Archie and the young driver from the other car rolled the coffin across the rollers and out of the hearse, enlisting the Blackie men to carry it to the grave. They laid it on the plastic grass next to the hole, a large mound of damp dirt to the side. It was rare these days to bury people rather than cremate them, even rarer for the whole ceremony to take place by the graveside. But Dorothy liked it, it was more honest, more connected than seeing a shrouded coffin sink inside a plinth in a cold chapel.

She stood with her hands clasped as the funeral party stood around the grave. She looked at some nearby gravestones, recent additions, engraving still sharp, lots of flowers and photographs. The Skelfs had buried some of these people and she wondered how the bereaved were coping. Were they dealing with it better than she was with Jim’s death? It was half a year now, and it was true what she’d told others for decades, the sharp pain did reduce, replaced by an aching throb. Background emotional noise that gave life a bittersweet edge.

The young Church of Scotland minister said a few quiet words to Gordon Blackie and his sons. They were working-class Scottish men, buttoned-up and stoic, there would be no wailing and gnashing of teeth today. Plus, Susan Blackie had suffered dementia for years so it felt like she’d left them a long time ago. Death was often a relief, though it was hard to admit that.

The minister began the familiar intonations of the ceremony. Susan’s life was remembered, our fragile nature in the face of the almighty was given a nod. The minister was in his twenties, floppy black fringe that he kept touching. Dorothy wondered how someone went into that profession fresh from school or college. But then she had entered the funeral business at the same age.

She looked around. The oak and beech trees were coming into leaf, the rejuvenation of spring. But there would be no rejuvenation for Susan Blackie. Nevertheless, Dorothy couldn’t help feeling something, a sense of rebirth, a chance to make the world new again.

The highest branches swayed in the breeze, pigeons and crows perched and watching. Dorothy heard the shush of Easter Road traffic mixed with the minister’s words. His voice didn’t have the gravitas for funerals yet, not enough experience. The Blackie men stared stony-faced at Susan’s coffin, as if they could lower it into the ground with sheer willpower.

Dorothy heard a police siren, faint but getting louder. She listened for the change in pitch, the Doppler effect Hannah had explained to her, when the source of the sound travelled away instead of towards you. But it didn’t change, the wailing just got louder, making the minister pause his eulogy.