Today we said our final goodbye to an extraordinary person. The red acer above is a constant reminder of our friendship. When I met Marysia and her sister Anna they both had hair the colour of this tree. Like Anne of Green Gables they both became my heroines, for their vibrancy, unconventionality and fierce intelligence which manifested itself in my eyes through their beautifully ironic and idiosyncratic sense of humour. I am talking about both sisters here, because on many ways they were very alike. More importantly they were extremely close to each other -, they came as a package, even if many miles apart.

And the same today, at the funeral. Anna had died several years ago, yet she was very present.

The funeral, we had been told, would be humanistic, not religious. That was very fitting because Marysia was adamantly atheist. The ceremony was in the same house of ceremonies that my mother in law’s Mass had been. It was interesting to see how different it would be.

It was extremely different.

We arrived early , full sunshine outside. we went inside and sat near the screen. On a great big catafalque surrounded by six enormous candles (very serious, very imposing) was a rather large urn, next to a doll which looked just like Marysia. Long red hair. Glasses.

The mistress of ceremonies – I’m not sure what to call the function- came in. She was dressed in a unicorn onesie. Eyes were opened. Everyone laughed . This wasn’t just the relief of tension, but the setting of the tone for the day. No one had time to take a photo – it was such a strange moment. Then the unicorn began to smoke a cigarette. The smell of the smoke was more powerful than any incense to recall Marysia. You could almost feel everyone breathing it in.

The unicorn proceeded to divest itself of the outfit and then the eulogies began.

We watched the screen with Marysia’s life story being illustrated in photographs. No words. Unnecessary. I cried. There were photos of us with my mother and the sisters in Paris. With Marysia’s husband in London and in my aunt’s, now my, house in Cookham. It was incredibly moving.

Her nephew prepared the scene by lighting some more candles.

Marysia loved candlelight. Her flat in Warsaw seemed always to be entirely lit by them.

Then the trumpeter began to play. A Jewish melody to honour her Jewish roots.

People read passages from her two books. She wrote about death and dying. Always with a sideways glance.

Finally a catholic priest came up to say a few words. People looked up. He was impressive as he gave a short account of their strong friendship.

We were invited to the grave side. A long long walk. In the pouring rain. We didn’t have umbrellas. Thunder and lightning. Twenty minutes later, maybe more, we arrived. Drenched .

One little boy quickly took shelter under the grave stone.

More speeches. More paeans. More downpours. I couldn’t resist talking about our acer.

I stood under a tree next to a lady who had been in Marysia’s class at school. I was delighted when she said she knew exactly who I was.

We didn’t know anyone else. But it didn’t matter. This sodden group of people had turned out in force to say goodbye to our brave and wilful friend. And so a great camaraderie was forged.

Everybody agreed that she would have heartily enjoyed the irony of our discomfort. She might have been a bit embarrassed about the emotions she produced, but ultimately she would have relished the spirituality of the occasion. And the fact that we all got wet!

Buried with the man she called her ex fiancé, in fact her husband – they were married on a February 29th, so they didn’t have too many anniversaries, she was in fact widowed 31 years ago, she can now rest in peace, free from any anguish and pain.