FOR US THERE'S NO EARLY RELEASE
For us, there's no early release'
Reports: PAULINE REYNOLDS
FIRST thing Stanley McCombe will see when he wakes this morning, is a framed photo of his darling wife, Ann, alongside her treasured Bible.
He will focus on his bedside table, and the two precious reminders of the love of his life.
It's how he has awoken every day for the past 12 months. But today has a special poignancy.
Exactly a year ago, a barbaric car bomb ripped apart the centre of Omagh, and tore Stanley's heart to pieces.
He lost his devoted wife; his best friend; his soulmate.
Their sons, Colan (19), and Clive (23), are left without the love of a wonderful mum.
Fighting tears, he says: "It's like there's a big space in my life, and I cant go round it, and I can't get through it. Ann was perfect: a beautiful, unique person."
The family home, at Summerhill Park, is filled with reminders. Things are just as she left them.
In the bedroom, her clothes hang in the wardrobe. Jewellery, and other personal bits and pieces, are where she put them.
The front room - Ann's "good room" - also remains exactly the same, with her own special touches. Little personal mementos, gathered over the years, are only moved to be dusted. On a table, in the comer, is a cluster of family photographs, tracing three generations. Her "special corner", Stanley calls it. They were lovingly arranged, as only Ann could.
Stanley, with a gentleness in his voice, calls her "the manager", and says: "My Ann took control of everything. But now I'm lost without her. I'll be in the kitchen at teatime, and I'll look towards the door, just waiting, and hoping. But I know she'll never walk in."
Ann, 39, died in the carnage, along with pals, and workmates. Sometimes Stanley visits the bomb site, to spend a few quiet moments. This afternoon, he will attend a memorial service at Mountjoy Church, where Ann was a choir member. Later, the family will visit her grave in their own private tribute.
He no longer does the things they enjoyed as a couple. The Sunday walk after church, or in the evening, has stopped. There are no more days out to Donegal, Ann's beloved home county. For Stanley, Christmas, and the New Year, are just two more dates in the calender.
And the grieving goes on: tinged with bitterness for those who planted a bomb in that street full of shoppers; fuelled by anger at politicians, and the fact decomissioning is no nearer; exasperated because no one has been brought to justice.
And Stanley continues to suffer: "For us, life means life. There's no early release."
Reports: PAULINE REYNOLDS
FIRST thing Stanley McCombe will see when he wakes this morning, is a framed photo of his darling wife, Ann, alongside her treasured Bible.
He will focus on his bedside table, and the two precious reminders of the love of his life.
It's how he has awoken every day for the past 12 months. But today has a special poignancy.
Exactly a year ago, a barbaric car bomb ripped apart the centre of Omagh, and tore Stanley's heart to pieces.
He lost his devoted wife; his best friend; his soulmate.
Their sons, Colan (19), and Clive (23), are left without the love of a wonderful mum.
Fighting tears, he says: "It's like there's a big space in my life, and I cant go round it, and I can't get through it. Ann was perfect: a beautiful, unique person."
The family home, at Summerhill Park, is filled with reminders. Things are just as she left them.
In the bedroom, her clothes hang in the wardrobe. Jewellery, and other personal bits and pieces, are where she put them.
The front room - Ann's "good room" - also remains exactly the same, with her own special touches. Little personal mementos, gathered over the years, are only moved to be dusted. On a table, in the comer, is a cluster of family photographs, tracing three generations. Her "special corner", Stanley calls it. They were lovingly arranged, as only Ann could.
Stanley, with a gentleness in his voice, calls her "the manager", and says: "My Ann took control of everything. But now I'm lost without her. I'll be in the kitchen at teatime, and I'll look towards the door, just waiting, and hoping. But I know she'll never walk in."
Ann, 39, died in the carnage, along with pals, and workmates. Sometimes Stanley visits the bomb site, to spend a few quiet moments. This afternoon, he will attend a memorial service at Mountjoy Church, where Ann was a choir member. Later, the family will visit her grave in their own private tribute.
He no longer does the things they enjoyed as a couple. The Sunday walk after church, or in the evening, has stopped. There are no more days out to Donegal, Ann's beloved home county. For Stanley, Christmas, and the New Year, are just two more dates in the calender.
And the grieving goes on: tinged with bitterness for those who planted a bomb in that street full of shoppers; fuelled by anger at politicians, and the fact decomissioning is no nearer; exasperated because no one has been brought to justice.
And Stanley continues to suffer: "For us, life means life. There's no early release."
Further Information
Publisher: SUNDAY LIFE
Ref: SL/099
Published Date: 15-Aug-99
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