Their starters came, terrine for him, scallops for her. The place was busy and Hannah let herself get lost in the hubbub, enjoyed being in a communal space, part of the human ritual of eating together that went back millennia. She was a little drunk, she wasn’t used to wine. The plates went away and mains arrived, lamb tagine and the famous ham hock. They made small talk, a distance between them, ten years of living apart that a weekly guilt lunch couldn’t hide. She asked about her cute half-sister and Craig talked glowingly. Hannah wondered if he was a different dad this time round. Why do guys get a second chance? She should hate him for the way he treated Mum, the way he left them, but ten years made a difference. She felt older than she was, more mature, something forced on her by circumstance. She had a sudden realisation that she didn’t need her dad in her life, but still wanted him somehow. That made her happy and sad. She really had drunk too much wine.

She realised the time as the plates were cleared.

‘Shit, I’m supposed to be along the road, there’s a wake at the house. I said I would help Indy prep the room. There’s catering.’

‘Business as usual, eh?’

Hannah drank the last of her wine and placed the glass heavily on the table. ‘It’s the first funeral since Grandpa, we all have to muck in.’

Craig narrowed his eyes, taking her in. ‘I worry about you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It can’t be good for any of you, surrounded by death all the time.’

Hannah shrugged. ‘It’s other people’s grief, not ours.’

Craig shook his head and scratched at the tablecloth. ‘But it’s not, it’s your grief too. How can you do funerals when you’ve just lost someone?’

Hannah stared at her dad for a moment then pushed her chair back and stood up, a little unsteady. ‘What choice do we have?’

90

18

JENNY

She tugged at her collar, itchy at the neck. Jenny had borrowed one of Dorothy’s blouses because she didn’t have anything in her wardrobe suitable for a wake. She looked round the reception room. There were forty mourners milling about, looking as uncomfortable as she felt, nibbling on triangle sandwiches and sipping wine from small glasses. The décor was demure pastel shades, a mirror over the marble fireplace, abstract seascapes on the walls. The patio doors were open, a handful of people outside. The doors opened out to the back garden, and Jenny saw the blackened remains of her dad’s funeral pyre out there, like they’d been roasting a pig on a spit.