I was lying in bed listening to the radio at boarding school while my roommate got dressed. As she left, she said, “See you at breakfast—don’t be late.” I was about to get up when the morning news came on, and I heard the announcer say my parents’ names.
By the time my roommate reached breakfast, everyone had heard. My friends ran to be with me. The housemaster and his wife stood outside my bedroom, not letting anyone in. All they could hear were my screams and the sound of furniture breaking. It was beyond comprehension, and from then on, everything would be.
On that sunny May bank holiday in 1978, my mother, father, and sister had flown to Le Touquet in France for lunch—a trip my father had made many times in his helicopter. On their way back, air traffic control lost contact over the Channel. They never re-entered UK airspace and were presumed dead.
A few weeks earlier, a friend and I had tied our sheets together, climbed out the bedroom window, met our boyfriends, and gone up to London for the night. The head girl reported us, but without proof, we denied it and avoided expulsion.
If I had been expelled, I would have been with my parents—and I wouldn’t be here today.
After hearing the news, my memory turns into a comic strip—frames of events with little speech. My bedroom door opens, and my aunt Bunny, my father’s sister, walks in. I get into my father’s car. His driver, Isaac, whom I’ve adored all my life, sits perfectly dressed in a suit and tie, sobbing uncontrollably. My friends stand by the car crying and hugging each other. The car drives away; everything moves in slow motion. I stare out the window at all the faces staring back, none of us knowing what was happening.
The drive to our family home in Harpenden, Hertfordshire, took just under an hour. I sat alone in the back—my aunt never touched or spoke to me. All I remember from the journey is the smell of leather, Isaac sobbing, and his aftershave.
When we arrived, my other sisters were there—Louise, 19, and Sophie, six. Emma, who was in the helicopter, was 14. I was 16. The house was full of strangers, the phone rang constantly, people rushed in and out, staring, crying, asking, “Where are the girls? Is the doctor coming to give them something?” I felt like I was on a tightrope high above them—afraid to move or speak, just trying to keep still so I wouldn’t fall.
At one point, two policemen arrived. I stared at them, wondering why they were there. Their shiny shoes and tight uniforms seemed out of place in the chaos.
The rest of the day is a blank. I don’t know what I did or who I spoke to. No one ever told me what happened; I only knew from hearing the news.
That night, Louise and I slept in our parents’ bed. I used to sneak in with my mother when my father was away—she’d say, “Oh no, you’re not sleeping in here,” and I’d reply, “Okay, I’ll watch TV with you, then go to my bed.” I always fell asleep.
Now, I lay on my father’s side of the bed, awake. I stared at his shoes, all lined up in his dressing room, and went through every pair, imagining him wearing them, wondering what socks he’d choose. His shoes were beautifully kept, with shoe trees to hold their shape. I imagined my body shrinking small enough to sleep inside one.
My father ran a plant-hire and earth-moving business that helped build part of the M5 near Bristol. He later sold the business and invested in other projects. Like my mother, he was always impeccably dressed. I used to watch him polish his shoes, his hand inside to turn them as he worked in the polish, then buffed them to a shine.The leather was polished until it gleamed. In the days that followed, French and English military forces launched an extensive air and sea search. To this day, no one knows what happened. Local fishermen out that day reported it had been beautifully clear, with no fog.
Just before leaving the house, my father’s last call was to check that the helicopter’s floats—which allowed it to land on water—were working. They were. That makes me believe the helicopter is still floating in the Channel, and it’s only a matter of time before they’re found. Louise and I even joke about how my mother will complain if her hair gets wet and goes flat. They’ll be home soon, my father in his shoes, my mother with a fresh hairdo, and Emma and I back to playing together.
A few days after the accident, I was in my father’s study and opened a drawer. Inside, I found a gold necklace with a fish pendant that he used to wear in the summer—I thought he’d lost it. We spent summers in Portugal, where he’d wear bell-bottom jeans and a denim jacket over his bare chest, with that goldfish necklace. In the ’70s, it was a cool look. I picked it up and ran into the hall, shouting, “Daddy, I’ve found your necklace!” The au pair, who was looking after my special-needs sister Sophie, appeared and stared at me in horror.
We had a “pool room” at home that overlooked the kidney-shaped pool. It had a great music system and was decorated with low orange corduroy sofas, cork walls, and frosted mirrors. In summer, the music would be turned up loud—usually the Beach Boys or David Bowie. Sliding glass doors opened onto the pool, which was always full of our friends. My mother, in her pale pink floral bikini, cork wedges, and a large straw hat, often sat among them. Sophie would be there too, jumping off the side of the pool into the arms of one of my friends.
After two weeks, it became real. My father’s body was found on a beach in France. Two weeks later, my mother’s body was found, and another two weeks after that, Emma was found, still strapped into her seat. I understand the delay had something to do with the tides.
I was alone at the family home when they found my father. The phone rang, and Bunny said, “They’ve found your father.” I screamed, “Where is he?” She replied, “No, Fiona, he’s dead.”
I remember very little of the next four months before I moved out. There were three separate funerals and a memorial service in Harpenden. The local shops closed for it, and I wore one of my mother’s outfits. I remember thinking she’d be cross if she knew—she was very fashionable, and her clothes were haute couture, stylish, and extremely beautiful, just like her. During the service, I started laughing uncontrollably and couldn’t stop. It was the first time I felt completely out of control. Some young girls from the local prep school Louise, Emma, and I had attended were there, wearing cream straw hats with red ribbons and bright red wool blazers.
Without any warning, people came to pack up our home. I walked into the kitchen and saw women from a removal company emptying the cupboards. There were no men—just elderly women. One, wearing a thick industrial apron, looked at me and said, “We’ll be very careful.” She was holding my father’s crystal tumbler.
When I was about five, it was a ritual that when my father came home from work, I’d push a chair to the drinks cabinet, reach for the bottles, and make him a whisky and water. He’d take my thumb and show me how much whisky to pour by marking it just above the joint. After handing him the glass, I’d climb onto his lap, lay my head against his chest, and listen to the whisky traveling inside him, like a tiny wave.
I think people fear me now. I stare at them and barely speak. My senses have become heightened. I feel more animal than human.
A few days after the accident, Bunny came to our family home, opened a safe, and took its contents. Some of my mother’s jewelry was inside. My mother adored jewelry, and my father loved buying it for her.You could hear her before she entered a room by the tinkling of her gold charm bracelet, which had 26 charms. Each one was given to her by my father to mark a moment in their life together: a gondola from their honeymoon in Venice, a rabbit on skis from their first skiing holiday, a wishbone for luck, a charm for each of their four daughters, and Pegasus, symbolizing freedom and the soul’s ability to rise above ordinary limits.
My father had a large wine collection. My aunt offered to look after it, so with two friends, I spent a day moving case after case to her house. One evening while I was there, she took two bottles from the rack. When I said, “Auntie Bunny, those are Daddy’s,” she replied, “Your parents are dead,” and walked out. I stood staring at the door, wishing she had hit me with the bottles instead of saying those words.
My grandparents had a house in Praia da Luz, Portugal. My paternal grandmother was Australian, and this part of Portugal reminded her of home. In the 1960s, it was a quiet fishing village with few tourists. Most buildings were simple whitewashed houses, and locals traveled by donkey or wooden carts pulled by mules. The gentle rhythm of daily life was set by the fishermen, who were the backbone of the community. Sardines, mackerel, and octopus were cooked for lunch over an open fire, and we often ate with them. We were charged for the sardines by counting the tails left on our plates. My sister Emma and I would eat the whole fish, marking lines in the sand to tally how many we had eaten.
My parents fell in love with the area and bought a house next to my grandparents, where we spent our summer holidays.
A few weeks after the accident, my sister Louise and I, along with two friends, flew there. It was a mistake. My mother had a large locked cupboard in her bedroom where she kept all her personal belongings, along with sun creams, hats, Calamine lotion, and a medicine chest. She had treatments for everything, brought from England—there were few local doctors, and antibiotics were hard to come by. When we arrived, the cupboard was empty.
All my parents’ clothes were gone, and an outside building that held our fishing, waterskiing, and boating equipment had been emptied. My father, Emma, and I used to spend hours in there—it was like our cave. We would return from fishing, rinse the saltwater off our rods, and lean them against the wall.
I ran over to my grandparents’ old house, which Bunny now owned. They were no longer alive, but a wonderful local couple, Maria and Jao, had cared for them and maintained the house and garden. Maria would teach us Portuguese and cook local dishes for us. She opened the door in tears and hugged me tightly. I told her, “Everything has gone, Maria.” Bunny had taken it all and warned Maria that if she let me into the house, she would be fired.
Four months later, I am on a one-year residential secretarial course in Cambridge. My family home has been sold. Bunny insisted I go back to school, but I couldn’t bear the thought of returning—it now held unbearable memories. No one knew what to do with me, so secretarial college seemed the only option.
The house I’m staying in is a large Victorian building run by an elderly lady and her husband, who is a doctor. Twelve girls live here, all sharing bedrooms. As the thirteenth, I have a solitary attic room to myself. It has no curtains and bare floorboards. I have no home comforts, but I don’t want any—I wish I could lie alone and naked in the Himalayas. That would comfort me.
I think people are afraid of me. I stare at them intensely and hardly speak. My senses have become heightened, and I feel more animal than human. I can read people just by their body language.I want to close my eyes and cover my ears when people talk to me. The only voices I can bear are my parents’ and my sister Emma’s.
On weekends, I go to London to see my friends. Being with them helps me make sense of the world, even though I can’t bring myself to tell them what happened or how I feel. I recently said to one friend, “I must have been so strange back then, and you were all so incredibly kind to me.” She replied gently, “Oh Fiona, you weren’t strange—you just never spoke.” If anyone mentions my parents or my sister, I leave the room.
We go out and spend time together. One of my closest friends is a punk rocker. I help her get ready—using egg whites to spike her hair, putting on her leopard-print bodysuit, dark lipstick, and heavy makeup—and we walk down the King’s Road. She loves the attention and is very beautiful. I never dress up; I don’t want to be noticed.
My year at Cambridge passed by. The only thing I connected with was my typewriter. I loved everything about that heavy metal machine on my desk. The sound it made—the loud “clack” as the key hit the paper—meant I didn’t have to speak. I could just clack.
After Cambridge, I moved into a two-bedroom house off the King’s Road with five other girls. It was a fun time, with constant parties, drugs, and alcohol. But if I touched any of it, it would trigger a sudden, overwhelming flood of pain. I felt like a blotting paper—one small drop would soak into every part of me.
I worked as a secretary, which suited me. I could hide behind my typewriter and leave right at 5:30 p.m. Then I started having what people called “fits.” They’d say, “Fiona is having one of her fits.” There were warning signs—the hair on my neck would stand up, and my scalp would go numb. Then I’d scream, break things, and run. It was often triggered by simple questions like, “Where do your parents live?” or “How many sisters do you have?” In those moments, I felt capable of killing.
My husband says when we first met, it happened often. He’d spend hours driving around London looking for me. Once, he found me running barefoot down Earl’s Court Road. When he caught up, he said, “Fiona, your feet.” I’d run over glass but hadn’t felt a thing.
My way of coping was to quit my job, get on a plane, and disappear. The first time, I flew to Bangkok and met up with Cara, a friend from the King’s Road who was traveling around the Far East. We traveled together for three months through Thailand, the Philippines, Nepal, Burma, and India. I studied Buddhism and met people who had found enlightenment in ashrams, but I always left feeling more alone—especially seeing others find what they were looking for.
I’ve never been able to talk about what happened, not even to my husband. He says that after 35 years of marriage, it’s only through my writing that he has finally come to understand me.
My daughter, Emma—named after my sister—used to be a journalist. When she read that I’d learned about the deaths on the radio, she pointed out that today, that would never be allowed. There are strict rules now to prevent the media from reporting a death before the next of kin is notified. But in 1978, those laws didn’t exist.
Bunny died several years ago. I heard that before she died, she had wanted to see me. I would have met her, but it was too late. She was a tall, handsome woman with high cheekbones and striking blue-green eyes. My father’s relationship with her was complicated. He was deeply loved by their mother, but Bunny had a difficult relationship with her. I don’t think she was shown much love. Their father was a strong presence but not a hands-on parent. My grandmother—their mother—My aunt adored me, and we were very close. It must have been difficult for her to see that.
For decades, I believed my funny, kind father was killed by a gang of teenagers. Thirty years later, I learned the truth.
I also wonder if she lived the life expected of a woman in the 1970s—prioritizing marriage, motherhood, and domestic work—and never got to live as she truly wanted. She was also consumed by grief, having lost the younger brother who supported her both financially and emotionally. I think my father understood her and gave her a great deal of love. I was a feisty, outspoken child who often challenged her behavior. Did she take everything of ours she could as a way of holding onto my father?
She became Sophie’s guardian, and though Sophie attended a residential special needs school in Wales, it was still a huge responsibility. But this led to more complicated behavior—if Sophie misbehaved, my aunt would often stop me from seeing her. Once, a few months after the accident, she lunged at me and we ended up in a physical fight on the floor, like two wild animals. I ran upstairs, locked myself in a room, and called the police, but by the time they arrived, she was gone.
Sophie still has severe special needs and lives in a residential care home. Louise and I both live in London and see each other regularly. There’s no doubt our shared trauma has affected our relationship. We dealt with it in very different ways, and I was never able to talk about it. I wonder if we both realize we only survived those first days and weeks because of each other. All I wanted was to be with my parents and Emma, but I couldn’t bear the thought of putting Louise and Sophie through more loss.
People say time heals, but I’m not sure that’s true. I believe love heals. I have desperately wanted to bring love back into my life, and it has been an enormous challenge both to love and to be loved again. The fear of losing someone is deep-rooted in every cell of my body. Over the years, I’ve wondered if I should just live alone in some wild place, far from everyone, and not expect to be happy again.
As I write this, my husband is in the kitchen. I have two children, two grandchildren, and a daughter-in-law. And I’m studying for an MA in children’s literature and creative writing at Goldsmiths. When I leave college, I stand on the platform at New Cross station and look up at the Amersham Arms, which towers over the station on the bridge above. Huge red neon lights shine with two words: “Take Courage.”
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about coping with the sudden traumatic loss of family framed in a natural compassionate tone
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 Is it normal to feel completely numb and in shock
Yes absolutely Shock and emotional numbness are the minds way of protecting you from being overwhelmed by the full force of the trauma all at once Its a common initial reaction
2 I cant eat or sleep What should I do
Focus on tiny manageable steps Try sipping water eating bland foods like toast or crackers and resting even if you cant sleep Dont hesitate to ask a doctor for shortterm help with sleep or anxiety
3 Who should I tell and how
Start with one trusted persona close friend another family member or a spiritual advisor You can ask them to help notify others You dont have to make all the calls yourself
4 How do I handle the funeral and legal matters
Ask for help Designate a practicalminded friend or relative to coordinate with the funeral home or hire a lawyer to guide you through necessary legal steps You are not expected to manage this alone
5 Will I ever stop crying
The intense constant waves of grief will eventually become less frequent though they may still hit unexpectedly Crying is a necessary release not a sign of weakness
IntermediateLevel Questions
6 Why do I feel angry or even guilty
Anger is a normal part of grief Guilt often comes from if only thoughts which are a painful but common way of trying to make sense of the senseless
7 When people say Let me know if you need anything what should I ask for
Be specific Ask for Could you bring groceries on Tuesday or Can you walk my dog or Please answer phone calls from the insurance company for me People want to help but often dont know how
8 Is it okay to avoid their rooms or belongings right now
Yes There is no right timeline Do what feels bearable You can box things up to deal with later or ask someone else to pack items for you to go through when youre
