Anne Madden reminded me of my mum. Both had spent childhood years in Chile, both adored their fathers, fought with their mothers. Both were spectacularly fearless horsewomen. I never quite worked out if my grandmother Gaga, was one of Anne’s father’s four sisters, what did that make Anne to me? Who cared? There was red wine to be drunk, endless hours to be had discussing, and dissecting, painters, writers, politicians, poets.
Covid lockdown had just lifted. But Anne’s husband of 53 years, painter Louis le Brocquy had died, and her right hand woman of 38 years had returned home to the Philippines. She was alone. I became friend, buyer of soup, internet wrangler, occasional roller of joints (“Can’t you roll them any faster?”), and devoted admirer.
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