Two years without Jeremy Clarke

Two years ago, at five to eight in the evening of Monday 22 May 2023, I ran into the department store Galeries Lafayette at CAP 3000 next to Nice airport, grabbed two black blazers and rushed to the nearest checkout. ‘Je suis vraiment désolé, Madame, mais nous fermons.’ ‘Please, it’s not eight o’clock yet. My husband died yesterday morning – I need a smart jacket for the funeral on Friday. There are no shops where I live.’ Shaking and fighting back tears, I tried on both in front of the two assistants at the till. ‘Quelle?’ They agreed on the first, and with no mirror close by I took their word for it and paid. I was on the way to pick up my youngest daughter.

The day before, dear friends Monica and André arrived within minutes of me sending them a message telling them that Jeremy was breathing his last. I’d seen people dying when I was a young nurse but never on my own, nor anyone I loved, nor had I seen such a laboured death. It was horrible; a difficult end for him and heartbreak for me but a relief for both of us when his suffering was over. André had never seen a dead body before. Life drains from the face quickly. They helped me lift him and take some pillows away. We opened the windows wide, an old nursing custom to let the soul leave, and sat with him, but because it was Sunday no doctor could be found to issue a death certificate.