On Tuesday, September 19, 2023, I wrote a Substack piece about the week’s big story, Russell Brand, and (according to my texts) sent a message to my oldest son, Jackson, at 5:38 PM: I posted my Substack.
He knew I had been writing most of the afternoon and the message came back quickly with a heart emoji attached to it. Actually lazy of both of us, because he was only sitting on the other side of the wall that separates my home office from the living room where he was sitting, typically multitasking: watching the large TV on the wall, with his laptop on his knees and phone in his hand. A few minutes later, as I was cleaning up my digital desktop, I heard a muffled “Mom!”, so I got up and went inside.
‘YEP?’
‘I think this is probably a very good piece, but what exactly are you saying about Brand? I mean, I went through it! I should probably read it right, right?’
“Over to you, always interested to hear your opinion, but maybe read one thing at a time?!”
‘Yes, yes, I’ll read it again. Look, I’m going out soon to meet the boys. But first I’m going to make a burger.’
“There’s a stupid beer in the fridge in the garage, if you want it. I’m going to do some more work. Don’t forget I’m going to Cornwall tomorrow and leaving early.’
“Ah, so you want me to come back from the flat first and say goodbye?”
Jackson at his graduation from Cardiff University last summer
I had given Jackson the keys to a nearby vacant rental property that was surrounded by tenants because I didn’t want to be woken up by my famously heavy-footed son and some of his friends returning late. ‘Do not be crazy. You probably won’t be awake when we leave, let alone here.’
He laughed. “It’s better to say goodbye now.”
We hugged.
“Have fun,” I said, even though it was only a Tuesday night – local pub, game of pool. No biggie.
‘I will!’ Jackson said.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too,” Jackson said.
He went downstairs, made a burger, drank a stupid beer and chatted with my partner, Julian. It was maybe twenty minutes later when I saw Jackson leave the house from my first floor office window. He put on his Airpods as he crunched along our short gravel road and then turned left out of the gate onto the main road, down the hill to the flat.
He didn’t turn around and waved at his mother. Why would he? This wasn’t a movie. He was just a 21-year-old man at the end of what he had described as “the perfect summer,” going out for a few hours with two of his best friends before waking up Wednesday morning and continuing with the rest of his to live. He had many plans.
Only there was no Wednesday morning for Jackson. Because at around 12.50pm, after an unfathomably random, accidental fall into an empty catering area on the seafront in Hastings – the Courtyard, where the bars and cafes were all closed – my eldest son was killed instantly.
Jackson with his mother, Kathryn, on his 18th birthday in 2020.
According to the toxicology report, he was not excessively drunk (he had drunk about three pints) nor was he under the influence of drugs. It had been raining and he had bounced on his toes, leaned too far forward over a fatally low retaining wall and… he kept going.
That he was about to hit his head on concrete, let alone die as a result, would hardly have been noticed. It was a freak accident made even more bizarre by the fact that Jackson was a first Dan black belt in karate, with the poise of a mountain goat. Nevertheless, the interim death certificate stated that the ‘exact cause of death was 1a) comminuted, depressed skull fractures with brain lesions. 1b) Massive head injury. 1c) Fall from height (witness)’.
Not only did his friends witness it, but it was all caught on CCTV.
So those are the facts, for the record.
And that was not only the end of Jackson’s life, but also the end of my old life. Everything since 1:45 a.m. on Wednesday, September 20, 2023 – and that’s when the lone police officer showed up at my door to break the news that my vibrant 21-year-old son, the recent physics graduate, had just landed a well-paying modeling job and who had the rest of a radiant life ahead of him, was dead – belongs to a completely different life, which now belongs to the past.
He is an insect trapped in amber. He never saw 2024
However, my new life, only six months old, is a place where I still have two sons, only one of whom is physically alive. The other lives inside me (where, according to a 2012 academic study, some of my sons’ cells almost certainly remain).
As I carefully navigate this liminal space, Jackson accompanies me, all day, every day. He may not be texting me emojis, but I still feel his energy – always very powerful in life – driving me and helping me navigate a tragedy that is feared by all parents. His energy helps me cope with the way this cruel and brutal loss will continue to affect the rest of my life. Which I can confirm, even in these early days, in every way imaginable – and in many unthinkable ways too.
I’m only halfway through my own Year of Magical Thinking and Jackson is already an insect trapped in amber; he never saw 2024, or the war between Israel and Palestine. When he died, AI images still couldn’t produce convincing fingers, Spurs were on a winning streak and Oppenheimer – the last film we saw together – hadn’t yet won any Oscars or Baftas.
Meanwhile, as Studio Ghibli fans, we were both still looking forward to the release of Hayao Miyazaki’s now Bafta and Oscar-winning album. The boy and the heron. I had bought tickets, but Jackson didn’t know that.
March 20, 2024 (exactly six months since his death) was a day without him physically, but he is all around me. It’s not time since he died… and yet it’s all the time. I strive to cope with my loss by leaning into the rolling tsunami of grief, as and when it suddenly strikes. Allowing myself to truly feel these emotions is the painful place where I connect – reconnect – with my son. Because that is the space in which our love still lives; we were very close in life and we are still very close.
JackoFest is held in July to celebrate Jackson’s life
One of the many ways I am trying to cope with my loss is to create a music festival (raising money for charities that support grieving parents and siblings) in Jackson’s memory. As a family it’s all about music – my father was a lyricist whose words were sung by Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Joe Cocker, Frankie Valli and many more – while Jackson was never happier than when he stood in a field with his friends watching watch live music.
JackoFest takes place on July 27 at the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill-on-Sea, the day before what would have been his 22nd birthday. The idea rose phoenix-like from the ashes of a party we had already planned for 2024, in honor of my 60th and my youngest son’s 18th. With Jackson turning 22, we added up to 100 and planned a multi-generational centennial party at a local pub where Jackson occasionally worked during college breaks.
Instead, the Marina Fountain in St Leonards-on-Sea ended up holding my son’s record vigil (the pub’s largest ever bar recording), on October 14 last year.
We have yet to announce more artists, but tickets are currently on sale for my festival of motherly love. It’s for Jackson’s brother, Rider, and all their friends, and my friends, and the boys’ wider family, and anyone who would like to join us – in honor of the special young man I had the privilege of growing up with , and then born again, to get to know.
For me, it’s Jackson’s love that lives on.
And it is that love that will continue to shape the rest of the lives of his family and friends. He was fiercely loyal to us, as we were to him. We miss him and we love him, and he knows it.
He’s Stardust, he’s Golden.
For more information and JackoFest tickets, visit dlwp.com/event/jackofest. Kathryn’s compensation for this article will be used to donate cards to deserving recipients, including similar survivors
