I remember a story my dad used to tell me about this particular foggy day in the 1950's. He was coming out of Davy United Engineering on Prince of Wales Road where he worked and was about to cross the road to buy a Star from the newsagents opposite. He said that his mind was elsewhere and he wasn't paying attention and just stepped out into the road without looking or thinking. He remembered looking up only to be faced by the behemoth like image of the 703 Vulcan Road en-route to Elm Tree, thundering out of the fog towards him just feet away. My old man was never one for exaggerating and, having personally witnessed the sheer terror in his eyes and the emotion in his voice as he recounted this part of his experience, I still get goose bumps even now when I talk about it.
He said that the next few seconds was just a blur as he shut his eyes tight and prepared himself for the impact - or as best he could have prepared himself in the split second before the bus hit him and smashed every bone in his body to smithereens. With hands shaking and hushed voice, I remember his telling of how he recalled feeling a huge impact which knocked him clean off his feet and onto his back. His shoulder hit the ground hard and he remembers thinking straight away that he might have dislocated it, which he said was a strange thing to think moments after being knocked into the middle of next week by a bus. As he regained his senses and began trying to piece together what had just happened he became aware of a weight on his chest. Hardly daring to open his eyes at first, fearful of what he might find, he tentatively opened his eyelids to be greeted by the kindly face of a balding bearded gentleman. This shocked him considerably and he said that his first thought was that he was dead and this was either St Peter or god himself. Quickly he surveyed the scene, or as best he could lying on his back, and to his great surprise and some huge relief he discovered that he wasn't floating on a cloud or even laying in the road in a dozen pieces but was somehow back on the pavement with this kindly gentleman bizarrely lying on top of him. Before he could even begin to try and make sense of the situation, he suddenly became aware of the man standing over him. He grabbed hold of my dad's hand and pulled him to his feet and in the same movement pulled him close to speak in his ear. My dad said he would never forget the words spoken to him by this stranger. Words uttered in a soothing, calm, almost hypnotic American accent. He said "Your son Jon, bring him up the right way, the way of the light. He will know many ups and downs as he wanders along the Lane but before he leaves this world, he will know success. We will get it right. For him and thousands like him.."
My dad opened his eyes and turned to the stranger and said "I don't have a son. Just who are you anyway?" But he was speaking to himself. Stood alone on Prince of Wales Road with only the noise of the rush hour traffic to accompany the words of the stranger whirring round inside his head. Six years later, my mum gave birth to a baby boy and my dad insisted he was called Jon. All these years I've always thought that this was just a spooky tale made up by a dad to entertain his young son but now there's a certain chill going down my spine as I recount this episode in light of recent events.
I believe.......
