When I married my husband in England in 1964, my parents disapproved and were conspicuous by their absence at the wedding.  It was an awkward situation but we solved the problem by leaving England for Australia shortly afterwards.  We were soon simply migrants who had no family members in the background while rearing children.  It was to be expected.

The only family-related person who supported me at this time was a friend of my father’s, Audrey, who lived in England and whom I had known all my life.  A striking, flamboyant, self-opinionated woman, Audrey never sought a romantic partner but instead bred pedigree dachshunds and knitted beautiful hand-made garments from fleece provided by a local sheep farmer that she carded herself.  She used so many knitting needles that, as a child, I used to will her to drop a stitch.  It never happened.

“Always live your life your own way, my dear.  It’s your journey,” she said, as she hugged me on the dock the day we embarked for Australia.

Over the years, Audrey’s letters kept me entertained, and informed me about my family.  She also knitted, first for my husband and myself, then for our children.  She was the first person I would turn to if I had problems of any kind and when, after twenty years of marriage, I found that my perfect husband was having a relationship with another woman, it was Audrey I phoned and Audrey who talked me through those heartbreaking months until the divorce went through.

Whatever happened, Audrey was always there; my first port of call for both celebration and disaster.  Naively, I thought she would be there for me forever, so it was a shock when I received a phone call one day from a hospital in England telling me that she had collapsed while taking her dogs for a walk.  She was now an in-patient and they had her on the line.  She wanted to talk to me.

I knew that, living by herself, Audrey tended to skip meals. I therefore imagined that this had been the cause of her collapse.  When I spoke to her that day, I told her I loved and needed her and that she must take more care of herself for my sake.  I made her promise that her diet would improve once she was out of hospital.  “No more chocolate for lunch,” I insisted.   Meekly, for her, she gave me that promise.

When the hospital phoned me again the next day, they told me that Audrey had slipped into a coma shortly after speaking to me and had died in the early hours of that morning.  I was beside myself.  This could not be happening.  I then spoke to her doctor who told me that, unbeknownst to anyone, she had had cancer for months but had refused chemotherapy and instead self-medicated, living her life her way until the very end.

In the days that followed, I was numb with grief, and guilt-stricken due to the fact that I had no money for the air fare to attend her funeral.  There was no point even trying to find out when it was on.  I could not go.  I sent flowers and a card to Audrey’s home.  It was all I could do.  I hoped she would understand.

A week later, knowing both my children would be out for the evening, I visited friends on my way home from work.  They invited me to stay for dinner.  We were sitting around the dining room table, talking after the meal, when something glinted on the wall opposite.  Startled, I looked up.  There was a picture hanging on the wall.  The movement that had caught my eye was a reddish gold flame, flickering along the picture frame.  This was then accompanied by a crackling sound and a terrible, acrid burning smell.  I stared in disbelief as the flames moved around the picture, finally engulfing the whole frame in scarlet and yellow tongues of fire.  I was overwhelmed, first of all, by a sensation of terror, then of intense loss, followed by a feeling of release as the flames died down.  I then heard, very distinctly, the words, “It’s only love that matters, that’s all.”  I was aware that this had been spoken by a woman but it was the words that carried strength, while the voice was like one heard in a dream, without identity.

Afterwards, deeply shaken by this whole experience, I looked around.  I was stunned to find that not only was I was still sitting at the dinner table with my friends but that no-one else in the room had witnessed anything of what I had so clearly seen and heard.

They then told me that, when I looked up at the picture on the wall, the colour drained from my face.  I had then become very still, holding the same position for about twenty minutes – ‘as though in prayer’, as one of them described it.  Knowing I had just undergone the trauma of losing someone special, they were kind enough not to disturb me, and I was unaware throughout that anyone else was present.

Later, at their suggestion, I contacted the only funeral parlour in the town in which Audrey had lived.  The director told me that Audrey had chosen not to have the traditional burial preferred by most people of her generation but had, instead, left instructions that she was to be cremated.  I knew nothing of her plan, but it was this cremation that I am sure I attended.  I believe she knew how distressed I was by the fact that I could not be with her, so she made sure I was present.  The words I heard were then spoken to tell me not only that she understood my situation but to reassure me that love overrides death.

Both Audrey’s friendship, and the strange experience I have described, were life changing for me.  I have always tried hard to follow her instruction to live the journey my way, just as she did, and with any luck it will be Audrey I find, busy with her knitting, waiting to welcome me at the end of it.