Celebrating the life of Jeremy Clarke

Two years ago, at five to eight in the evening of Monday May 22, 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 labored 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.

Friends appeared throughout the day to pay respects. For hours we sat on the balcony terrace raising a glass to the beautiful man we loved who lay dead in the bedroom above us. By 7 p.m. we knew no doctor would come and that Jeremy would have to stay overnight in the tiny house. It was warm, and with no air conditioning or ice I was anxious, but there was nothing I could do. I left the windows open a little to let in the cool night air, closed the open-slatted shutters and the bedroom door, and went to Monica and André’s house.

Although Dr. Biscarat arrived at 8:15 the following morning, it was almost lunchtime before Jeremy’s body could be collected, and we had to air the house afterwards. We moved the medical equipment downstairs, but the hospital bed and oxygen wouldn’t be picked up until the following week. My daughter said she didn’t mind the hospital bed still being in my bedroom and agreed to sleep in with me. I was grateful. With Monica’s help, I cleaned, mopped the floor and left the windows fully open before I left for the airport, hoping it would be OK by the time we got back. It was.

The following afternoon, my daughter, the least techy of my three girls, lay beside me on the bed helping me with the funeral arrangements. We needed photos for a five-minute montage to Richard Strauss’s “Im Abendrot” sung by Jessye Norman, a favorite of Jeremy’s. Our laptops, mine ancient, hers new, didn’t have compatible USB ports. I had to send pictures to her phone which she could then arrange into a presentation on her laptop. With no sleep and little food for weeks, I was exhausted as well as grief-stricken, but eventually we got into the swing of it. Near the end of the task she said:
“Why do you want this map?” Sniffing and wiping my eyes, I glanced over: “Jeremy loved Africa…” After a pause she said: “Mum, that’s Australia.” It might’ve been hysteria but we haven’t laughed so much since.

We sat on the balcony terrace raising a glass to the beautiful man we loved who lay dead in the bedroom above us

After the funeral, where we heard tributes from Con Coughlin, Dave Goodhart, the foreign correspondent and André, and poems read by another friend, Kat, we left the service to “Muchana (Zouk Love)” by Kanda Bongo Man. Twenty-five of us carried funeral flowers and plates of food made by neighbor Geoffrey up the cliff path and once again piled on to my small balcony terrace. Ukrainian Ellen brought a homemade apple cake. Later, when it was dark, Dave became DJ. “Come and dance, Mum.” “I don’t want to.” “But you love dancing and so did Jeremy. Come on…” For the first time in my life I danced and cried at the same time. Dozens of bottles of wine were consumed. Close to midnight, Mel’s puppy heralded the end of the evening by passing a large quantity of diarrhea on to the living-room floor.

Soon after, elegant Kat, whom I’ve known well for years but never seen in casual footwear, stood up and discovered her legs had also liquified. I removed her kitten heels and replaced them with my ten-year-old leather Teva sandals. “They’re SO comfortable, Treena!” Her husband and Philippe had to half-carry her tiny frame down the path. Someone fell down the steep boat-steps to the bathroom, but because they were drunk they bounced and were unscathed. On his way along the cliff path, the foreign correspondent shouted back: “What a send-off! Jeremy would be proud!” – then staggered, took a tumble and hurt his shoulder so badly it took months to heal.

After we cleared up, my daughter and I sat for a while in the quiet night air, watching two enormous adolescent eagle owls silently swooping and soaring in front of the cliff face beside us.