In 2004, around the same time as me, the Beachy Head Chaplaincy Team began their mission. Their Frontline Team patrol the cliffs for around 100 hours a week, and their aims are the same as mine. The difference between the chaplains and myself was that I wasn’t part of an organisation – the chaplains are a church-based group with volunteers coming from various churches in the area – and I didn’t wear a uniform or drive a marked van. Additionally, I wasn’t funded. Not major differences, for sure, and we certainly had one thing in common – the desire to stop people dying up at Beachy Head.
The team is funded primarily by contributions from the public and before the Maggie Lane Trust had officially got going I gave the chaplains a considerable sum of money to help them keep going. At the time they were short of funds, and were very grateful for the £500 that I donated from Maggie’s fund.
In the early days of my patrols, my relationship with the chaplains was very amicable – none of us had a problem with each other. It’s always been my thinking that it doesn’t matter who’s saving lives – the chaplains, the police, the coastguard, me, a local dog walker or Father Christmas – so long as they are being saved. I assumed that all of the chaplains felt the same way. Over time, I would learn that I was wrong.
Most of the chaplains I met on patrol up at the edge were wonderful, kind-hearted people. However, over time it became apparent to me that certain chaplains did not like my presence at Beachy Head one bit. Much to my regret, it was around the beginning of 2006 that my previously good relationship with them began to deteriorate.
Things fell apart slowly – as relationships often do. Certain chaplains became increasingly agitated about the press coverage I was getting for my work. I pointed out that a media blackout at San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge – as much a suicide hotspot as Beachy Head – hadn’t affected suicide figures one jot. I also drew attention to the fact that yearly figures have fluctuated since records began and that they actually went down during some of the time that I was patrolling. Furthermore, I don’t recall anyone up at Beachy Head being talked down and announcing that it was Keith Lane who had drawn them there in the first place. Still, my arguments made no difference to the way some chaplains felt about me. It seemed as if they considered me more of a hindrance than a help, although I couldn’t work out why. I was saving people, after all. Wasn’t that the point?
One day I was talking to a chaplain up at the Head. He told me that he felt it was his – and the other chaplains’ – God-given right to be up there. According to him, it was them, and only them, who should be up there saving people. Since I’d been helping to fund them, I found this hard to take. But I let it pass, feeling that the matter was too trivial to bother getting into an argument about. I wondered if there was an element of jealousy involved – the media were approaching me left, right and centre. I only agreed to interviews to help my campaign for 24-hour cover and to raise money for the Maggie Lane Trust. As time passed, I began to get the feeling that not everybody thought that my patrols were helpful.
A big search was on. A girl who’d been placed in mental care had gone missing. I was on my usual patrol and, bumping into one of the chaplains, I asked him if I could help in any way. We were up at Shooters Hill, an area near Beachy Head, and he said he’d be grateful for my assistance. As we spoke, he received a radio call. Afterwards, he suggested we went in opposite directions along the cliff. Accordingly, I started walking up the hill. However, when I looked around to check on his progress, I saw the chaplain running back to his car and driving off.
I went back to my car and drove after the chaplain. As I came close to Beachy Head, I could see the police and the chaplain’s van. They’d found the woman and had begun the process of trying to talk her down. I parked up and walked towards them.
There were three or four police officers, some coastguards, and a few chaplains – around 15 people in all – maintaining a safe distance from the girl. They have to remain at a certain distance for Health and Safety reasons. If the coastguards want to get closer, they have to be harnessed up.
As I came closer a policeman stopped me. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said suspiciously.
‘I’ve been helping the chaplains with the search,’ I answered. ‘Please let me approach…’
‘Stay where you are,’ he interrupted. ‘We are the professionals, not you.’
I didn’t object. I offered to help if they needed me. But at the same time I felt it sad that I was not allowed to approach the woman. Professionals they may all have been, but they were restricted by rules and regulations that didn’t apply to me. I was always free to approach whoever I wanted, to get as close as I wanted, and being close to people seemed to work for me. In addition to this, as far as I was aware, none of the people present had lost people to suicide. Sure, I didn’t have professional qualifications, but I did have experience, and it made it easy for me to empathise with troubled people up at the Head – people tended to trust me because I wasn’t a figure of authority, I was just a guy who’d lost his wife. I don’t think I’m better than anyone, but it hurt a little to be dismissed so casually. I really wanted to help.
‘If you really want to be useful,’ the policeman said, ‘you can help my officers form a cordon to stop passers-by from trying to look.’
Fair enough. I joined the cordon.
The rescue was taking a long time. The coastguards, the police and the chaplains were all getting harnessed up so that they could inch towards the girl. I could see exactly what was happening and, from my point of view, this was not a good rescue. I felt that the presence of so many people would be intimidating for the woman at the edge.
It was a bitterly cold day. One of the policemen walked to the Beachy Head pub and came back with a tray full of teas and coffees to keep people buoyed up and warm. He passed one to everyone involved in the rescue, and then handed the rest out to everyone involved in forming the cordon. But he didn’t hand one to me.
Oh well, I thought, Perhaps he’s miscounted. While everyone stood around warming themselves up with their drinks, I kept receiving the odd glance. Then a few people started sniggering and laughing. It didn’t take a genius to work out what they found so funny. They were amused that I was the only one without a drink. Their behaviour was petty and pathetic, but there’s no point in denying that it really hurt.
A few people were making it very clear that they didn’t want me around. I knew that I wasn’t welcome, so I simply walked away from the cliff and drove off.
I reflected on that incident for quite a while. I felt humiliated and let down. The coastguard who had ended up grabbing the girl won an award because he nearly fell, even though he was harnessed up. I firmly believe that with fewer people around and a little more patience and talking, the girl could have been talked down without any trauma. It’s when Health and Safety raises its ugly head that common sense goes out of the window.
I was no longer wanted and it didn’t feel good but nothing was going to stop me patrolling – not even missing out on a cuppa!
In spite of that unpleasantness, I was in love and happy again. Under the supervision of the doctor, and with Val’s tremendous support, I managed to come off Prozac and start living as the old Keith once more. I didn’t want the pills any longer. I wanted reality – and I couldn’t wait for Val to become my wife.