Guilt that clouds my memories

12:43pm Friday 16th May 2008

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David Pendleton, curator of Bradford City's museum, bantamspast, was at Valley Parade when the main stand was devastated by the fire in which 56 people perished. At the memorial service in Centenary Square 23 years later he found himself struggling once again with his feelings about that fateful day.

Only the comings and goings of the buses disturbed the sunny Sunday morning. A row of empty microphones stood in front of the memorial, reminding us of those who never made it back from the match.

The long robes of the clergy and glittering chains of civic office were placed at the centre of the crowd. Alongside, a mix of sombre suits of mourning and vivid claret and amber shirts.

Towering above the crowd was David Wetherall. We are used to cheering Wethers heading the ball away among a mass of bodies. In striking contrast, here he was standing silent and still.

In the crowd of familiar faces there's noticeably more greying hair. Our tragedy, one of the great landmarks in the story of Bradford, is slowly but steadily slipping away. I glanced across at the memorial to the Bradford Pals and wondered whether one day our memorial will be bereft of mourners?

I thought of the gatherings that must have taken place in the wake of the Great War. For the widows, mothers, sisters and daughters, their thoughts will have been of individuals, snapshots of a life, an expression, a saying or a happy occasion. For the veterans, very different memories of agony and death.

And like so many before me, my thoughts turned away from the ceremony and back 23 years to a bright and sunny Valley Parade.

The laughter that turned to horror within a few blurred minutes. The destruction so rapid, so absolute that there was barely time to realise the human consequences. Thousands looked on in helpless disbelief, and though there were acts of extreme heroism, 56 fans died and many hundreds more were injured.

At the ceremony were many who weren't at the match, but whose loss and pain leaves me with a mix of guilt and shame. The guilt of the survivor and the shame that my memories are but nothing compared to the grief of those who lost a loved one.

Slowly at first people come forward to place their flowers. Some stop to find the name of a loved one. They touch the name, closing the gap between the living and the dead. A brief moment of public grief and a sharp reminder that the aftermath of the fire is yet to run its course.

And so, once again, we heard the litany of prayers and hushed tones. The bells rang out from City Hall and we melted away, leaving the ghosts of May 11, 1985, at peace for another 12 months.