Cupped by the Thames and cleansed by The Wetlands, Barnes is a village held in the Shepherd’s crook of South West London. On no particular evening a skein of honking geese chase the setting sun as rowers scoop the waves and glide beneath Hammersmith Bridge to the shouts of a barking coxswain.

Linda Jean Lines lived here and I can see why. From October until March this year Linda loaned me her home for peppercorn rent. Anna and I stayed in Linda’s four storey townhouse whilst she stayed in sunnier climes. Winter trudged by us and cherished memories were made in Linda’s warm home. On new Years eve Anna and I stood in the rooftop garden and watched fireworks explode across london. My sister came over from Trocadéro in Paris. My friend the poet Henry Normal stayed over for a night.

In February I received an email  “I’m getting in touch from g2, the Guardian’s daily features section, where we are asking a small selection of writers to pen a tribute to their “other mother” - essentially someone who has been a mother-figure in their life, despite not being their birth mother - ahead of Mother's Day” . I replied that I wouldn’t describe anyone as ‘a mother figure’.  I said I had a ‘dear friend of my mother’s age. And so I wrote 700 words on Linda. That was February.

Linda and I have been friends since 2013.

I knew the article would be published before Mother’s Day on March 19th but I didn’t know which day. On 13th March after six months I left the home all spic and span ready for Linda’s return. I went to Manchester.

On the same day a Whatsapp from Linda in Bangkok:  “ On my way home lemn…. Be lovely to see you? I hope you’ve enjoyed Barnes and all its delights…. Especially as it heads towards spring…”.  

On14th March Linda’s plane landed & the article appeared in The Guardian. I texted Linda with the piece and she replied

“Oh my goodness lemn! What a huge and wonderful tribute my darling… You do bring out the best in me and I always wanted a 2nd child. And now I’ve got one”. 

The first thing Linda did when she returned was to call her real son. They met and had dinner and she spent time with her dear friend Suzie and spoke with Mairead and Tunde. I’ve no doubt she spoke to many others.

I have since learned that she was over the moon with the article and sent it to all her family and friends. Writing the piece was my way of thanking her for allowing me to stay in her home.

The next message I received was from her dearest son on March 16th at 12.51pm.   “ Hi Lemn, just to let you know some v. sad news. My mum died suddenly this morning. We are all in complete shock”.

Linda’s funeral on May 4th was embraced with love. Her family were clearly besotted. I felt the true force of kin as eulogy after eulogy showered her wicker home with the kind of love only evident inside families bound by the heart. Is love complicated? Yes. But is it a force greater than any one person? I think it is. It was in full force at the funeral. Love between family. To have been there was a privilege I will take to my own grave.