There she is, with the radiant, open smile as always, the last time I saw her at the local cafe last October. Our beloved Max/Machteld Hopperus Buma died on 29 June, aged only 64. Wife of Nick Hills, J's good friend from Glyndebourne days, mother of J's godson Frank and of Charlie, nominally mine since another premature loss, and equally beloved of all of us. She packed more in to her too-short life than many ever do - an avid traveller (as KLM steward, and way beyond that) and photographer (so much will be documented, amen!). Perhaps the most empathetic person I've known other than J, curious about everything, adored equally by her two sisters Eline and Dorette, whom we've also got to know well over the years, and by so many others who packed the English Reformed Church in Amsterdam's beautiful Begijnhof last Tuesday.
The cover image sums up her vibrancy - on top of the world (the Edelweiss is an appropriate symbol) -
and her glamour is to the fore here in another photo within the order of service.
KLM style, leaving home on the Sarphatipark
and with Nick and the boys at the Chiddingstone wedding, where J sang Gluck.
The Amsterdam wedding party was unforgettable: we were met at the station by Eline and her then husband, taken around the canals by boat and joined another for the wedding reception. So many happy visits; the last was around one New Year, where we had a fun supper on the eve with friends of theirs in Scheveningen (we met again on Tuesday; I was so happy to see them again). Fun times in Max's higgledy-piggledy flat off Lange Leidse; a visit to welcome the firstborn
The next day I found I had chickenpox, but fortunately Frankie at that stage didn't catch it (our friend Jo in Brussels wanted her son, somewhat older, to get it, but he didn't either). Max was also a mover and shaker of Orkestival, the Dutch school orchestras competition at the Concertgebouw, no less, and got me along to help judge it (there are more photos of her in this blog entry).
There were also shorter stays in Chiddingstone, Hills territory.
No mum could be justifiably prouder than Max was (is) of Frankie and Charlie, who've grown up to be sensitive, kind, loving young men both, gifted in very different ways. One saving grace is that they're in their 20s now, and not younger; another, which I shared with Charlie on Tuesday, is their having had time before the end to say all the things they wanted (I remembered Oliver Sacks's partner saying how much laughter there was in the final stretch of his illness).
I was also glad to have regular WhatsApp exchanges with Max in the last three weeks. She sent me a treasurable message with these photos and others: 'Cornwall August '96. I am grateful for the wonderful walking days, the beauty of Cornwall you showed us [we actually started in Devon and crossed the border before reaching Morwenstow, ending at Crackington Haven]. Such a joy to think back on those very special days. Dorette, Charlie and I looked at the photos and a huge joy came over me. You swimming at Hartland Quay and the colourful heather we climbed up to reach the hotel. So many dear memories. I cherish those days with you. A year later was the arrival of Frank'.
(A fuller shot of our last meeting).
Joy, then, to nearly the end (I hate to think of the pain, which I thought could be avoided - or so Nell, the first friend I lost to cancer, told me). It will, as Nick's address put it, be fascinating to see how Max now lives on with us.
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