I think, like many other people at the Writers' Workshop, I was a little bit in love with Maureen Devlin. I remember the very first time she paid us a visit - not the date, because I'm hopeless at that kind of thing, but the memory of her is crystal clear. I see her perched on her chair, looking around with that air of quiet authority she had, absolutely unafraid to speak her mind about a piece of work she'd just heard. Mark W reminded me that on his first visit to the group, Maureen listened to a piece of work he'd written and then laid into him without mercy, telling him to discard a great chunk of writing in the book's opening chapter. He was initially shocked but quickly came to realise he'd just been given invaluable advice. To a writer that's a precious commodity.
Maureen was cool, calm and - in the nicest sense of the word - a lady. What's more, she was a skilled and prolific writer. We listened to her compelling detective stories and I for one was convinced that she was destined to be published, somewhere down the line.
She came damned close too. Headline were really interested at one point but seemed to blow hot and cold, and then of course she became ill and the opportunity passed. Shallow of me, I know, to lament such a thing, but then I'm all too aware how important it is for any writer to see their work in print and in this respect, Maureen was no different to any of us. Her motivation for becoming a writer was refreshingly straightforward and practical. She read a book once and thought 'I can do better than that'. So she did. Several times.
I was somewhat in awe of her. Nothing seemed to phase her, she met every setback with quiet determination and always remained positive. I borrowed her surname for one of my fictional heroes, because in a strange way, she was a hero to me. Quite by chance, her childhood nickname - 'Biff' - was applied to a minor character in the same book. Gave her a dedication too.
Her marriage to Steve was a memorable day and an opportunity to celebrate, but at the same time it was tinged with sadness, because by then the illness was upon her and she had already suffered through the punishing rigours of chemotherapy. She looked absolutely radiant that day, but confessed to tiredness in the evening. Yet there she was, up on the dance floor, giving it her best.
One of my lasting regrets will be that when her illness worsened, I was embroiled in the break-up of my 20 year marriage and didn't find the time to visit her. I had simply underestimated the speed at which her condition would deteriorate. We spoke on the phone a few times and, ill as she was, her concerns were all for me and what I was going through. But that was typical of her.
We meet so many people in life, good, bad, indifferent. Maureen was special. I miss her terribly and will always remember her with the greatest affection. Her absence has left a space at the Group that may never be filled.
