Barbara and I became the best of friends while studying Nursing in Brentford on the Thames.
At first, she despised me, so she says, ‘You were too like Bridget Jones in those days’.
She was Irish, I a Scot, and together we walked and talked an awful lot.
Through Isleworth, Syon Park, along the river, over the bridge to Richmond, the Duck Pond Market, and the fountain pools in Twickenham.
Bouncing brown curls, a mischievous grin, twinkling eyes - taking everything in.
But Barbara, to me, seemed wild and free. Her laugh, outrageous and always contagious.
But, really, she’s still - like a mature tree, rooted in strong and sturdy Irish soil, which branches into London town now.
Born a nurse, I always say, it’s like she just came out that way.
I love her Mam, Da, and Aunt Nancy too by proxy somehow, but it’s still true.
We looked after the poorly during the day, then danced til sunrise, twirling the pain away.
She introduced me to Jameson whiskey, which we drank until we were very tipsy.
We took the bus to a place we loved - ‘The Claddagh Ring’ and we danced and danced, and Barbara would sing.
And Barbara was generous to a fault - bought us all shots we didn’t want.
Round and round we danced and jived, and on those nights, we never felt more alive.
My favourite memory is coming home across the river from ‘The Swan’.
We were singing our song at the top of our voices below a pink streaked morning sky, I remember thinking - How lucky am I?
One evening at Northwick Park, the light was leaving, it was drawing dark.
I held an old man’s hand as he died alone at the end of a ward - his daughter not coming to say goodbye when he asked, ‘Am I dying?’ I didn’t want to lie.
My shift was ending, but I wanted to stay; they wouldn’t let me, and he was dead the next day.
I spoke to Barbara, but she didn’t respond, just left my words there on their own.
I realised that Barbara, as we walked for the train, had seen it before, death and the dying, the pain and the crying.
She didn’t respond as there was nothing to say, but I learned a lot about life that day.
We stepped on the train back to our wee, damp flat. We ate chocolate, drank tea, and that was that.
But when I got ill, she stood, shook me, and made me still.
‘Eat,’ she said and swore at me, she shouted - ' You're wasting away, you're only 23.’
She wanted to help me but didn’t know how, and I remember her saying, ‘You want a family now, so be careful what you do - you're damaging your body and you know it too.’
I never forgot the mention of that because I wanted children, so deeply, I couldn’t risk that.
I got much better, but does one ever recover from the broken thinking inherited from their mother?
Now I have three, they're all still wee, and Barbara will always be their fun auntie, and more than a decade on, I still love our song.
My love is alive
Way down in my heart
Although we are miles apart.