Funny, warm, wise: I will miss my friend Deirdre Purcell beyond words

Generous friend: Deirdre Purcell. Photo by Steve Humphreys

Patricia Scanlan

Only a couple of weeks ago, on a sunny, Sunday afternoon, my friend Deirdre Purcell and I were making plans for her to visit me in Wicklow. I was planning to take her to a fabulous Aladdin’s Cave of a shop in Redcross, the Latin Quarter. She would have adored it. She was an inveterate shopper and I would probably have had to drag her out of it screaming. We were going to go to the garden centre in Mount Usher and buy spring bedding, and visit another occasion of sin, Strawbridge. Our giddy delight would have known no bounds. I’d promised her that I’d keep my nose to the grindstone on my new novel, so I could enjoy our adventures guilt-free.

It wasn’t to be. Deirdre died suddenly on Monday, aged 77.

As well as being a stellar award-winning journalist, broadcaster and bestselling author, Deirdre was superbly gifted in the art of friendship. I discovered this 32 years ago, when she phoned me in Finglas Library, where I was working as a library assistant, to invite me to lunch, to celebrate the success of my first novel, City Girl.

I was gobsmacked. Deirdre was a famous TV personality and journalist, and her own first novel, A Place of Stones, had recently hit the shelves. I used to devour her in-depth interviews every Sunday in the Tribune. I was in awe of her.

I had an ear infection and thought the restaurant she was inviting me to was called ‘Peepoes’ in Baggot Street, as I told my boss, Ali O’Shaughnessy who, coincidentally, had known Deirdre years earlier when they worked at Aer Lingus. “Ye eejit,” he laughed. “It’s Guilbaud’s.” I nearly had a heart attack. Not only was I going to be meeting Deirdre Purcell, I was going to the poshest restaurant in Dublin. I was quaking as I was shown to her table.

“Hiya,” she said in the beautiful soft voice that had enchanted thousands of listeners. And then she smiled, and I smiled back, and it was like we’d always known each other. I don’t remember what we ate because we started talking and were still nattering as we made out way to our cars several hours later.

I, thinking I should reciprocate, invited her to Locks, some weeks later, and again we lost track of time, so engrossed were we in all we had to tell each other. I do remember at one stage we were discussing fortunetellers, and me studying her palm, and us laughing heartily.

It was the last of our very ‘fine dining’ adventures. Deirdre and I were ‘elbows on the table’ kinda gals. Often going to or from an event, dressed to the nines, full make-up on, we would be sitting in the car having a chippie, and her saying, “if only they could see the two best-selling authors indulging in real fine dining”. We loved our takeaways.

She was wonderful to go on holidays with: so easy, and unpretentious. I had an apartment on the Costa del Sol and I loved when she came to stay. Both of us had a lot going on, and the minute we arrived, after the early morning flight, we would dump our luggage and meander down to El Capricho, our favourite restaurant, and instantly relax, even before the first G&T had been served. Listening to the soothing lullaby of the sea lapping against the shore, gazing across the glittering Mediterranean to the mystical High Atlas Mountains in Morocco, our stress would melt away.

There was always a shopping trip, of course. Marbella was 20 minutes away, and there was a huge Carrefour en route. Deirdre was doing up a house and we ended up with excess luggage on that trip. The market in La Cala was our absolute favourite though. A shopper’s paradise. I remember us reading for hours — what a luxury that was. No interruptions, just the sound of the sea, birdsong, and the scent of bougainvillea wafting along on a balmy breeze.

Deirdre was such a giving and generous friend. When I asked her to write a novella for the Open Door Literacy series, she wrote two, and a beautiful short story for Voices, our anthology.

She had the most beautiful voice, melodious, like warm honey, and I could think of no one I’d prefer to narrate one of my audiobooks. When I was asked by my publishers if I had a preference, she went to London for a week to record it and would call often to fill me in. I’ll have that as a bittersweet reminder of her voice.

Memories come thick and fast. The morning of her wedding to Kevin Healy and her picking roses in my garden for her bouquet. Sitting beside her on a stage, listening spellbound to her speaking to an enthralled audience, thinking: how do I follow that? Eating chips on the seafront in Clontarf under a full moon after an event. Watching her drape a scarf over her shoulder, lifting an outfit to perfection, elegance and grace personified.

Mostly I remember us laughing, great hearty guffaws — she had a wicked sense of humour. My beautiful friend, Deirdre.

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