The news of Eric’s death instantly went viral all over the world. He was often the headlines on the main page, not tucked away in the obituary columns. Even The Times leader was about his death. One would think he had been the president of a major country. We bought all the papers, and the private condolence letters arrived at the same time. Home became a 24/7 international mail and newsroom. The phones never stopped ringing at all hours, time zones forgotten by those waking up to the news, and it was difficult to concentrate. It was overwhelming for me because of what was going on inside my head, which was gobbledygook. I seemed quite unable to grasp the fact that Eric was now not existing in the world at all any more, not anywhere, not for anyone. I felt I could have borne the cruelty better if he had gone far away, even left me for someone else, because this way of not existing in the world meant the world itself was now not a thing for me. It was like a form of delirium; I wondered if other bereaved people have had this disorienting experience. Quite paradoxically, I also felt relief. Only a week earlier I was making enquiries about a nearby nursing home, because I sensed the looming disability facing Eric. Soon he would be unable to stand or turn around on his own, however slowly. Our life as we knew it would be over. He would have to be lifted and need two carers during the day and also one at night. Now I didn’t have to worry about those things any more, nor most importantly, worry about how Eric was feeling – that was all over. Eric’s friend Nicholas Jacobs, from way back in Communist Party days and also our family friend, had recently surfaced again in our lives. He was alone now, and came around often, we called him our Hausfreund. With him came interesting talk, and cheer to our house and to our sad predicament. He liked having meals with us and we enjoyed that too. Actually, until the final weakening, before Eric was in hospital, we were still happily going out to the cinema, often the three of us, followed by a restaurant (usually Chinese) for a post-film discussion. Nick kindly came to all our funeral meetings, with his immeasurable knowledge of classical music, to help Andy, Julia and I. Eric had written his wishes for the funeral – which was to be held at Golders Green Crematorium – a long time beforehand and we kept about 80 per cent of them. Andy, a wizard on his mobile phone, found what we wanted in seconds, and Nick knew by heart the best recordings and with the best singers. I wanted the first orchestral bars of Bellini’s ‘Casta Diva’ from the opera Norma to accompany the pallbearers. We were lucky that on the actual day, the number of bars matched exactly with their steps to the resting place of the coffin. Then came music by Beethoven, Mozart and, surprisingly to some, Offenbach and not surprisingly, instrumental jazz – ‘Slow Grind’ played by the Kenny Barron Trio. Of the many tributes and readings, the highlights were a tour de force eulogy by the historian Roy Foster and also moving memories spoken by Andy. In his written wishes, Eric had specified a non-religious funeral, and yet it was he himself who had previously (out of the blue) asked his friend Ira Katznelson if he would read the Kaddish at his funeral. Perhaps Eric was returning to a memory of when he was fourteen, remembering the advice and wish of his dying mother: that he must never do anything to suggest he was ashamed of being a Jew. When the time came, Ira made a flash visit from New York with his wife Debbie to say the Jewish prayer and then caught the ‘red eye’ back that same night. Eric had agreed with me that he wanted the melody of ‘The Internationale’ for the final piece and also exit music, and Andy’s mobile searches had come up with a particularly fine French orchestral rendition, which was triumphant with tambourines instead of the usual solemnity. Many in the congregation sang the words out loud and heartily. The funeral ended on an uplifting note, which prevailed at the lunch served with much friendliness by staff at the nearby pub, the Bull and Bush. Andy and Julia came home with me, and some relations too. By six o’clock I was on my own and I knew the best thing for me was my reliable Beethoven therapy: a hot drink, a rug, a good armchair and more or less any Beethoven CD. This time I chose the Ninth Symphony because it begins chaotically and seemingly without a plan (as I found myself that day) but soon it would settle down, and if I had nodded off, the ‘Ode to Joy’ was sure to wake and revive me. It was in this way that I ended my saddest day.