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ALWAYS AN EARLY RISER, Murdo looked out of the open window at the horizontal rain and decided that he would write that letter. Heading it ‘Bridge Cottage, Achmore, Disnaeland’, he continued: ‘Dear Sir, I am writing from Disnaeland because it seems that, down here, we disnae matter…’
At that point he was interrupted. It was the noise. Not the sickening scream of the brakes, nor the horrendous bang, nor the screech as bus metal scraped along road metal, but the haunting splashes as objects went into the river. Then silence.
Two vehicles had collided on the bridge. But it was not just a collision between vehicles, but between people, systems, and cultures. And yet a collision which, in a strange way, brought them together, in grief, in guilt, and in a groping, a gasping for help.

* * * *

Being a land of mountains and lochs Scotland has many rivers.  Key to the transport system is the provision of bridges by such transport heroes as Telford and Wade, who had inspired the ditty

“if you had seen the roads before they were made

you would lift up your hands and bless General Wade”.

It is a tribute to their skill that their bridges carry loads of up to 44 tons, somewhat in excess of the horse drawn carts of their day!  But there are concerns.  To ensure progress, some bridges were demolished, like the impressive one over the Ness below the castle in Inverness.  Others have been kept, like Wade’s Bridge in Aberfeldy, but from time to time they required repair – sometimes major, sometimes minor like pointing.

There had been long arguments about whether Achmore Bridge should be removed and replaced on its present site, be restored and kept in repair, or be bypassed altogether as part of a redesigning of the traffic flow round Achmore.  There was pressure on the one hand from those with a vested interest in the development of wind farms, and on the other hand from the Heritage Society which was currently focussed with whether the Bridge had a hollow chamber construction like the one over the Tay in Perth, something which could be ascertained only by the use of a sophisticated kind of x-ray probing involving road restrictions. Just recently, a very temporary set of traffic lights had been installed on the bridge to enable investigations to be carried out on the south side of its crest. 

The uncertainty about the bridge was causing a planning blight leading to tension between the increasing number of outdoor activity businesses bringing large groups of central belt folk for ‘white knuckle’ experiences, and the local authority - divided in itself between the Roads and the Planning & Development departments.  Meanwhile, the activity enterprises, with their ‘cool dude’ instructors, were cashing in on a new and expanding ‘stag and hen weekend party’ market.   On these there were many - increasingly rowdy - high jinks by people artificially high, but the police had not had much success in determining whether the drugs were reaching Achmore by road or by sea. 

“Taking a flyer” was the longstanding system whereby the police board saved money by tacitly encouraging operational staff to take time off at normally quiet periods rather than by claiming overtime, or days off in lieu, for the many occasions when rural policemen did not finish shifts in time.  It was assumed that others would cover, in the confidence that the next shift would soon be arriving to get changed and briefed.  Many appreciated it when coming off night shift, as it gave them extra time to get some kip, and ensured that they were not kept late by something coming in at the last minute, especially on a Saturday.  

This Saturday it was agreed that while his colleague “took the flyer”, PC Hamish MacSween would do the “night mail”, for it was the responsibility of the night shift to take the week’s confidential paper work up to headquarters 45 miles away.  The other two members of the shift were off - one because of prolonged, needlessly-repeated court appearances, the other on yet another course on new procedures.

If the police were having a quiet night, the same could not be said about the ambulance service.  With the increasing centralisation of A&E and maternity services, the turn around time for each job was taking longer, with the result that wagons were away from base for a longer spell.  Apparently, statistics indicated that the need for two ambulances at the same time was unlikely to occur at night, and no action was taken in response to further protests when the mini-casualty in the local cottage hospital was downgraded because of the new NHS24 cover replacing the GPs who previously provided 24/7 cover.  

That night there had been a maternity case and an NHS24 referral to neurosurgery at roughly the same time.  The controller had sent the local ambulance to the maternity case, because at least they would know how to get to the isolated farm, and called in the wagon from the next depot for the referral.

Both local doctors were also enjoying a sleep, now guaranteed by NHS24.  It was a bit of an embarrassment to Dr John Clark, the newly qualified junior partner, whose long-serving predecessor had been held in the highest regard by everyone. 

As it happens, the new and retired doctors agreed, both feeling that restricting GPs to Monday - Friday 8am-6pm was not the conscientious caring for the whole person which was the reason they entered medicine. Convenience medicine versus conscientious medicine was the slogan bandied back and forward.  But, when it came to decision making, the practice was represented by the present senior partner who entered into the new arrangement.  He was concerned by the statistics of the large number of rural practices - apparently some 40% of which when vacant – were obliged to ‘make do with locums’ for over a year because it had not been possible to obtain the services of a suitably qualified GP when it was known that this included “out of hours” cover. 

Personally, Dr John felt that doctors were entitled to have time off at nights and weekends to go with his family skiing in winter and sailing in the summer.  But he also set aside one evening a week to keep up-to-date with the BMJ, and to surf the internet for some of the conditions which patients, clutching sheaves of printouts, reported in terms which indicated they had beaten him to it.

The fire service, too, was having occasional problems.  With fewer folk working locally, and fewer firms being willing to release men from work, it was difficult to recruit members. Traditionally garages had been a main source for a retained crew. However, with the system of franchises run by the large manufacturers and ‘Motor Miles’ in large towns attracting people to cut-price vehicles, in small communities there were no longer profits from vehicle sales.  Servicing was less frequent, usually just obtaining replacement parts, and sophisticated self-serve pumps could be operated by any shop assistant.  

Recently there had been occasions when there had not been the minimum of four crew members necessary for the wheels to roll.  However, those who were in the Achmore unit had great spirit and were trying to negotiate with an understanding fire master so that they could roll with three, provided that the next unit was already mobile with five.  The problem was usually during the working day, but as several were in the local football team, if it was playing away, Saturday mornings could be “a little dodgy”, as they put it, especially during illness or the holiday period.

The lifeboat service was also dependant on the availability of a crew.  Once upon a time education authorities like Caithness were glad to have members of staff leave their chalk and the teachers’ car park in a cloud of blue smoke from burning tyres as they raced to the shed and threw on oilskins as the boat went down the slip.  They recognised that these would be the “hero figures” whose example inspired local youth.  But given the addition of the occasional weekend sailor, early Saturday morning was a good time for folk to get kitted out in the latest gear when a shout came.  Although coastguard control, like everything else, was centralised, Achmore was fortunate in maintaining its proud tradition of lifeboat service. And, being voluntary, although it aimed at the highest standards, they did not have to wait until the weight of the necessary paperwork equalled the tonnage of the boat before it could be launched.

* * * *

Years of practice from answering shouts to the lifeboat ensured that Murdo was out of the house with his boots on in a few brief seconds.  As he crested the bridge, ahead of him was a confused scene of devastation.  A crushed minibus was on its side hanging over the edge of the bridge, trapped against the pillar by the wood lorry.  As he got closer, he realised that it was the school minibus, and it flashed through his mind that his own son’s lassie had been going on the overnight trip to Alton Towers. 

Dialling as he ran,  beyond the logs protruding over the side of the crumbled parapet against which the minibus was jammed,  Murdo saw two figures, one of them a boy trying to hold someone’s head above the raging water which was sweeping them down the last stretch of the river towards the sea. Years of practice, too, ensured that the necessary information was passed quickly:  “Police….RTA Achmore Bridge.  Multiple casualties. All services required. Inform coastguard for Achmore inshore lifeboat people being swept down river…” 

He was interrupted by a muffled groan and, as his eyes were becoming more accustomed to the gloom, he saw the outline of a figure seemingly balanced on the sprayed logs. As the figure seemed to stir, gingerly Murdo eased himself over the logs which were on the inside of the parapet, and as the danger of overbalancing seemed to be becoming acute, grabbed some clothing to prevent the otherwise inevitable fall.  Managing to secure a grip he realised that the clothing had got trapped on the end of the log, and that there was nothing more he could do except wait.  He waited.  

The siren was not needed to clear the empty road, but hearing it would reassure anyone enduring the seemingly endless wait for help that the ambulance was on its way.  Unfortunately, it could not be heard over 40 miles away.

The inshore boat was launched within 3 minutes, and headed over “the flats” to the point where the muddy brown water indicted the mouth of the river. Less than a minute later the “big boat” rumbled down the slip. It would not be able to go near “the flats” but, if the inshore boat was not in time to get to the casualties before they were swept into the open sea, the more powerful searchlights higher up would be helpful. 

In spite of the wet roads, the rapid response traffic car would take 38 screaming minutes to cover the 45 miles, hurtling along the fast lane of the dual carriageway at 120mph and then, trusting that there would be no deer on the last dozen tortuous miles, would overtake the lesser-powered Police Range Rover with a few desperate miles still to go. 

Meantime Murdo waited.

At the fire station the three retained crew also waited … in utter frustration. Regulations insisted that four was the minimum crew with which an appliance could leave its station, and the negotiations to leave with 3three had been dragging.  The fact that there was a full time fireman staying down the street made no difference, because regulations stated that an appliance could not have a mix of full time and retained men.

Murdo still waited, arms aching, heart throbbing, for he realised that the figure was his grand daughter.

One of the people who “got the shout” for the lifeboat was Lachie MacDonald, the local parish minister, who was chaplain to the lifeboat. Hearing the location of the problem, he floored his accelerator for the mile to the bridge, and was soon assessing the situation.  While there were obviously numerous casualties requiring help, the most immediate issue was how to help Murdo prevent another splash in the river. 

Dialling the operations room he queried the non appearance of any emergency service and, as he gingerly crawled alongside Murdo, muttered bitterly that the earliest ETA was still some time away.  Once the minister had got a grip of the precious load so precariously balanced, Murdo ran back to the old cottage. As he ran he noticed that the flashing blue light bobbing up and down in the water at the river mouth was starting to move back towards the harbour, though he was not to know that the radio had crackled “One rescued, one recovered”. A few minutes later it was a breathless Murdo who returned with the stack yard ladder and a rope.  Securing one end of the ladder with a rope he asked Rev Lachie to hold it firm while he crawled along it and, as the nearing siren echoed hauntingly round the hills of the Strath, slowly disentangled the girl from the logs where she had been hanging over the river. 

In Achmore word had got round that it was the school minibus. A couple of boys who were not needed for either boat had followed the minister out to the bridge and were attending to others still in the minibus, although too late for two of the pupils. 

Eventually, the Firies decided to ignore regulations and turned out with a mixed crew.  There were therefore now plenty willing hands to take the weight as the girl was disentangled from her precarious perch,  but when finally she was eased back along the ladder to safety it was Murdo who hit the deck grasping his chest. 

* * * *

A week later PC Hamish popped in again to the manse and, sharing his usual coffee with Rev Lachie in the study, chatted over the traffic arrangements for the funerals.   Three times in Achmore Parish Church the community would stand as, one by one, the coffins of the pupils would be carried out at the end of the joint service, the awesome silence being broken by a CD playing the old negro spiritual “Nobody knows the troubles, I’ve seen, nobody knows but Jesus”.  Then the three hearses would move slowly through lined streets to the cemetery where the lone piper would play “Amazing Grace”.  The streets would be lined again the next day when, for the first time in years, Murdo’s pew would be left empty, the poignancy of the lifeboat crew carrying the coffin accentuating the fact that the last life he had saved was that of his own granddaughter.

“Little had I realized, when I spoke to S4 about donor cards, that the message would have operational relevance so soon,” said Lachie, thinking aloud.   Taking time to marshall his thoughts after an emotionally draining week, Hamish replied, “Nor I. You know, I had been speaking to S1 and S2 about the danger of taking drugs at all and, when I saw Murdo’s granddaughter in the hospital today, she told me that this has ensured that she will never experiment.”

“Aye,” mused Lachie, “that’s one good thing to come out of it.  Murdo would have been pleased.”

 “Indeed he would.”  Hamish paused, “I thought that you’d like to know that it’s confirmed that the red light on the north side of the bridge - and the temporary signs on the road - had been scattered by a stoned minibus driver.  The young idiot can’t recollect anything of his journey. The timber lorry driver wouldn’t have had a clue that he should have stopped at the bridge.  Three young lives – and that of poor Murdie who worked hard all his life – snuffed out by thrill seeking.” 

He paused again, for thought and another mouthful of coffee.  “And there’s another thing.   I hear, unofficially, that later on there will be an inquiry.”

“To get you a higher powered Range Rover?” teased Lachie, in the pattern of the black humour that those dealing with emergencies use to ease the tension.  “But seriously, yes, a fatal accident inquiry could highlight a lot of issues. The voluntary system still operating at a local level by the RNLI fairly showed up those who are strangling us with centrally-biased regulations … regulations which don’t work - instead of relationships which do.  Dr John is terribly upset that he knew nothing about it until it was all over.”

“I don’t know whether he would have been in time to help Murdo,” the PC spoke wistfully.  He paused, then went on, “You knew that Murdie was writing a letter about the horrors of centralisation just before he died?   Headed it ‘Disnaeland’ because we disnae matter here.”  

“Aye,” concluded Rev Lachie, “It’s an almighty good job that there is no Disnaeland with my Boss.”

by Sandy Gunn

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