I survived an air crash!
Wendy Sharples before the plane crash
Tuesday 4th March 2008
When I saw the photos of the plane crash at Heathrow airport in January, a cold shiver shot down my spine. Those pictures brought back so many horrific memories. Back in August 1985, when I was 13, I walked away from a plane crash that claimed the lives of my sister, Susan, 16, and our parents, Vera, 56, and Ray, 55.
We were flying from Manchester to Corfu for a week's holiday. Susan and I were sitting in the front of the plane, Mum and Dad were at the back. My brothers, Richard, 21, and Alan, 17, hadn't come with us. Richard was travelling in Europe, and Alan was with mates in the Lake District.
We were about to take off when, suddenly, the plane jolted forward, as if we'd hit a brick wall. Flames began to lap up the left wing, then thick, black smoke poured in through the air vents. Within seconds, it was impossible to see. Screams echoed through the darkness as I stumbled my way towards the nearest exit. Staggering out into the fresh air, I gasped for breath.
It sounds strange, but I didn't even think about Mum, Dad or Susan until after I'd been whisked to Wythenshawe Hospital, Manchester, for a check-up. I just assumed they were OK. They'll be here soon, I thought, as I was treated for smoke inhalation.
But a couple of hours later, I was ushered into a small room.
'I'm so sorry,' a doctor said. 'Your mum, dad and sister didn't make it.'
It didn't seem real. They were among 53 passengers and two crew who'd died in the fire, later found to have been caused by an engine fault. I was one of 82 survivors.
'You're one of the lucky ones,' people told me.
I didn't feel lucky when I went back to our four-bedroom house in Sale, Greater Manchester, two days later. Richard had flown back from Italy to look after me, and we were both numb with shock as we went inside.
It felt so cold and empty without Mum, Dad and Susan. Mum's dressing gown still hung on the back of her door, Dad's slippers lay in the hall. But instead of crying, or talking about how we felt, we bottled up our emotions. It wasn't until I went to bed that I broke down.
'I want my mum,' I sobbed to myself.
My memories of the next four months are hazy. Until one night in December, when I came home from school to find Mum's best friend, Pauline Appleby, there.
'Pauline and I have been made your legal guardians,' Richard said gently. 'And we think it's a good idea for you to go to live with Pauline and her family.'
When I arrived at Pauline's home in Sale, I felt like a frightened rabbit. Her husband, Alan, and kids, Stephen, 16, and Helen, 14, did their best to welcome me. But everything felt so strange. I'd gone from having my own room to sharing with Helen. It was only when I went to bed that night that I let myself cry.
A year later, in 1987, I left to go to Denstone College, a boarding school in Staffordshire. When I arrived, the girls crowded round me, asking questions. Get it over with, so you don't have to talk about it again, I thought.
'I'm here because my parents and sister died in a plane crash,' I told them. 'I don't like talking about it.'
Thankfully, no one pushed me for more details.
I was happy there in my new life, not having to talk about my past. Four years later, in 1991, when I went on to the Liverpool Institute of Higher Education to do teacher training, that's how it continued. I'd briefly explain about the crash, then never mention it again. I kept myself as busy as I could.
But each year, on the anniversary, I'd travel back to Brooklands, near Sale, to place flowers on my parents' and sister's graves.I missed Mum, Dad and Susan more than I could ever say. But I was scared that if I let my feelings get the better of me, I'd break down crying and never stop. So I made sure my life was hectic.
After finishing college in 1995, I got a job in sales at Shell, and began an evening course in interior design at South Trafford College. For three years, my life was so busy, I didn't have time to stop and think, let alone get close to anyone. But then, in September 2000, I got chatting to Ian Sharples, 28, at a friend's birthday party. At the end of the evening, we kissed and swapped numbers.
As we started seeing more of each other, I knew it was only a matter of time before we'd have to have the inevitable conversation.So, a few weeks later, at my home, I just came out with it.
'I ought to tell you my parents aren't around any more,' I said. 'They were killed, along with my sister, in a plane crash.'
'I'm so sorry,' Ian said, sadly.
'But I really don't like talking about it,' I added.
'OK,' Ian said.
And that was that. He didn't probe any further — and that's what I loved about him.
Four months later, in January 2001, he moved in with me. Suddenly, everything felt right. We both wanted children. So, that October, when I found out I was pregnant, we were over the moon. But, as my bump grew, my happiness was tinged with sadness.
'Are you OK?' Ian asked one night, as I sat stroking my bump.
'I just wish Mum could be here,'
I whispered, blinking back the tears. 'It's so unfair she's not going to meet her grandchild.'
'I know,' Ian said, hugging me.
But I had to be strong, for the baby's sake. And, seven months later, on 7 August 2002, Ian was by my side as I gave birth to our son, George, at Wythenshawe Hospital.
'He's gorgeous,' I whispered, as I held him for the first time.
But back home with George, I missed Mum more than ever. Three weeks later, as the
17th anniversary of the crash approached, I felt miserable. Maybe it was my hormones or the sleepless nights affecting me, but I became teary and terrified about how I'd cope. Finally, 22 August 2002 arrived. I was pottering around at home, trying not to think about what had happened 17 years earlier, when I got a phone call.
It was an old school friend, Sam Ban-Murray, 29.
'I've just given birth to a baby girl,' she babbled, excitedly. 'I'm going to call her Georgia.'
My face broke into a smile.
'But you weren't due for another two weeks,' I said.
'I know,' Sam replied. 'She obviously couldn't wait.'
As I put down the phone, I burst into tears. This time, they were happy ones. After years of dreading this day, now I had a reason to be positive. It was a real turning point. And things just got better when, four months later, on 21 December, Ian and I got married at Trafford Register Office.
The following year, I didn't feel the need to visit the graves on the anniversary of the crash. It wasn't that I didn't care. But now I had my own family and, for their sake, I had to move on. I've not been back since.
Now, 22 years have passed since the crash, and I have two more children, Harriet, 3, and Henry, 1. Recently, I told George, now 5, all about his grandparents.
'They're not here any more,' I explained. 'But they would have loved you very much.'
'OK, Mummy,' he said. 'Are they in heaven?'
I nodded. One day, I'll tell the kids about the accident. But right now, I'm just getting on with life as a mum. I know that's what Mum, Dad and Susan would have wanted.
For more great real life, have a look at these stories from the Pick Me Up Story Library:
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