I had a friend who used to say of his War Service (they were a strange breed), paraphrasing Dickens, ‘We had the best of times, at the best of times.’ A generation or so on and these words could be applied equally to ours.

i belong to a small group who worked with and remember Carmel from longer ago than i care to think of. The news of her passing came as a shock, sad indeed. It is a great sadness for Carmel’s husband, family and close relations. But it is sad, too, for all of us who knew and remember her. While we mourn her passing, let us not make the occasion solemn. Rather, let us remember who she was, how she was and what she was before the tragic events that laid her low. We all have our favourite nemories of Carmel. For me, there are two that are easily recalled and which sum up her character perfectly. Both relate to the group i have mentioned. One of them is my own and the other, that of a friend who worked with her, very closely. His name is Patrick Ruffles and i have his permission to reproduce his own memory of the incident. Explaining that, for 18 months, they set opposite one another, at facing desks, they developed a close working relationship. He continues:

’When i left Kennington Park to work at Acton, Carmel invited me over to her place for dinner, the following weekend and asked me what i would like to eat. I could be unreliable in those days and, after playing football, i got ebsconced in the bar and, to my eternal shame, never turned up for the meal.

The following Tuesday, i was sitting at my desk in Acton, surrounded by my new colleagues when the post courier came round and handed my a large, buff envelope which seemed to have blood dripping from it. I could see my new colleagues looking at me with bewilderment and intrigue as i opened the envelope to find the remains of a prawn cocktail and steak, oozing their juices all over my desk. Attached was a post-it note that read ‘If you won’t come to dinner, dinner will come to you.’ My admiration for her only increased after that. I’m pleased to say she forgave me and we remained good friends until our lives took us in different directions and we lost touch.

The second memory is one of my own. There is a region of the United States which is known for its volatile seismic activity. I had been watching a Television programme. I can’t remember whether it was a news item or a documentary but the region was attracting seismologiste and vulcanologists, with their film crews, from all over. I encountered Carmel in the corridor, the following morning and told her i had been watching a television programme about her. Her interest was gripped with ‘What do you mean?’ I explained that there were apparently dozens of people, with their film crews, all rushing to Mount Carmel.

You know the peculiar stance most women employ when they wish to throw a punch. They somehow tuck their elbows into their waists and sort of swivel at the hips, swinging their upper bodies round with flailing forearm outstretched, in order to land the blow. Effective, though. I had a bruise on my upper arm for a week.

Whatever faith you adhere to, or none, i hpoe you will join with me and offer up a little word of thanks to someone or to somewhere to remember the all too short life of Carmel. Or else you coukd consider the words of a music journalist when he said of someone whose life was similarly, tragically cut short,

’They told me that George Gershwin has died, but I don’t have to believe it, if I don’t want to.’