My cheeky Charlie
Dear Charlie,
Pulling out a trolley at my local Morrisons, I slid you into the child’s seat ready to push you round the supermarket with my daughter, Georgia, five. But your chubby little leg went the wrong way and got stuck in between the bars.
After a few tries at freeing you, we ended up calling a member of staff for help.
‘My baby’s leg is stuck,’ I fretted, panicking now.
A crowd gathered round as the store manager showed up with a bottle of olive oil. You sat there calmly as he poured it over your leg and we gave you another tug… You were free!
We often had a good laugh over that, didn’t we Charlie? Even then, aged just 10 months, you were accident prone. And that never changed. You were a fun, cheeky boy – a real danger magnet! Whether it was going one step nearer the edge of the cliff on holiday in Cornwall or walking on top of the monkey bars in the park, you always pushed the boundaries. ‘Back again?’ the nurses at our local A&E would chuckle, as we’d rush you in for the umpteenth time, with a broken arm.
You and the lad next door had built a makeshift ramp for your scooters and you’d gone flying off the edge. Even at school you were a ducker and a diver. Our cheeky Charlie we called you. You’d buy packs of chewing gum which you’d split and sell on to your friends for 50p each. You dreamt of running your own business one day, following in the footsteps of your dad, Keith, who was a plasterer. We’d split when you were little but you were still very close.
You didn’t always do what you were told and were a bit like Marmite to the teachers.
You didn’t take authority well at home, either. One night, during lockdown, in January 2021, it was 7pm when I caught you cracking open another energy drink. ‘You can’t have that now, you won’t want to go to bed,’ I told you.
Like many gamers your age, you drank them so you could stay up all night playing the Xbox. But I wanted you up at a normal time the following day to do your schoolwork. ‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ you shouted. Grabbing your coat, you ran out of the front door, leaving your phone behind.
I went after you, but you’d already vanished from view. It was bitterly cold out and I was soon beside myself with worry when you didn’t come home. Keith and I drove up and down the streets looking for you in parks and at friends’ houses but there was no sign of you.
‘Let’s put something up on Facebook,’ Keith suggested. ‘Please help find my 16-yearold son Charlie. We had an argument and he’s been missing since 7pm!’ I wrote.
The post exploded. Soon there were thousands of people in our home town of Tamworth, Staffordshire, pacing the streets
with torches. But there was still no sign of you.
Finally, at 10.30pm, one of your friends’ parents called. ‘He’s here with my son,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘He was in a wooded area by your house.’ ‘Thank God,’ I sighed. We rushed over there and flung our arms around you. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ you mumbled.
That night, Keith and I set you some boundaries. We agreed a bedtime of no later than 10pm and you promised to keep your room tidy and stay off the computer console until your schoolwork was done.
It seemed to work and you really made an effort at home. I was so proud of you.
Then on 27th December 2021, you’d just come back from your dad’s house when you gave me and your little brother, Teddy, now two, a massive hug. ‘I’m going out, Mum,’ you said. ‘Is there any point, it’s your curfew in two hours?’ I said. But you insisted on it and off you went.
A while later, you texted asking if your two friends could stay the night at ours. I was tired so we agreed you could have just the one pal, Joe, over. ‘No sneaking out of the house,’ I told you both firmly, when you arrived home.
When I switched out the lights downstairs at 10.30pm, I could hear you and Joe playing video games in your bedroom. I was soon fast asleep.
At 5am, I got up to go to the loo and checked my phone. There were two text messages and two missed calls from Joe’s dad. ‘The boys snuck out again and Charlie had a fall,’ one said. ‘They’re at the warehouse down the road.’
‘Not again,’ I thought, calling him back. The line was awful and I could barely hear Joe’s dad as he said, ‘It’s not looking good.’ What on earth did that mean?
Calling Keith, we arranged to meet at the warehouse. But as I pulled on my shoes, a police car pulled up outside. I felt sick. ‘We’re really sorry but there’s been an accident,’ one began. ‘Charlie has died.’
I collapsed, their voices drowned out by my screaming.
The hours that followed were just one big blur as a police officer who had been at the scene came to see us later that morning. She explained that you and Joe had climbed on top of the warehouse to watch the sunrise but after realising dawn was still a few hours away, you got bored and decided to come home. As you stood up to leave, you’d slipped and fallen through the roof. You died instantly from a major head trauma.
I felt numb with grief. And it wasn’t just me – Joe, Keith, your siblings, other friends, teachers, neighbours… the whole town was utterly devastated. I couldn’t believe my cheeky Charlie had gone.
Three days later, 400 people gathered in the park to release balloons in your memory and four weeks after that we buried you in your Christmas present, a Trapstar jacket you’d been so excited about getting.
We are slowly trying to come to terms with what’s happened, but it is impossible.
The only thing that keeps me going is the belief you’re watching over us. I’ve set up an organisation called Charlie’s Wings to help troubled young people with guidance, training and access to therapies. All I can hope is that something positive can come out of this tragedy.
I love you with all my heart, be good up there.
Mum xx
You didn’t always do what you were told