Now, my family.
It was still only 6.10am. Then it hit me, my beautiful girls. I had to tell them they had lost their brother. Dear God – was this some kind of nightmare?
When we arrived at Jennifer’s house I sat in the car for a minute or so to get myself together before Ken took my hand to help me out of the car. I will never forget Jeni’s face when she opened the door; she knew something was very wrong and I’m not sure that it really registered when I finally uttered the words: ‘Kenneth’s been killed …’
She took the news reasonably well. Probably in shock, I realise that now. We hugged like we would never let each other go. Ken held us both. Our rock. Our protector. But even this was beyond him.
We couldn’t bear to leave Jeni behind so she came with us to Stephanie’s home, just a short distance away. It’s still a comfort to know they live so close to each other and that morning I was especially relieved as Steph took it very badly. Kenneth was her big brother and watched over her. Yes, he could be more than over-protective, but it was all part of his love for his little sister. Now he was gone.
I hated seeing my girls in tears. I would have given anything to just get them together and hide away from the world, but the burden of having to reach the rest of the family within the next four hours was weighing heavy on me now.
I’m the second child in a family of six and I’m half Chinese. My father was in the Royal Signals and met my mother when he was stationed in Hong Kong. They met, fell in love, and when my father’s tour of duty ended he brought his Chinese bride back to Newcastle. I’m sure it was quite a culture shock for her – 1950s Newcastle was dark and industrial and a far cry from the vibe and colour of Hong Kong. Nevertheless, despite the influences around her she brought up her family in line with her strong Chinese ethos. The family bond was close and unbreakable and family always came first.
In Chinese families you go by your number in the family: number 1 child, number 2 child, etc, and even then the boys take the lead followed by the girls. So, it was natural to me to put the number system into play when deciding who to inform first. My elder sister, Jann, took the news well, although she was clearly upset. My sister Lesley was inconsolable and crumpled on receiving the news. I said to her: ‘Please don’t do this to me!’ I was finding it hard to keep myself together and strong enough to get around everyone so all we could do was bundle her into the car and take her with us.
The impact on my brothers, Martin and Gary, was excruciating to watch. They loved Kenneth like a son and now they had the pain of telling their own children that he had been killed.
There was only my ‘baby sis’ Michelle left to tell then, and I was dreading it. I was so glad that Lesley was with us and could help us to comfort her because as we stood together the grief was palpable. But I could not let it take me yet. My job wasn’t finished.
Ken’s mother was on holiday so his two sisters had the dreadful job of telling her when she returned. We did not want her holiday spoilt as she could not change anything – no one could.
At 9am on the dot I called my boss at work. ‘Hi Stephen, it’s Lyn. I’ve got some bad news. Kenneth has died. He’s been killed in Afghanistan.’ There was silence on the end of the phone and then he said: ‘Oh my God. What are you doing ringing me?’
I remember telling him to please be quiet and I needed to talk to him about the audit. I also recall his reply: ‘Forget the audit! What about you? I’m happy to cancel the audit. Just tell me what we can do to help you?’ There was only one answer to that – carry on with the audit. I hadn’t done all that work to have them pull out now, especially as I had spent over an hour sorting the files and the notes. It was still my responsibility and I was not going to be the excuse that let the whole team down. I made Stephen promise that it would go ahead.
Then everything went blank.
From the moment the messenger from the MoD left our home that morning I think the bulk of my sadness found a place to hide inside me. I couldn’t give in to it until all the practical things had been ticked off the list.
I’m sure I listened to all the man had to say (though, for the life of me, I can’t remember much at all). I’m sure I probably thanked him for coming and for his patience and for his offer of help and his advice. In the silent moments after Ken showed the man out I no doubt thought what a horrid job that must be to have to visit parents in the dead of night and give them the worst news they could ever imagine. I wondered how he must feel now, driving back to wherever. I’m sure he breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he sat back in the car and told himself that he never wanted to do that again – knowing that he would have to, sooner or later.
I didn’t blame him – it wasn’t his fault – but he had opened a portal direct to hell, and for me there was no way out.
I cried, of course I cried, but I didn’t fall apart – not then.
The funny thing was, I had felt odd all that previous day.
I had been on day three of the four-day audit and I was driving back from the Carlisle office when I heard a loud ‘boom’. I was on the A69 at about 5.30pm so I wondered if I had kicked something up off the road that had hit the car, or perhaps that someone behind me had experienced a tyre blow-out or a mechanical problem. I couldn’t see anything and my car was still driving OK, so I carried on. I just wanted to get home.
It had been a long day and I blamed that for the ‘low’ feeling and whatever it was that was making me feel ‘not right’. The journey had not been too painful but I was glad to swing the car onto the drive and turn off the ignition. Home.
Ken was already there, which meant the evening meal would be on the go and a pot of tea at the ready. That realisation would usually be enough to ease my stress level and calm me down but that odd feeling was still in the pit of my stomach and I didn’t like it at all.
As I kicked off my shoes in the hall I noticed something that made me feel worse: the white orchid that Kenneth had given me for Mother’s Day had dropped a bloom. Not only that but the leaves were turning brown and some had already fallen. I accept that house plants die and orchids are particularly fragile – I should know as I love them and had kept them for years – but the thing about this particular orchid was that it had flowered so well and for so long. Kenneth had had to give it to me well in advance of Mother’s Day as he knew he would be in Afghanistan in March. Everyone who’d seen it had remarked on its beauty and staying power.
I stood looking at it for a few minutes and felt quite sick. I took it as a sign of change and from that moment I felt restless.
I was tired that night but I couldn’t sleep. I should have been ready for bed and some good refreshing sleep but all I could manage was lots of tossing and turning. Even when I dozed off I was awake in minutes, with my head spinning.
It was then that I saw the headlights at the bedroom window.
‘This is the lunchtime news from the BBC:
‘The Army dog handler killed in Afghanistan on Thursday has been named by the Ministry of Defence. Lance Corporal Kenneth Michael Rowe, of the Royal Army Veterinary Corps, who was 24, and from Newcastle, had been due to leave the front line the day before he died. He and his explosives search dog, Sasha, died after coming under Taliban fire during a routine patrol in Helmand. Lance Corporal Rowe had asked not to leave on Wednesday as he worried about his base not having enough search cover. The death brings the total number of British service personnel who have died in Afghanistan to 112.
‘Lance Corporal Rowe’s commanding officer, Major Stuart McDonald, said, “This unselfish action epitomises his professionalism and dedication to his job. I feel lucky to have known him and gutted to have to say goodbye.”