forever. Her daughter, Jenny, was killed on her way to work in the London bombings, shaking Julie's beliefs. With heartbreaking honesty and integrity, Julie tells her story of love, tragedy and heartache for the first time.Jenny Nicholson was travelling to work when a bomb exploded at Edgware Road Tube station. Her mother, Reverend Julie Nicholson, was on holiday in Anglesey at the time and watched the situation unfold on the television before travelling to London to search for her missing daughter. After five terrible days, her daughter's death was confirmed. Struggling to comprehend the tragedy, Julie's sorrow and longing for her beloved daughter turned to rage and anger at the senseless death.In what will doubtless be considered a landmark grief memoir, Julie Nicholson takes us painstakingly through each moment from when Jenny fails to answer her mobile, to anointing her body.Devastatingly honest and courageous, Julie tells of her love and loss as only a mother can.

A SONG FOR JENNY

A Mother’s Story of Love and Loss

JULIE NICHOLSON

Copyright (#ulink_1bdf1e71-e840-5ff0-9e48-48d7064afb70)

HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010

© Julie Nicholson 2010

Julie Nicholson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007250790

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780007440054

Version: 2015-07-03

Dedication (#ulink_7e52e334-5c57-56a4-b5f7-10587e155843)

This book is dedicated to Jenny’s family. The writing of it is dedicated to Lizzie and Thomas.

Contents

Cover (#ua848052a-5bc4-5a57-af5b-8a4a70c6ca6a)

Title Page (#u171b01cf-9bb4-535f-b988-23bce1a4516e)

Copyright (#ub6559005-c3eb-53c5-846d-dfa823f4c513)

Dedication (#ue16ba227-fee7-5b30-bc8d-2822d46abb25)

1 Overture (#u3b32a631-96b5-507d-a34a-b11a6ff9aea8)

2 Prelude (#u5c329e5a-4f7f-503f-a4a3-89d77a0f779f)

3 First Movement (#uc8eaad50-0e3c-56ae-8b2d-6a6060f43335)

4 Second Movement (#litres_trial_promo)

5 Third Movement (#litres_trial_promo)

6 Fourth Movement (#litres_trial_promo)

7 Fifth Movement (#litres_trial_promo)

8 Lament (#litres_trial_promo)

9 Funeral Song (#litres_trial_promo)

10 Stabat Mater (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 1 Overture (#ulink_8cb9b98c-aac0-549b-aa4d-5c97f932804b)

Time is constant, life changes

Traeth Bychan, Anglesey, Thursday 7 July 2005

I awake to a tap on my bedroom door and the rattle of china as my uncle comes into the room with a cup of tea. ‘It’s going to be a lovely day’ he says as he puts the cup and saucer down on my bedside table.

I mutter a sleepy ‘thank you’, watching through half-closed lids as he leaves the room, a dressing-gowned form capped with a head of snowy white hair. I lie still, becoming aware of the early-morning sun pouring in through the curtains and the gentle chirping of birds outside the window confirming the lovely day. The room is bathed in a warm and creamy glow. I watch the curtains for movement, for sign of a breeze; there’s not a flicker in their long creamy folds. As I laze in a half-asleep, half-wakeful state, the sound of a distant kettle boiling reminds me of my waiting cup of tea. Propping myself up on one elbow, I lean over to drink some, narrowly missing banging my head on the frame of the bunk bed. I take a couple of sips, replace the cup in its saucer and pick up my watch to check the time before lying back on the pillows: 7.40 a.m. No rush to get up. Looking above I contemplate the strips of pine in the base of the top bunk, crossing from side to side, supporting the mattress, bedding tucked neatly around; even the underside made up with care and precision, no crinkles or creases. I smile, remembering countless arguments and negotiations between children over who got the top bunk.

Voices and noises merge from other parts of the house: a teapot being filled; cupboard door opening and closing; bathroom door locking; a cough. Still I lie, cocooned in the bottom bunk while sounds, sun and domestic activity wash over me. Holiday mode!

An image of the church where I am Priest-in-Charge intrudes briefly. With a blink it is gone. There is no one to call me vicar here and I can relax in the knowledge that I am what I have always been with these people in this place, daughter and niece. For a week; no clerical collar or ministerial responsibility, bliss!

This holiday is a bonus for me. My parents planned to visit my uncle and aunt and I was in a position to take some time away from work at short notice in order to drive them, leaving Greg, my husband, at home in charge of the dog and other household delights. While I’m languishing under the covers, enjoying a lazy start to the day, Greg will already have left for his office, avoiding the worst of Bristol’s morning rush-hour traffic and be getting ready to begin a day’s work.

I close my eyes, not sleeping but thinking, daydreaming, and roaming back over years of visits to the island. I try to work out how long it is since my Uncle Jimmie first came here to work; it seems like a lifetime ago. It is. I was in my teens. Had it not been for that move I may never have ventured far enough into North Wales to discover this small Isle of Anglesey, and a whole chunk of family history would have been different. Is that fate or serendipity or maybe just plain old chance? One action leads to another. My uncle, aunt and cousins moving to Anglesey from Gloucestershire set in motion a whole other sequence of meetings and relationships. There’s a thought and not yet eight o’clock in the morning! I consider writing the thought down, it may come in useful for a sermon, but decide the effort of getting out of bed and looking for a pen is too great. I ponder instead a rapidly moving montage of memories – adventurous, ambivalent – spanning thirty-plus years of visiting Anglesey. After a few moments I yawn and stretch, returning to the present. One thing at least remains constant: the warmth and close affinity with this household.

Martyn and Sharon; Julie and Vanda: two sets of siblings; four cousins with a close bond from childhood which has not diminished over age or distance and which has extended to our children and partners. In theory our children are a mixture of nieces, nephews, first cousins and second cousins. In practice they are all simply cousins and their parents a collective of aunts and uncles.

It gets better. Two cousins then married two brothers. My cousin Sharon met Mike, whose family had a holiday home on the island. Later, I was introduced to Mike’s elder brother Greg at a party and the rest as they say is history. Sharon and I are first cousins who became sisters-in-law through marriage. Our respective children are our cousins but also our nieces and nephews. To each other the children are second or third cousins through their mothers and first cousins through their fathers.

It is impossible not to smile at memories of when Sharon and I have referred to each other interchangeably as cousin and sister-in-law. The children have always been close cousins whether they are one, two or three times removed and Sharon and I have always been ‘auntie’ more than cousins to each other’s offspring.

To people who meet us en masse, as it were, this can appear a complicated set of family relationships. I prefer to see us a wonderfully diverse group of individuals who look, sound and act differently but who all come together as something akin to a pseudo Greek chorus. This doesn’t mean to say we are always in perfect harmony. Quite the contrary. Over the years there have been fallouts, hurts and disagreements as I imagine there are in most families. Somehow we all muddle through and keep reforming in solidarity and unity.

Fully awake now, I make no effort to leap out of bed, reaching instead for my book. I spot a pencil and write down the earlier thought in the inside cover. My uncle pops his head around the door. ‘More tea?’