Nell McCafferty and I hadn’t spoken for some time when, shortly before the millennium, I saw her in the distance in a Ranelagh restaurant with a group of rowdy people, all carousing. I waved. She didn’t wave back. Surprised and a little hurt, I left her a message. The following day, a letter arrived. Inside, a hand-drawn ink portrait of a tousle-headed woman sinking beneath comic strip waves. The words underneath were succinct: “I wasn’t waving. I was drowning.” She was one of the funniest women you could ever hope to meet. She was also one of the saddest. Reams will…

Want to continue reading?

Introductory offer: Sign up today and pay €200 for an annual membership, a saving of €50.

Subscribe

Cancel at any time.

Are you already a member? .