By Ian Lumley.
© October1997 1520 words

The woman who brought the news was about 30 years old, quite petite and dressed in a pink and grey bathing costume. She had dark bobbed hair and rushed on to the beach, not shouting, but speaking loudly in a broad Yorkshire accent to a couple just behind us. “I’ve just heard it on the radio! Diana and Dodi  have been in a car crash in Paris! They’re both dead!”                     

Our little village shop and Post Office is a seven-day a week job, with long hours and hard manual work.  We were desperately looking forward to the annual two week holiday, which we had come to regard as essential and not a luxury. We set off for Birmingham airport late on the Friday afternoon and after the statutory two and a half hour delay, we took off and arrived in our apartment in Turkey on the Saturday morning about 6 am Turkish time.

      Our holiday really started on Sunday 31st August. After an ‘English’ breakfast by the pool (two small strips of fat, scrambled eggs on toast and a small, brown cylindrical object that vaguely resembled a sausage) we headed for the beach.

      The golden sands and whickered parasols welcomed us and after earnestly plastering our white bodies with sun cream, Susan and I sacrificed ourselves to the blistering sun whilst Simon (our ten-year-old) started tunneling his way to the Greek Islands.

When we heard the woman in the pink bathing costume we both sat up, bolt upright and silent. “She’s dead, I can’t believe it!” she said.

Then she was gone, moving on to spread her shattering news.

    We looked at each other and refused to accept it. “Probably some stupid rumour,” we thought. Shortly afterwards someone else said they’d heard it. Nearby, two middle-aged women were talking to a young man. “Hey John!” said one of the women, “we’ve been laughing at you for posing on the beach with that mobile phone for two weeks now!” she joked. “You better make some use of it and phone home.”

    John hitched up his Adidas shorts, reached into his YSL leather carry bag and produced his Nokia. He phoned home. John confirmed the worst. Diana and Dodi were dead. Killed in a 120 mph car crash whilst being chased by photographers.                                                                                       

     How could this be? We were on holiday under a bright blue sky with the hot Turkish sun beating down upon us. It was surreal. Fruit sellers were meandering up and down the beach. Simon was now playing with his air bed in the calm,  Mediterranean bay.                                                                                         

     I don’t think we said much to each other for the rest of that day. We were totally and utterly stunned. The time went by... brushed by the sun and the Mediterranean breeze, we gradually turned into that first-day puce that is marginally more embarrassing than the arrival virgin white.                                                              

      How are things back home? What should we do about the shop? How are her sons coping? Should we close? Charles will never marry Camilla now. That poor girl. I had an image of Diana dying as she lived, amidst a blaze of flashlights.

      I heard a small choking sound and looked round to see Susan was weeping. Simon was back with us now. “Why are you crying, Mum? Don’t you like your holiday?”  We tried to explain and Simon became very sad and started to cry.

He was too young to understand of course,  he was simply upset because his Mum was crying.

    The next few days passed as we got on with the business of having a holiday, but images of Diana kept flashing through my mind, especially her final moments.                                                                            

    I went jet ski-ing, banana boating and para-sailing with Simon. He even persuaded me to go on a Ringo. For those of you who have got through life without this experience, a ‘Ringo’  is rather like a huge inflatable inner tube that is tied to the back of a speed-boat. You sit in this device, with your bottom immersed in the ocean whilst a high-powered boat rips you through the water at  tremendous speed. I haven’t actually experienced high-speed colonic irrigation but I reckon this was as close as you could get. Still, one of the advantages of being a late father  (I was approaching the dreaded half-century and Simon was just coming up to 10) is that the child was still broadening my experiences. It was tremendous fun but there was a part of me that was always thinking of Diana. 

      Susan’s eyes were permanently red-rimmed. She had abandoned her pointless make-up case.

     The newspapers were a day late so we had to wait for news of the funeral before we could decide what to do about the shop and telephone home to speak to Pat and Jack, our ‘minders’. We were glad we weren’t back home in the terrible atmosphere, yet a part of us felt we should be there to share it. Always mixed feelings, nothing ever black and white.

      Having learned that the funeral was to be on the following Saturday we phoned home and arranged to close the shop. We got through the days until that Saturday, gleaning more information from day-late newspapers and talking to other English people. The Turkish people were always sympathetic, reverent and comforting when speaking to us of the tragedy.                                                                                       

      Saturday came and we had heard that a bar on the sea front had satellite television and they would be televising the funeral. We arrived at 11 am (9 am English time). There were just a few seats left. The blue sky and relentless sun were shaded by huge, canvas awnings that formed loose, flapping ceilings across the open restaurant.                                                        

      The restaurant was called ‘The Brothers Fun Pub’ and seated about 300 people. The tables were dressed in bright green and yellow cloths. This normally cheerful place had an atmosphere of unbelievable sadness. The grief was almost solid; sitting in the air, pressing down upon us. The four large television screens showed the coffin was being placed on the gun carriage as we  took our places amidst the silence. Well, I say silence, but this was coloured by gentle, sniffling, weeping noises from all corners of the restaurant. The procession moved its way towards the Abbey. Prince William and Prince Harry joined the cortège, heads bowed. This sight caused a swell of emotion in the restaurant and the tears flowed. Fortunately for Simon, the bar was right on the beach so he could come and go between playing and returning to check on his Mum.

     By the time the cortège had reached Westminster Abbey the restaurant was full to bursting. People were standing around the perimeter. Plastic chairs had been brought in from the beach and tables squashed together to make more room. The many waiters were scurrying back and forth bringing coffee and drinks.

      Turkish waiters work 15 to 17 hours a day and are paid on a commission-only basis. A really good waiter can earn about £50 a week. The locals call them ‘business smilers’. They are a happy friendly race who love to talk and banter. But not today. With the exception of one waiter, who clearly misread the situation, they were all reverent and respectful.

      The waiter who didn’t understand, started singing ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina,’  thinking he was making a joke. An Englishman approached him slowly and whispered something in his ear and the waiter’s hands instantly went up in a gesture of apology. As the national anthem sounded, everyone stood up spontaneously and the Turks stood still for us.

    So, through the miracle of modern technology, we went to Diana’s funeral.

We were there, in the protective shade of the rippling ceilings. We were there,  surrounded by close friends that we had never met. We were there, in our brightly-coloured T shirts, shorts and open-toed sandals, amidst fluttering table cloths and the strong, bitter smells of coffee and toast.

      Elton John’s heart-rending ‘Candle in the wind’ reduced us all to tears. Earl Spencer’s speech was punctuated by erratic bursts of applause. We stood trembling side by side with the Turks and wept through the minute’s silence. Then it was over.

      The cortège was leaving Westminster and was soon on the motor-way heading towards the burial place. Silence fell on our restaurant. People left quietly, as if leaving the Abbey with  heads bowed and tear-stained cheeks. We stayed a little longer, said goodbye to our waiters and left. We had been to Diana’s funeral in Turkey.

A week after the funeral, on our final night, we found ourselves in another restaurant on the beach front overlooking the bay. The rugged Turkish mountains crumbled their way down to the sea. The jet black sky was pierced by a myriad of diamond splinters, some twinkling. The bay was sheltered by the mountains, there were no clouds and the moon was full, so the sea was a vast, glistening, silver plate. It was a wonderful, moving sight. Peaceful, calm, serene.... a visual memory that I shall always link to Diana, the People’s Princess.

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