17 of 24 - National construction group

I joined a company that was one of a Group of firms, part of a wider network of regional and international contractors. Together, they delivered both small and large-scale projects across the UK and overseas.

From 1995, the Construction (Design and Management) Regulations reshaped the UK construction landscape. For us, it meant formalising what had long been instinctive: clear lines of safety responsibility, coordinated oversight, and a renewed emphasis on site welfare. The introduction of the Principal Contractor role brought legal clarity to what we’d already been navigating in practice.

On most projects we operated as Management Contractor—hiring and choreographing trade specialists. On small local jobs our own workforce brought a rhythm and familiarity that no subcontractor could replicate.

I began as a company safety manager based in Cheltenham, overseeing site compliance and risk management with the support of a single safety officer. I was one of several dozen company safety personnel  working for the Group.

In the mid-1990s, when I joined them, the Group was running scores—if not hundreds—of projects across the UK and beyond. From schools and prisons to power stations and palaces, their reach was broad and relentless. Hundreds of projects meant thousands of operational tasks every day, each involving a web of supervising individuals: site managers, foremen, engineers, subcontractors—each with their own unique take on safety. From the laissez-faire types who treated risk in a “que sera, sera” kind of way, to the micromanaging fiends who could spot an inappropriate glove from fifty yards—we had them all.

For several years we lived in the Cotswolds . My work took me across the South of England, and I often left home before dawn—4.30 - 5.00am. The mornings were quiet, the house still, and the car sat waiting in a pool of fog. I’d ease out onto the hill, headlights slicing through the mist, tyres whispering on damp road.

As I climbed, the fog thickened, clinging to hedgerows and hanging low across the common. Then, quite suddenly, I’d break through—into sunrise. Below me, the Stroud Valleys lay hidden, filled with thick billows of golden-orange fog. Hilltops poked through like islands, bathed in gold, while the world beneath remained unseen.

It was always a moment. Not dramatic, not grand. Just a quiet shift—a reminder that clarity often waits just above the cloudline.

Loss of traction

Sometimes, physics and pragmatism combine in a deadly way that disdains all forms of site management.

The fatal accident occurred two weeks after I joined the regional company in Cheltenham.

A phone call came through: an excavation supervisor had been injured on site—please could I attend, ASAP. But before I arrived, a second call came. The supervisor was deceased.

It was the first fatal accident I had to investigate. Sadly, not the last.

During trenching operations, a rocky outcrop had been unexpectedly encountered at the bottom of an excavation. The JCB backacter being used to dig had exited the trench and returned, having swapped its rear digging bucket for a hydraulic hammer to break out the rock. A hydraulic hammer can weigh up to 380 kilograms—a hefty lump of metal, but well within the capabilities of a JCB.

The excavator reversed down the slope, over the pea gravel that had been placed in readiness for pipe laying, and proceeded to break out the outcrop. With the rock cleared, the operator began climbing out to swap the hammer for the bucket.

The excavation supervisor, a very competent and experienced man, was acting as banksman, positioned at the front of the JCB as it climbed the slope, which was directly adjacent to an existing brick building. When the front wheels reached the pea gravel, traction was lost in the loose aggregate. The weight of the hydraulic hammer on the rear acted as a counterbalance, lifting the front wheels just enough to reduce grip. The machine slewed sharply to the left, crushing the supervisor’s head between the front bucket and the brick wall.

The machine was silent when I arrived, its front bucket propped up with timber to prevent slippage. I remember the smell—diesel, wet earth, and the metallic tang of blood.

Beneath the front bucket lay the supervisor’s damaged safety helmet. The ground around it was speckled with blood, dark against the pale aggregate. The paramedics had removed the body, but his presence among us was palpable. The brick wall bore a horrible, bloodied smear—a testimony to the awful fatal crush.

The first hour of an accident investigation is often the most critical. It sets the tone, preserves the evidence, and begins the process of understanding what went wrong—not just technically, but culturally.

Immediately, 999 is called and an ambulance summoned. All work is stopped. Directors are phoned. Head office is informed. The HSE is notified. A shocked workforce is asked to wait in the site canteen. And so the investigation starts.

The HSE expect that the scene is preserved as much as possible—no tidying, no moving machinery unless essential for safety.

This was the first time I had to navigate not just my own reactions to the horrible scene before me, but the reactions of all those on site. There was so much to achieve in what remained of the day, so much vital information to gather before memory faded or stories were adjusted. The name of the deceased, the witnesses, the operator, what happened, the time and location, who saw what?

I didn’t have to just investigate the accident. I had to investigate the conditions that allowed it.

What I remember most vividly was the face and demeanour of the Site Manager. He was pale and shaking, still coherent, but speaking in a low monotone—shock evident in everything he did.

Later, in the site office, I wrote the first line of the report:

“An incident occurred on site in which a sub-contract supervisor died. The accident occurred following a tool change on a JCB backacter.”

How quickly the man became a circumstance.

Over the next few days, my time on site was taken up with gathering information. I took a good set of photographs—wide shots, close-ups, context. I produced simple sketches to indicate machinery positions and the proximity of permanent and temporary structures.

Sometimes, in conjunction with the HSE, I attended interviews with numerous people: the site agent responsible for that section of work, the driver of the JCB, the sub-contract foreman who oversaw that section of trench.

I gathered documentation related to sub-contractor assessment, training, experience, risk assessment, method statements, machine inspection, meeting minutes, planning schedules.

The HSE inspector was also on site throughout, conducting his own investigation. His requirements always took precedence when scheduling statements and interviews.

To be fair, he was considerate of the workforce’s feelings. He allowed me to be present during some of his interviews, so we didn’t double the ordeal for witnesses and other interviewees. That small act—of coordination, of care—meant a great deal.

As the information came in, a clearer picture started to develop.

The sub-contractor had been selected from several who tendered for the work. They were not the cheapest, but were chosen for their history of similar jobs. Their Health and Safety Policy was clear and comprehensive—brief, not verbose. Their training record followed industry standards, including that of the deceased. The JCB was relatively new and had been regularly maintained. The driver was properly trained and highly experienced. There existed a risk assessment and a method statement with specific reference to trenching activities.

Prior to work that morning, a meeting was held involving all supervisors. The minuted meeting discussed site activities and described necessary exclusion zones. In this case, the area around the trench was fenced off and out of bounds to anyone not directly involved. The access route to and from the trench to the plant compound was kept clear for the excavation contractor.

Following any safety-related incident, it is incumbent on employers—both the Principal Contractor and the Sub-Contractor—to demonstrate that they had done everything “so far as is reasonably practicable” to prevent the incident.

“So far as is reasonably practicable” is the line between doing everything possible and doing what’s sensible given the cost, time, and effort involved. As far as health and safety law is concerned, an employer is guilty until they prove themselves innocent.

My job, and the job of the HSE, was to decide if this legal requirement had been discharged.

“Reasonably practicable” is a cornerstone concept in UK health and safety law, particularly under the Health and Safety at Work etc. Act 1974. It’s not about doing everything possible to eliminate risk—it’s about doing what’s sensible and proportionate given the circumstances. Employers must weigh the severity and likelihood of harm against the cost, time, and effort required to mitigate it.

Unlike an “absolute duty,” which must be fulfilled regardless of cost or difficulty, a duty qualified by “reasonably practicable” allows for discretion and proportionality. The term was clarified in Edwards v. National Coal Board (1949), where the court ruled that a measure is not reasonably practicable if the sacrifice—in terms of time, trouble, and money—is grossly disproportionate to the risk.

Employers must assess risks and determine which control measures are feasible and effective. Lack of funds or inconvenience is not a valid defence if a risk is serious and the mitigation is straightforward. Risk assessments and decisions must be recorded and defensible, especially in the event of an incident.

There is, of course, tension between theory and reality. “Reasonable practicability” may offer legal cover, but it can feel hollow when the system itself demands improvisation, or when the cost-benefit calculus fails to account for human fragility.

It’s a phrase that can sound like compassion, but often functions as compromise.

The supervisor, doubling as banksman, placed himself in harm’s way—perhaps out of habit, urgency, or a misplaced sense of control.

The coroner’s verdict of accidental death closes the legal loop. The HSE’s acceptance of it suggests no further action: no prosecution, no corporate culpability, no systemic failure.

Just a man—“the author of his own demise.”

That phrase—so final, so tidy—feels like both a legal exoneration and a moral shrug. It shifts the narrative from what failed around him to what he failed to foresee.

It’s the bureaucratic echo of Que Sera, Safety: a verdict that lets the machinery roll on, with the report filed away and the digger back in motion.

At the inquest my Construction Director and I sat near the supervisor’s widow. She was weeping  having heard the harrowing details of her husband’s death

After a while I transferred to another group company based in Truro, continuing in a similar role but adapting to the distinct challenges of the region. These early positions laid the groundwork for a broader understanding of site operations, contractor coordination, and the nuances of regional safety culture.