That’s one thing my father always said,” Phyllis MacNamara smiles softly, “he’s the only person who knows that I would have difficulty choosing between a yellow diamond and a primrose.”

You might suppose that after 41 years in antique jewellery, cold, commercial sense would trample on any tender posy. But while Phyllis has made her living at Cobwebs on Galway’s Quay Lane since 1972, it’s never just been about the bottom line.

Just a few days before our interview, she lost the sale – deliberately – of an antique locket, when the customer said they’d get rid of the lock of hair encased by its original owner.

“I said: ‘Maybe this isn’t the right piece for you,’” she says, without a smidge of regret. “I was losing the sale to preserve the piece.”

Preservation is a word that comes up repeatedly with Phyllis – and not just about jewellery. She “cried buckets” when the old paving stones were taken up from her street. One of her most precious possessions is a doll, because it was the first thing she learned to look after as a child.

“We have so much to lose,” says Phyllis. “Preservation is so important.”

Loss

Loss. That’s a word that comes up too.

In April 2008, just 26 minutes after he brought her a cup of tea in bed, Phyllis discovered that her husband, Michael, had taken his own life in the barn. Struggling to cope, she nearly lost herself.

So, when Phyllis says she could not choose between a diamond and a primrose, you believe her.

“I truly see,” Phyllis continues, “now more than ever since I lost Michael, what’s important and what’s not.”

Six years on, there are moments when Phyllis’s grief is stripped – but there is also light.

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The romance of Cobwebs, with its mix of early 20th century jewellery, trinket boxes, silver-handled hairbrushes, glittering engagement rings and costume pieces, reflects her sparkle.

She is still as glamorous – and sometimes as giddy – as the 21-year-old who came to help her sister “for one week” at Cobwebs – starting with neither electricity nor running water.

“Our parents gave us the present of an outdoor loo,” laughs Phyllis.

Her father, James Lydon, was in catering, and is still her “greatest inspiration”.

“He certainly made me believe that I could do anything,” she smiles. “He used to say: ‘You could run Harrods.’”

Phyllis studied business for a year in Trinity, but switched to Fine Art, Irish and English. Though the year wasn’t in vain as it was there she became friends with Michael MacNamara.

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“He was the person on whose shoulder I cried when my romance in Galway was going badly, he was the person I ran to when I missed the train home,” says Phyllis. “He was, totally, my friend.”

So, it was a “huge shock” when she realised she was in love with him the day his father died – not least because she was engaged to somebody else.

“I had to be with him,” she recalls. “And, luckily, he too realised he was in love with me.”

On 18 May 1974, Phyllis “rushed up” the aisle of Galway Cathedral. It was the start of “33 years of absolute bliss”, completed with the arrival of son, James, and a dream home in Oranmore.

While Phyllis’s sister left Cobwebs to raise her family, she developed it, bringing in children’s toys and trinkets, while also studying antique jewellery with Sotheby’s, London.

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“So I have girls coming to get their engagement rings and they tell me they got their doll’s house furniture here,” she smiles.

Phyllis never lost that newlywed excitement with Michael either. They would meet for lunch every day, Phyllis watching from the window for him to turn the corner.

“I’d run down to him,” she says. “I adored him.”

Nicknamed “The Gentleman”, Michael worked as a solicitor, dressed beautifully and was “totally, utterly and completely kind.”

“Which sort of led to his death,” she adds quietly.

He had started to suffer anxiety attacks about his work. He wasn’t sleeping. He lost weight. Everyday tasks, like going to the supermarket, became overwhelming.

“In the last few days, he started to get afraid of sound,” says Phyllis.

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“When we got into the car, he thought all the cars were coming at us. His mind just flipped and it just went from being normal to being abnormal in the shortest space of time.”

The Blackest Place

They had been to the GP and had a psychiatrist appointment, but the Saturday before Michael died Phyllis made 40 phone calls “begging for help”.

“Everybody told me what not to do, but nobody could tell me what to do,” she says.

That Michael might take his own life never seemed possible to Phyllis – even the night before, when the main character in a book she was reading died by suicide.

“It didn’t ring any alarm bells for me,” she says. “But you can never measure another person’s pain.”

Phyllis openly admits that losing Michael made her consider suicide herself. She describes one evening, surrounded by friends and family, that she begged for an hour on her own. Her sister was, reluctantly, last to leave.

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“I watched her drive down the avenue and I said: ‘Thank God she’s gone,’ and I went to the bathroom to drown myself,” says Phyllis calmly.

“When I got to the bathroom, the water was cold. I threw myself on the bathroom floor and sobbed and sobbed because I wanted to die and I couldn’t die in cold water. I just wanted to go in and put my head under and die.

“My sister came back and she found me on the floor and she said: ‘I changed my mind, I’m not leaving you.’”

There were other dark moments, but one of the few pieces of advice that “connected” with her came from a monk from Glenstal Abbey.

“He said: ‘There is no place on this earth blacker than where you are, so put up your hand and scream for help and help will come.’ And I did,” says Phyllis.

“I believe totally in the existence of God and I believed that God was the one who would help me. I learned too, the humility of saying to people: ‘Help me.’

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“There were so many things I couldn’t do. I remember once needing tights and thinking: ‘How on earth will I get a pair of tights?’ and asking someone: ‘Please, will you buy me a pair of tights?’

I remember this woman being so relieved because she wanted to do something for me. You have to humble yourself to be able to ask for help.”

The suicide-bereavement charity, Console, taught Phyllis to live “15 minutes at a time” through counselling.

She is now ambassador of the charity and was recently appointed as a non-executive director to the hospital board in Galway, though believes the epidemic of suicide has yet to be acknowledged in Ireland.

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“It cuts me up every day, but I have to talk about it,” she says. “Imagine if I saved one person from dying, just one. We could change it. I know we could.”

Phyllis has accepted she will never “get over” Michael’s death, but has learnt how to live with it. She describes an exquisite moment at a friend’s birthday party.

“There was music playing. My friend had her arm around me and she was holding me really tight. The music was beautiful and we started to sway and suddenly I was dancing. I looked at her and I said: ‘I’m dancing. I’m dancing.’ I never thought I could dance again,” she admits.

The arrival of her grandson, Alexander, who recently celebrated his second birthday, also proved a great source of joy, and Phyllis will be an even busier grandmother in January, with a set of twins due.

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Business has also turned a corner since the recession as it’s never been a better time to buy, with Phyllis finding herself in demand for lectures on jewellery and its history.

A second chance

Meanwhile, she has surprised herself with a new relationship.

Phyllis met Jimmy in September 2011. He too was coming to terms with the loss of his wife. They became confidants and one day discovered it was something more.

“He’s given me back joy,” smiles Phyllis. “But I can still cry with Jimmy and he can hold me really tight, and he can cry with me and I can hold him really tight. That’s really wonderful.

“We are both so grateful to have been given a second chance, something neither of us ever dreamt could happen.”

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After over 40 years at Cobwebs, Phyllis feels she is “starting again.” Much like her beloved blooms, she’s looking towards the promise of spring.

“When Michael died, I felt as though I had two cement blocks tied to my feet with chains, while my arms were hung with two cement blocks and chains, and a yoke with two horrendous weights sat over my shoulders,” she says.

“The blocks are gone, the chains are gone. The yoke is still there but the burden is so much lighter. And I’m happy to tell you that one of my buckets is now full of happiness.” CL