She remembered kicking a football out there with Dad, four decades ago. It had been strange having a funeral director for a dad, but not for the reason most people thought. There was no delineation between home and work because, for Jim, home was work. He was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, always answering the phones and heading out at odd times to pick up a body or comfort a widow or brother. But that meant she got time with him at surprise moments when he wasn’t busy. She had memories of him dribbling the ball between the two oaks in his full undertaker get up, playing hide-and-seek amongst the second-floor cubbyholes, helping her to build a jewellery box as a school project in the workshop, amongst the coffins and the sweet smell of wood shavings. Jenny felt a wave of sadness make her heart flutter, and she breathed deeply.

‘It was a lovely service,’ an old woman said as she entered.

Jenny returned a flat smile. The flat smile was a staple for funeral 91workers, acknowledgement of what was said with a tinge of sadness. She didn’t have a role here, really, just keeping an eye on things while people hovered and swapped stories about the deceased. Given that Gina had hanged herself at home alone, there was an edge, a sense of life wasted, potential destroyed.

Jenny and Indy were holding the fort after Dorothy had come in ashen-faced and headed upstairs to lie down. Archie said she’d collapsed outside the crem but refused to see a doctor. Just stress, she told Jenny as she waved away a helping hand, clinging to the banister like a crutch.

Indy was so good at small talk with the bereaved. They were drawn to her, because of her bright hair, dark skin, beaming grin. No flat smile for her, she seemed full of life, but never in a disrespectful way, like she was in tune with the universe. Jenny couldn’t get a handle on it, the whole thing made her feel ill.

She saw the deceased’s sister approach Indy, start talking, but not platitudes or small talk. Indy indicated Jenny with a nod of her head and a surprised look. Her eyes widened in warning as the sister came towards Jenny.

‘Are you a Skelf?’

Jenny nodded. ‘I’m Jenny.’

‘I’m Orla, Gina’s sister. What happened to the old guy I arranged the funeral with, is he not here today? I expected him to handle everything.’

Jenny rubbed at her eyelid, blinked heavily. ‘That was my dad. He died.’

‘Shit, I’m sorry.’

Jenny shook her head, it felt awkward talking about her dad’s death at someone else’s funeral, like she was muscling in on their grief.

‘So,’ Orla said. ‘You work for the family company?’

Jenny thought about Dorothy upstairs. ‘Yes.’