If I live to see the seven wonders
I’ll make a path to the rainbow’s end
I’ll never live to match the beauty again
- Fleetwood Mac 1987

January 2nd – 5th 1997
We were back at the Royal Surrey again for another transfusion. That breathing, and that cough, had caught the doctors’ attention. Jenny’s lung had been filling up with fluid, they said.

That told me that the cancer had spread further, and it revealed why her new chemotherapy was targeted at lung cancer – to slow down that spread, and not to effect a cure.

No one had told Jenny.

But just as my thoughts about a quick and merciful end had all but disappeared by now, so had any half-formed ideas about telling her.

I knew Jenny so well, and what a fighter she was, and I knew it was only the fight which was keeping her going. Without that, she couldn’t go on.

I was torn between wanting her to know, so that we could talk, so that I could lift the burden that I was carrying, and not wanting her to know, in case she simply gave up. It was a terrible place to be.

The nurses fitted a drain into Jenny’s lung and removed three litres (more than five pints) of fluid. That’s a huge amount – have a look at the milk in your fridge and you’ll see just how much. It was no wonder that Jenny could hardly breathe.

And afterwards, with a clear lung and a new tank of blood inside her, the improvement was just enormous.

But it had been hardly an instant fix. Jenny was always the model patient, quietly waiting and unwilling to complain, but it really did take bloody ages to do anything at the hospital. There weren’t enough staff, and there were always more urgent cases, with people collapsing or returning from operations.

After three days, finally I sought out the Staff Nurse a second time. I had already complained to her that progress was slow and now I just it said straight out – Jenny hasn’t long left to live.

She should be at home with her family now, not forced to spend such precious time stuck in here. That got them moving.

: : : : : : : : : :

Softly, so casual
Lovely, so light, so light
The cruel sky lets fall
Something one does not fight.
- Snow in Madrid, Joy Davidman 1938

We can’t have the happiness of yesterday without the pain of today. That’s the deal.
- Shadowlands 1993

Big, ancient radiotherapy machines. Fear. Waiting in endlessly long hospital corridors. The ticking of a clock. The green swell of the English countryside. The oppressively intellectual stuffiness of an Oxford college common room.
The soaring grace of Magdalen Tower.

All these lie within my story, and perhaps that’s why they feature in my mind’s screening of Shadowlands, the 1993 film portraying the love story between the English writer, CS Lewis, and the American poet Joy Davidman Gresham.

As a child, I knew Lewis for his wonderful Narnia books, which I devoured from an early age. The Lion, the Witch and The Wardrobe was my favourite, and after that I read them all. Only belatedly, somewhere amidst The Last Battle, did I come to realise that the stories were written as a Christian allegory.

CS Lewis, the academic and the man, was unknown to me then. It is Lewis’ later life which is explored in Shadowlands. In the early 1950s, CS Lewis is an Oxford don, living in austerity with his brother, Warnie. In those days, Oxford is almost like a monastery, only with better wine.

In 1952, Lewis’ life is transformed by the arrival in Oxford of an unhappy American poet and feisty political activist, Joy Gresham, an admirer of his work who has corresponded with him from afar. The two spark up a strong intellectual bond as they discuss the great themes of religion, life and death. Lewis’ stuffy academic colleagues are split by Joy’s arrival - some think her rude and brash, whilst others recognise how the pair complement each other.

It seems an unlikely partnership, but gradually the couple edge closer. Joy returns to America, before surprising Lewis by turning up again in Oxford.

She has divorced her alcoholic and unfaithful husband and prefers to live in England - the thought of testifying before Senator McCarthy may not have appealed to a Communist party member such as Joy.

Lewis secretly marries Gresham - but it is only a ‘technical’ arrangement to enable her to remain as long as she wishes.

But when Joy breaks a leg, it is discovered she has terminal bone cancer. Lewis’ mother had died when he was eight years old and this revelation now hits him very hard. The couple’s feelings continue to grow, and eventually they are married in a religious ceremony at Joy’s hospital bed.

Following radiation treatment (those huge and frighteningly primitive machines I recall above), Joy enters a period of remission, and the couple live happily together until the cancer returns and she dies in 1960.

Lewis is totally consumed by grief - the film ends with him a transformed man. No longer the stuffy, wooden caricature of an intellectual, he weeps openly as he confides in Joy’s son, and commits to caring for him.

The movie started life as a script by Brian Sibley (who later wrote a book of the story) and Norman Stone. It was developed by William Nicholson for BBC television in 1985 and later adapted as a stage play in 1989.

The 1993 film which followed made a lasting impression on me. Unobtrusively directed by Richard Attenborough, Anthony Hopkins brilliantly captures Lewis’ reluctant unfolding of reserve. As Joy Gresham, Debra Winger may have found her greatest screen role, earning an Academy Award nomination to match William Nicholson’s for the screenplay.

Joy’s comforting and encouragement of a crumbling Lewis as she faces death captures so much that is remarkable about the dynamics of terminal illness - that the sick somehow find the strength to empower the strong.

It’s an unassuming and yet remarkable love story. If Romeo and Juliet speaks of the all-engulfing power of love in youth, then Shadowlands reminds us that love can enter a life unexpectedly, to enrich existence at any age. The injustice and overpowering suffering of loss likewise does not only affect the young.

Just as importantly, the film shows us how love can tear down the trivia of a life, whilst building new towers of strength we didn’t know we had.

The film received widespread critical acclaim, and although some would question its historical accuracy and eye for factual detail, most agreed that within the limitations of the media it accurately conveyed the essence of the relationship and its impact on Lewis.

The effect on Lewis was devastating. Long respected as a great defender of Christian belief, Lewis came to question all that he once held as true.

Finally, the turmoil and doubt he suffered were constructively channelled into writing. The result was the publication in 1961 of ‘A Grief Observed’ - a passionate and heartfelt exploration of his own pain and loss.

Lewis published the book under the name of NW Clerk, fearing that others would not take it seriously if they knew it were written by an academic expert on religion. It was only later, when so many of his colleagues recommended the book in support of his grief, that he finally admitted to writing it.

The book is a classic, featuring on any reading list about love and loss. This slim and very personal work changed everything we think about bereavement. Lewis laid out the path for many wonderful texts to follow, from Susan Wallbank’s searchingly academic The Empty Bed to Kate Boydell’s intensely practical and refreshingly honest Death - and How to Survive It.

* * * * *

Within our story, Shadowlands comes at the end of the beginning, and at the beginning of the end. But as one dark day is closing, so a different dawn awaits.

It might seem that there are two stories in this book, but in truth they are the same. For life and death, you can read just as well of love and loss, of despair and hope, or pain and joy. Together, these define all the reasons that we are here.

And where better to start the next chapter than with these closing lines from Shadowlands? They tell all my story, within only twenty words.

Why love, if losing hurts so much?
I have no answers any more: only the life I have lived.

: : : : : : : : : :

For Shadowlands.

When your day is long
And the night
The night is yours alone
When you’re sure you’ve had enough of this life
Well hang on

Don’t let yourself go
Cause everybody cries
And everybody hurts
Sometimes
- The Corrs 1999

This song has been in my mind for quite a while, ever since I rediscovered it last winter.

I first heard it in 1992, when Jenny bought REM’s Automatic for the People. That’s a marvellous album, rather better known for the somewhat prophetic Losing My Religion. Now there’s a topic for another day.

Everybody Hurts. It’s a great title, for a wonderfully inspirational ballad which I’d long admired but long since forgotten.

This cover version by The Corrs has its own uplifting history.

The band first performed the song in a benefit event for the victims of the Omagh bombing in Northern Ireland which killed 29 people and injured 220.

That tragedy took place on 15th August 1998, just four months after the Good Friday Agreement had been signed in Belfast. The attack was carried out by the Real IRA, a republican splinter group determined to continue the violence which over 30 years of the troubles had destroyed so many lives in places far and wide.

In my own home town, five people were killed and sixtyfive injured as a result of the Guildford pub bombings on 5 October 1974, which formed part of the campaign extending terrorism to the British mainland.

That attack took place on Jenny’s tenth birthday, exactly thirty years to the day from the opening of this book.

Omagh was Northern Ireland’s single worst terrorist atrocity. A cruel and cynical strike against the very outbreak of peace, it could easily have been the lowest point of all, plunging Northern Ireland into further years of bloodshed.

But events took a different and much more positive turn. The attack was roundly condemned by the British and Irish governments and by Loyalist and official Republican organisations alike.

Sinn Féin leader Martin McGuinness called it ‘an appalling act’ and Gerry Adams professed to ‘condemn it without any equivocation whatsoever.’

Like many low points, Omagh proved a decisive watershed, marking the moment when the public will to end the loss of life was finally affirmed, redoubling the commitment of all sides to the Northern Ireland peace process.

The road to peace since then has not always been smooth, but it has been steady, and this song has played its part.

There’s much more to say about this song. The lyrics offer reassurance and a reminder that every life has its seasons, with fine days and rainy ones as well.

Along the way, some people will face a hundred-year storm capable of ripping out everything which went before. But from the very depths of despair, unexpected opportunities and a new future can grow.

Andrea Corr’s voice here is quite sublime. This version enchanted me on a frosty run last winter, and it enchants me still. For everyone who has ever been bereaved, or faces loss, I’ll leave you with the most important message of this song.

You’re not alone.

: : : : : : : : : :

December 31st 1996 – January 1st 1997
As I drove through Ottershaw, I wondered how to explain my return home to Jenny.

At last I knew, even if I’d known for months, really. Perhaps I had known all along – even when I’d called from Africa a full year before.

But Jenny hadn’t asked for a prognosis – not once. Still she was talking about the chemo starting to work, and about things getting better soon.

Finally, I told her that it was quiet in the office and that I didn’t have much work. That was partly true, so I decided not to say more unless she asked outright.

Fortunately, she didn’t. But it was a huge burden to carry, the confirmation that Jenny’s death was only weeks away, and not sharing that with her.

We’d shared everything for thirteen years, and yet we couldn’t share the most important thing of all, not now.

That evening, New Year’s Eve, Jenny told me that Shadowlands was on television, and she thought that we should see it. That was typical of her gutsiness, yet for my part I had no idea that the film was about C S Lewis and his wife, and her death from cancer.

It’s a fantastic film, moving and harrowingly honest, but I can hardly describe how hard it was to watch when we were in that situation ourselves. We cried together long afterwards that night.

And if that sounds as though Jenny was looking at her own death through that story, then maybe she was. But for her it was still just a vision of what might happen, far ahead, if she didn’t get better. It was there looming, she knew, but she was going to get better – and she was determined about that.

We were both sleeping on the sofas downstairs by now. Jenny had the most terrible cough, and she could only sleep whilst propped up. That was uncomfortable for me, since I’m much longer than the sofa. Often I was awake deep into the night.

And as I lay listening to Jenny’s breathing it sounded either loud and raspy, or weak and irregular. One night, over Christmas, Jenny had paused so long between breaths that for a moment I was actually convinced she had died.

Eventually, I grew quite used to sleeping there. So much so, that for a long time afterwards, whenever I went into the living room in the dark, I would see the shape of the cushions on the sofa and the familiar pattern on the ceiling made by the light of the streetlamps, and just for a moment I could imagine us there together, back in that time.

I would get up in the middle of the night and sit silently in the darkness, watching Jenny as she slept and thinking how much I would miss her when she had gone.

: : : : : : : : : :

December 29th 1996
Two days later, we drove back to Geoff’s house to meet Andrew and his family.

The transformation in Jenny was simply incredible. She was bright and alert all day long – playing happily with the kids and looking for all the world like a normal, healthy mum.

That afternoon we met the local vicar to arrange William’s christening. I wanted to fix a date as soon as possible, since I knew that it would only get harder for us to travel now.

I’d even tried to arrange the service for that same weekend, but it just couldn’t be done over the holiday period.

The vicar spoke warmly to Jenny and sympathised with her frustration at being ill. But she seemed so bright that I wondered if he realised how ill she really was.

We discussed several christening dates in February which Jenny favoured, and one even in early April which Geoff and Andrew liked because it could fit into an Easter visit (April for goodness’ sake, she’d never last that long – what fucking planet were they on?).

Finally I was relieved when we found a time on January 12th. It meant another family reunion in only a few weeks’ time, but for once they could fit around us.

December 30th 1996
Back at home, our emotions were spent. After the rush of Christmas, now came overpowering anti-climax and depression. We were both exhausted after all the travelling and those hectic days behind us.

Jenny planned to rest whilst I was at work the next day, and so I stole silently from the house at dawn to take Emily and William to the nursery, leaving Jenny alone to sleep.

Around noon, I took a call from Cathy, our Macmillan nurse. She’d thought about Jenny all Christmas, she said, and was shocked at her condition when she’d called in that morning.

Jenny had struggled to make it downstairs to the door and seemed shaky on her feet, Cathy told me.

We talked for a while, and I recounted what the doctors had said. Keep waiting for an improvement, they’d offered – and I remarked how unlikely that seemed.

But the medical staff were already downhearted about Jenny last September, said Cathy. Yet they won’t tell Jenny, I said – no, they don’t ever admit defeat, she replied. If I were you, I’d be spending more time at home from now on.

When I asked for more, she told me. It’s weeks, not months away now, she said. That was all it took.

I got in the car and I drove home from work.

: : : : : : : : : :

December 25th 1996
The District Nurse came early again on Christmas morning, and although Jenny was upset when they changed her dressing, it didn’t seem quite so bad this time.

After breakfast, I packed Jenny into the car and we left for Wiltshire. There was no traffic and I drove fast, feeling the adrenaline of escape as we covered the miles.

Jenny was very bright when we arrived, and despite all of her worries she maintained that mood all morning. In the afternoon she grew quieter. When people started taking photographs, she wasn’t at all keen. Perhaps she was realising how ill she looked – or was she simply very tired after the journey?

As Jenny dozed, I sat down with Tom, confiding my fears. Looking back, I can see my fruitless talks with Jenny’s family very much as a repeated theme. It wasn’t that I wanted to be the harbinger of doom, more that I needed someone to acknowledge our situation, and someone to understand.

But it was no good. Tom heard me and he made encouraging noises, but I could sense that he just didn’t believe it, perhaps because he didn’t want to. Jenny had managed to be so lively and so cheery all day, and I’m sure it never was apparent how much effort it took her to do that, just for their benefit.

December 26th 1996
On Boxing Day morning, I packed everything up to drive to Stratford. Of course, Jenny wasn’t able to help, and there was a lot to do, since Emily and William needed to be fed and readied, too. I can remember growing silently angry then, feeling frustrated that no one was helping me to load up the car.

Sal had been such a help to Jenny. She’d made so many visits over all those months, even when her hands were full with new-born Liam.

But that morning, it was me who did everything. It seemed as if helping Jenny was one thing, and helping me was another. Believe me, and it was a very selfish thought, I know, but I wondered if that’s what life without Jenny would be like.

When we arrived in Stratford, my folks were shocked. They hadn’t seen us for some weeks, and Jenny was pale and very tired – so tired that we had to help her out of the car.

Then she just lay on the sofa under a blanket for two days, and didn’t sit up even to open her presents – leaving us to open them for her. Jenny’s presents were mostly winter clothes – what else can you buy for a dying person than something they can use right now?

My present to Jenny was an eternity ring in aquamarine, one of her favourite stones. At least it was for eternity, I thought. But I’d bought it the same size as her other rings, forgetting that her left hand was swollen with lymphoedema.

Jenny just couldn’t wear it. It didn’t fit her right hand either, so finally we squeezed it onto a little finger until she slipped it off altogether.

: : : : : : : : : :

Jenny was in hospital for another transfusion a few days before Christmas. It seemed a good idea to inject some energy into her, since we were going to be busy.

The evening before Christmas Eve, we sat on the living room floor wrapping all of the presents. Those morphine patches were working better and Jenny seemed chirpy again, almost like her old self.

That was such a relief, since we hadn’t been able to talk for months now, and through her drowsy narcotic haze it had been hard to tell how Jenny was really feeling. Her emotions had seemed numbed, too. There had been no tears and no wailing or sorrow in those weeks. Just relentlessly dogged and blank stoicism.

Distant as the morphine had made her, it had seemed like a matter of time passing for Jenny, and waiting – always waiting for that improvement to come. Now she was back with me again, and it was such a relief.

And if I can’t remember exactly what we talked about that night, then it was certainly a happy Christmas conversation which we hadn’t had before.

The following morning, Christmas Eve, the District Nurse came to change the dressing on Jenny’s breast, which had been oozing for quite a few weeks by now.

The Christmas shift pattern meant that it was a different nurse, not Julie, who came that day, and yet they were all brilliant, always positive, always offering helpful suggestions and a smile to keep us going.

But that morning Jenny came downstairs in tears. Her breast had ulcerated, starting to bleed when they changed the dressing. That was gruesome, and it upset her almost more than I can tell you. It was the disfigurement and the destruction of the body she was living in that distressed Jenny most then and seemed finally to bring home the horror of it all.

During our visit to the Royal Surrey the week before, a kindly specialist nurse named Margaret had fitted the syringe driver, and Jenny had asked her how long it would take for her breast to heal once the chemotherapy began to work.

Margaret told her that she doubted it would ever return to normal, and that Jenny would probably always have to live with it now. And that realisation – it was almost more shocking to Jenny – maybe it was more shocking – than the thought of dying itself.

I had seen the raw emotion raking through Jenny on the day of her relapse, and it was there again that Christmas Eve. And although the medical staff comforted her about the scarring and bleeding, Jenny simply wouldn’t show me.

To my shame, I didn’t want to look either – how could I, however much I wanted to help? It was one more thing that we couldn’t talk about. It would never get better, if she wasn’t going to get better.

And I just couldn’t say that – I couldn’t.

: : : : : : : : : :

Summer’s gone – the winter’s in your eyes
I can feel the thunderstorms inside
I wake every morning
And the cold winds cover me
All I’ve got’s a ghost of what could be
- Simple Minds 1991

December 24th 1996
It was clear to me now that Jenny was going downhill, and with such apparent resignation and my talk of hopes for a painless end to it all, perhaps you’ll think of me as being cold and clinical in those weeks. I didn’t mean to be, but I knew that somehow I did have to stay calm and strong enough for both of us.

And as Christmas drew nearer, more than ever I realised that we had to make the very most of our time together, however we could. The reality that we would never share another Christmas together tore me apart.

As the holiday approached, we returned to the Royal Surrey for the start of yet another new chemo regime – this time they fixed up a syringe driver to deliver a slow but continuous flow.

We thought it might be an improvement, but now I think that it was simply a more humane way of administering a lower dose which might slow things down just a little, if we were lucky.

I packed for Christmas. I’d bought all the presents – not much time spent this year but a huge effort in the circumstances. The previous week we had finally given up on the morphine tablets, since Jenny needed more and more of them, and was sleeping virtually all of the time. She was offered morphine patches instead. They seemed to work better, at least for two days rather than three as claimed, and Jenny was instantly more alert.

She had hardly been in any pain, except on that one terrible occasion in the hospital, and had been happy to sleep on and off whilst taking the morphine tablets, but for my part I had missed her all through those long grey autumn months, and now I desperately needed her to be back – I wanted her with me over this closing stretch.

And as time kept rolling past us, and a quick and peaceful end changed from a distant concept to a much more immediately frightening reality, the less I found that I could actually face it happening.

Because the longer Jenny’s struggle continued, the more selfishly that I wanted her to live, and the longer I wanted her just to stay with me, regardless of anything else.

: : : : : : : : : :

A short while ago, I wrote about some of the best writing on the web which spoke to me about terminal illness, bereavement and recovery.

Here is some more inspiration leading from the shock of diagnosis, with sinking heart past the hospital and the school gate, towards the far distant horizon of a new life ahead.

Life - Cancer is a cruel and indiscriminate illness, with a nasty habit of seeking out families in their prime. Marisa was 33 when she was diagnosed, and she fought every day for more time with her husband Mendelt and their three young children.

Marisa’s steadfast beliefs kept her spirit strong, but finally could not spare her body from the ravages of disease, and she died in Mendelt’s arms in December 2007.

How can a husband face the darkest of times whilst sheltering three young children from sorrow and pain? How can anyone resolve the bitterness of separation with the forgiveness of faith? These are questions which exercise all bereaved parents. Long lonely nights pass into bittersweet days as the children’s progress brings wonder and regret than can not be shared. Live life with Mendelt, and you’ll see just what that’s like.

Dying Man’s Daily Journal - How would you feel if the doctors told you, “You’re dying” ? Would you feel anger and fear, or could you accept it philosophically, in time?

Bill Howdle heard those words in 2004. Two years later, he started a diary - as frank and realistic as it is optimistic and inspirational. Bill’s thoughts have deep lessons for us all, whatever problems we think we might have in our lives.

A Journey Well Taken tells the story of Elaine Williams, who lost her husband to cancer four years ago. Elaine recounts the heartbreak and anguish that she suffered, but just as importantly she shows how to cope with the traumas, how to build forwards from bereavement, and how to live life again.

If bereavement is a journey, then Elaine shows you how to reach its destination. And she’s written a book about it, too.

Single Parent Dad - It’s not easy being a parent, and there’s no instruction manual. Raising a toddler brings decisions every day - on food, on education, childcare, and discipline, and so much more.

There are millions of ‘mums blogs’ - but what is it really like to be a father today? A single dad, too, and a bereaved one at that? There aren’t many role models. Society still isn’t used to the idea of single fathers, and neither are mothers.

That’s why any lone father at a coffee morning or stood outside the the school gate knows how exclusive a group of playground mums can be.

Lessons from Lou - Cancer, bereavement, recovery… just three words, and they all run together, one from another. That’s our story here, and it’s Cathy’s as well.

Cathy’s husband Lou died from a brain tumour some two years ago, leaving her with two marvellous sons, many wonderful memories, and a new life ahead. Cathy’s niece is facing breast cancer now - there are always reminders, of this terrible disease - but she’s coping with her own loss, and she’s building a future.

Yet is this journey really so linear? Is there a place where bereavement falls clearly behind you, and you can go forwards from there? The truth is that there’s an eternity of waiting, when bereavement’s long misery just never ends. But eventually, life calls.

One evening a widow wants to wear her favourite red dress. A widower longs for the kind warmth of a woman once more. So does it really end there? No, not at all.

This is the long tail of bereavement that no one can admit. The time when you’re supposed to be ‘over it’ but just can’t quite let go. The is the stage of transition, where you’re moving steadily forwards, yet slipping back in between. Time when the future is calling, when you’re pulled back into the past.

How long does this last - for weeks, months or years? What does it feel like? Is this the disorientation of a few bad moments, or will it recur for a lifetime? How can you resolve grief in the past, whilst living and loving, in a life of today? These are the questions of late stage bereavement, and of life far beyond.

The long tail of bereavement. Now there’s a new thought, for another day ahead.

: : : : : : : : : :

Bereavement changes people, in unlikely ways. That’s a truth hidden far behind Hollywood’s clichéd portrayals of tragic young death.

Frankly, it’s hard to go to the cinema after you’ve been bereaved. There’s so much more death and sadness in films than you might ever have realised.

Terminal illness and suffering turn up in the most unexpected of places. Films covering conventional themes turn out to have subtexts of grief and loss running through them. The first screen selection here - Love Story - defines itself as a bereavement movie. But others are less clearly signposted.

To the uninitiated, The Constant Gardener appears as an elegantly sophisticated international thriller, set in the diplomatic enclaves of Nairobi, the slums of Kibera, and the wild landscapes of Lake Turkana in northwest Kenya.

On the surface, the film tells of cynical corruption and deceipt by multi-national pharmaceutical companies which put commercial gain before compassion, prioritising their stranglehold on the intellectual copyright for lifesaving drugs over the effective treatment of tropical disease amongst the African poor.

It’s a story of intrigue and greed, showing how dollars too often come before human lives, even in the most dire situations of need and suffering.

But this movie tells an urgently powerful story about bereavement, too.

The film opens with the death of a diplomat’s young wife in a roadside attack on the vast African plains. Pretty soon we find out that this is Tessa (Rachel Weisz), the outspoken wife of quiet, thoughtful and cultured Justin (Ralph Fiennes), a mid-ranking diplomat working in the British High Commission in Nairobi.

Justin seems a typical diplomat - he is urbane and refined, as well as cautiously pragmatic and deliberate, with a plodding and loyal nature highlighted by an obsessive fascination with caring for his plants.

Tessa is a perfect counterpoint. She is a feisty firebrand of an activist, impulsive, challenging, principled and argumentative. She is certain of her convictions, whilst strangely insecure in her own skin, all at the same time.

The pair meet when Justin is roped in at the last minute to give a university seminar about the work of the High Commission, and he skilfully turns her aggressive questioning into a constructive exploration of Africa’s problems.

The couple spend time together, and fall passionately in love. Beneath their polarised characters, there is a deep intellectual connection which draws them together, and perhaps an enthralment in exploring their own opposites, too.

Tessa doesn’t fit into expat life in Nairobi. Riling against the conditions in Kenya, she is full of anger and dark frustration, emotions which no career diplomat dare ever set free. She drives around the slums of Kibera with an African doctor, setting tongues wagging as the scent of scandal and suspected adultery drifts carelessly behind them. Justin is unconcerned, or perhaps he knows instinctively that what Tessa does, is what Tessa must do.

But she is onto something, something big and terrible, and before too long Tessa’s life is brutally ended as she pushes towards a discovery which Africa’s vested interests simply can not allow to be told.

We join Justin in the first disbelieving hours of bereavement. He is sheltered in a dark basement annexe beneath the house of friends from the High Commission. Even in shock, he is dignified and in emotional control, but that fades through long lonely days as he grapples with the truth. He has to identify Tessa’s maimed and defiled body, and he makes the stark realisation that his beautiful Tessa is lost for ever, if she ever truly belonged to him at all.

Slowly, events conspire to place Justin back on Tessa’s trail. He has to find out what has really happened, he needs to see where Tessa died, and he needs to know what Tessa was trying to tell him. He is galvanised, transformed - channelling the energy of his grief as he pursues his wife’s enquiring and imprudent spirit to the ends of the Earth.

And the truth is that bereavement does change people, and I know it to be true.

I love this story for all sorts of reasons. I read the book by John le Carré whilst in Kenya last year, where I could relate to the wild African landscapes and readily identify with the portrayal of poverty and the failure of foreign aid.

The film excels in its translation of the book’s complex storyline into screenplay. The handheld camera work lends raw immediacy to the shots of Kibera, setting a contrast with the calm stillness of Nairobi’s expatriate suburbs.

But just as the early scenes are lit up by the chemistry between Fiennes and Weisz (who won an Academy Award as Best Supporting Actor), so it is Justin’s detached and steely determination which underpins the body of the film as it progresses towards its inevitable and lonely finale.

Can I identify with these characters? Maybe. There was more than a touch of the fearless and vivaciously challenging Tessa in Jenny, and sadly there is more than a little of the cautiously reserved and laconic Justin in me.

The couple’s violent separation is sudden and shocking. Afterwards, the dark days of Justin’s bereavement lead him into actions he would never have considered before. And whilst I haven’t taken up arms or intrigue, I’ve found my life transformed in many smaller ways. I’m a very different person now. Stronger, harder, tougher? Yes, certainly. And, I hope, more thoughtfully tolerant, too.

These days I’m much more aware of my mortality, of my own failings, and of life’s opportunity stretching forwards ahead. I feel my responsibilities to a much greater depth. And in my own life’s journey, I feel endlessly impatient, and driven towards progressing many more causes, of which this project is one.

There’s a yearning inside that sense of impatience. An unsettled kind of agitation in realising that life is for living. An awareness of another soul moving forwards with you. A restlessness to live each hour, to fulfil the mission of this life that we’re given.

It’s a tough school, bereavement, and it offers a hard way of learning. Bereavement changes people. It makes them stronger, and wiser, and much more committedly determined than ever before. Of that much I’m certain.

And believe me, I do a lot less gardening now.

: : : : : : : : : :