In spite of the lockdown restrictions, mourning my friend Joyce Brand, who died on 18th February, is a simple grief. Joyce was a good and wise friend, and I want to acknowledge, in this small space, something of the huge impact she had on my life, and my gratitude to her.
I loved Joyce. I loved her company. I miss it. I will go on missing her. Like this grief, our friendship was also straightforward, and it was enacted in good conversation based in shared values.
We enjoyed many such conversations in the company of her many friends in various situations over the years - weddings, dinner parties, book readings, social work classrooms. These occasions were always fun, but it's the memories of the one-to-one times with her I treasure most. Having Joyce's full attention was a privilege. If you were lucky enough to experience it, you will know what I mean.
When I think of Joyce, I think of her smiling to welcome me into her home. She moved several times in the twenty or so years of our friendship, always thinking ahead, planning, downsizing to her final home in Ludlow a few years ago. If only we all had such an instinct for the obvious need to become increasingly grounded. It helped that she liked moving.
When I think of Joyce, I think of sitting in an armchair as she went to make tea. She'd bring in a tray loaded with cups, saucers, teapot, milk jug, and cucumber sandwiches on a pretty china plate. Latterly, she'd wheel in a tea trolley. We talked of what was in the news, what we were reading or watching, of the benefits of an early afternoon nap. Theses talks were sprinkled with whole-hearted laughter, happiness, and a generous dash of hilarious derision for those at the centre of the latest political scandal.
Joyce treated me as an equal, but we weren't. It was right that I looked up to her: older, wiser, smart as a button. I was usually hungry for guidance about a stage of life, or a work situation, that she had already negotiated. When we reached that personal territory, she would help me to see more clearly how to navigate it kindly, and as myself.
Joyce, who enjoyed the company of men enormously, set no store by the cultural and enduring narrative that we women need a man to complete our lives. She lived independently, independent, surrounded by friends who came and went from her home, bringing conversation, freshly dug potatoes, crossword tips, and the ability to move furniture, or put up shelves. There was a realism in Joyce's advice. "Do you have a pension?" she'd ask, out of concern for my future self. She knew that independence is a reality born out of practicalities, not simply a frame of mind.
When I published a book at the end of last year, I knew I wanted Joyce's name on the back cover. Her endorsement, when it came, felt like an old-fashioned blessing: her hand laid on my bowed head. It was a moment of approval I will hold close in the coming weeks.
At the end of those one-to-ones, after we'd chatted for a couple of hours, I'd leave her company, thinking, "When I grow up, I want to be like Joyce."
I still do.
Read more about Joyce here:
https://www.shropshirestar.com/news/local-hubs/south-shropshire/ludlow/2021/02/23/she-made-a-real-difference-ludlow-health-campaigner-joyce-brand-dies-at-86/
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