Formal warning this is so sad so utterly horrible that it might traumatise you. It makes me cry as I write it.
In a number of previous posts I have referred to man called Chris Jones. ‘CD’ to all who knew him well. He was short in stature, perhaps 5 feet six inches tall. He wore thick black glasses and he smoked, a lot. In his teenage years he had been a superb athlete and was he gained national honours in the ‘half mile’ as well as being a fine 440 yards specialist. (no metric then). He was without detractors as he was honest and open. He loved a pint, sometimes many. He was generous.
Chris and I had attended the same primary school although I did not know him there. On my first day at Birkenhead School Chris (the only other boy to gain entry in the recent years) was waiting to welcome me and provide words of support. He became a school prefect and was the top athlete and when ever he saw me around school he would stop, enquire as to my progress and offer some words of support.-More like the best older brother in those days rather than a friend. He went to Cambridge then into the City. On my first day on the London Stock Exchange Chris was there to welcome me and offer words of support. A number of years later I worked for the same firm as him-maybe he had something to do with it but he always said it was coincidence. He was by this time a ‘senior man’ but he always encouraged and supported me. He was my ‘second’ when I walked from London to Brighton and he sang me home from his ridiculously uncomfortable collapsable bike.
Year later I moved with my family to the USA and on our first night in Connecticut the phone rang. It was Chris. He too had moved to the US and he had two daughters with his lovely wife Sue, one a very talented soccer player who had had USA trials. Chris lived on Long Island across the ‘Sound’. ‘We insist you come to us for Christmas’ Chris said. A few weeks later we went and we were made to feel most welcome and Sue and Chris coached us in all the things a Brit needs to know about the real USA. Over the next few years I would often meet with Chris and we would have beers and chew the fat. Now a firm friend I had great pleasure in introducing him to my colleagues and the like. No one could be more popular. We had a sailing boat called ‘Tenacity” (part of another tale). We would cross Long Island Sound moor up and meet with CD and family for a barbecue.
There was one building in New YorkI hated. I had a very good client who worked there and I used to beg him to meet me in the lobby rather than take the elevator to the ‘sky lobby’ before changing for the top 20 floors or so. My client worked on the 101st floor. I did not like watching the helicopters flying below the building and still less the planes on final approach to la Guardia. The building was called the World Trade Centre and another person I knew well worked there too. On the 105th floor. Chris Jones.
When the jet struck, back in the UK, I was sitting in my office in Northleigh Devon. I made my money in those days by trading fairly actively on the Stock Exchange. The events of that day caused markets to fall sharply I was alarmed. Over the next few hours I watched the whole dammed catastrophe play out and inked in my mind very very clearly is the image of those who chose to jump rather than burn to death.
It was exactly one year later that I heard the news. The first anniversary of the horrific day and the names of the dead were read out. Back in the City of London, in a large dealing room, traders watched in respectful silence. The name of CD Jones was read out and a close friend of mine was instantly alarmed and did some research. It confirmed that CD Jones was CD, he had perished. A phone call gave me the horrific news.
Apparently his wife and family were so devastated they moved away. I contacted other members of Chris’s family but they did not want to discuss the matter. It was closed.
Chris had been on the in-house intercom to his London office describing the horror unfolding. With flames licking around him he jumped. He was identified by a print taken from what was left of one of his feet.
I cannot ever begin to rationalise this event. Others will have similar experiences to digest I know. Several years later Liz and I flew to New York and visited ground zero. We looked at Chris’s name on the memorial and I sobbed. I so wish I could have some how contacted his wife but it was not meant to be.
Of all the people that were ‘there for me’ Chris was at the very top of the list. Thank you.
Tales of a Life Well Lived 