My family, my friend

IN MEMORY OF CAROLINE WALSH:YOU ALWAYS FEAR for your family and friends. Caroline Walsh was both to me: the beloved pal with the flair for the one-liners, the big sister who made sure you behaved, the fellow book fanatic who delighted in great fiction, the editor with the patience of a saint.

Long before she became literary editor, in 1999, Caroline was already a gifted editor; she had tremendous instincts. She knew what made a story. Above all, she knew how to encourage and inspire. She made a generation – no, created two generations – of journalists. In a profession not known for generosity, she was generous.

Grief is a selfish thing. We all reckon our individual hurt is the most important one. We have all lost Caroline. I lost my friend, my buddy. The first thing my daughter, Nadia, said was how sorry she was. Her second comment was even more telling: “I can’t believe I won’t ever hear you two talking together again.”

Conversations with Caroline were always interesting, at times profound, and always funny. Her anecdotes were wonderful, her attention to detail superb.

What amazing stories, such as, “There I was, like Eloise, waiting in the car while Mother chatted with Chagall.” I urged her to write her account of life with her mother.

I loved listening to Caroline in full flow. She sent me literary postcards from all over Europe, bought me troll dolls and always believed I’d find true love. I did, in her.

There were so many Saturdays when she was out on her bike and would phone to tell me she was reading a book that she loved so much she never wanted it to end. She may as well have been describing herself: no one ever wanted Caroline to end. She used to tell me that we could look forward to being mad old women together. “You will have arthritis, and we will both be shouting at each other about books, but I’m already deaf in one ear.”

She loved her children and kept me informed about their adventures and their travels; their achievements, their projects, their romances: how Matt learned Spanish, how Alice went to Madison, Wisconsin.

“She got there, you know,” Caroline said kindly, reminding me that the time she sent me there to interview the American writer Lorrie Moore, I failed to make the journey, as I had arrived at Dublin Airport minus my passport. Nadia, then five, had taken it out of my suitcase, “in case I lost it”.

The wrath of the gods should by rights have descended on me, but Caroline saved me, as she always did, explaining to exasperated subeditors waiting for late copy that the particular novel had “only just arrived”. No human was kinder to my Nadia than Caroline.

There was great charm, a girl’s smile, a brilliantly engaging and effective absent-minded routine that eased us through work, through life. She exuded old-style civility. How proud Caroline was of James Ryan, her husband, the university lecturer and novelist, a great teacher, an astute critic.

I remember the night she arrived at my house in July 2000. It was 1.30am on a Saturday. She had a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It had been released at midnight, and the editor wanted a review in the paper on Monday morning. "It means you have to file on Sunday morning. It gives you 24 hours to read, ah, 636 pages."

There were candles on the window sills and on the landing. “I love this atmosphere,” she said. There had been a power cut.

I read 300 pages but must have fallen asleep. I awoke because the pillow was on fire. The candle had fallen over. When I told Caroline, she was very excited. “Put that in the review,” she said. “It’s not in the book.” About 10 minutes later she phoned back. “Of course, I was worried about the pillow burning – but it’s a great story.”

No one loved stories more; few told them so well. Every day was an adventure. She gave, she shared, she wanted life to be good for everyone. My friend Caroline helped all of us.