We Lose a Dear Friend The Second Anniversary of our move into the flat was near at hand. It certainly deserved a celebration of some kind, and we even considered throwing a big party. But eventually, we settled for a quiet drink with Miss Barnes. Of all those involved, we knew that she shared our feelings of achievement more deeply than most. We had not succeeded by ourselves, that was certain, and Miss Barnes still represented a reliable force behind us. Whenever anything cropped up, she was but a telephone call away. When a replacement was needed amongst our helpers, she was the one to advertise, and to select a suitable few for us to interview. Our dependence on Miss Barnes was not obvious, however, and her holidays presented no problems to us. Nevertheless, it did not alter the fact that we began to relax a little more when she was working, and readily available. Calling in at least once a week for a chat, she continued to help out on our required late nights. She always made a gentle entry, bowing her unusually tall frame almost reverently as she did so. I had noticed that Miss Barnes seemed unwell. Jack thought that perhaps she was working too hard. We mentioned this during our evening's celebration, when her pallor and pained expression seemed more apparent. She admitted to having rather severe abdominal pains, saying, "Hiatus hernia, the doctor said." We expressed our genuine concern. Later on, as we lay in bed, Jack and I mulled over the evening again, continually reminded that something was definitely wrong with Miss Barnes. Instinctively, thereafter, we began easing up on her. We had been relying on her to a large extent, but now our only concern was for herself. Our own feelings of insecurity were forgotten. Naturally, she always put on a brave face, going about her duties in characteristic style. Two weeks later, Miss Barnes remained casual when informing us that she was to visit a specialist. "I think I have an ulcer." I was equally cheerful in my approach – but even then, I had feelings of foreboding. She was so aware of our need for her that her worry would be more for us than herself. In fact she insisted on putting us to bed one more time, before being admitted into hospital for an exploratory operation in January 1972. "Can we come and see you – we can easily get across the road?" Her face lit up immediately. "Oh, yes. You must." Thus, we visited her on the following Saturday. Gerard, who had to see us safely into the hospital, stood awkwardly as any sixteen-year-old lad would, while we chatted away. Miss Barnes looked out of place in that old hospital day-room, so much like those which Jack recalled. We saw how thin she had become, sitting wrapped in a dressing-gown, and nursing our posy of violets on her lap. It was difficult not to betray our feelings of deep sadness as we left, and only managing to say: "We'll be thinking about you." We went to see her again the day after the operation. "Probably only removed my appendix," she said brightly. More seriously, the truth was known. She told us that there was a malignant growth on the pancreas, which would be treated with radium. We visited Miss Barnes frequently, always taking Spring flowers which she loved. Sometimes, we found her making a brave effort and sitting on top of her bed, or in an armchair. But her skin was parched and yellow, and her eyes shone too brightly. At first, she would converse interestedly, and when everything else failed, she knew that Jack could easily be stirred into airing his views on the state of Norwich City's football team! Then her expression changed, as that awful feeling of nausea returned. It was a painful sight. Then, talking did not come easy to any of us. She would hold my hand quietly, as we tried to find everyday things to say. Her courage amazed us. Never a single word of protest passed her lips, even though she realised her fate. She maintained her appearance as far as she was able, once saying: "But I'm so very thin, my dear. Do I look as dreadful?" I shook my head, and smiled reassurance. "You do look very ill. But even illness doesn't mask a person's character. You have an air of peace about you. And your eyes look alive." She smiled at my words, then closed her eyes to rest. What I had said was all true. Indeed, despite her condition, her gentle, caring nature showed through. Then one morning Miss Barnes telephoned from the hospital. Her speech was slurred and broken, as she explained that she was going into a Hospice in London. Maintaining her usual optimism, she said: "People do come out of there sometimes, you know." There was a short pause, before she made her gentle conclusion. "Bye, bye. Bless you both." Those were the very last words we heard her say. I felt that I just had to write to her at once, setting her mind at rest about us. We reassured her that she had shown us how to live. Realising that Miss Barnes was instrumental in getting us established, we wanted her to know that she had not let us down, nor left a job unfinished. We hoped that she would not regret becoming involved with us, even though it was, to a large extent, beyond her call of duty. I told her that we always admired her ideals, and recognised her deep respect for human dignity in the individual. We would endeavour to live by those ideals. Subsequently, a phone message from her closest friend told us, "Elizabeth says, "Tell Margaret and Jack their letter was perfect. They said all the right things'." Miss Barnes died a week later – at Easter. Though we more or less accepted the inevitable, it was still a terrible blow. We had lost our mainstay, and a true friend. My final expression of respect was to read a Lesson at her Memorial Service. Miss Barnes was the most genuine and dedicated social worker.