Outside the air is bitter and damp. The light is failing, but it doesn’t feel like any particular time of day to William. He tries to imagine Aberfan as an ordinary mining village, with children alive and well, and grown-ups whose world is still intact. He weaves in and out of cordons, police, miners and sand sacks, to get to the Salvation Army station. The soles of his shoes are tacky. The idea of trying to clean them when he gets home is revolting.

Chuck ’em out, William, they’re only a pair of bleedin’ shoes.

At this, the first conscious thought of Gloria since he’s arrived, his stomach flips at the remembered sensation of her confident, full lips on his. The slide of her red lipstick, the brief tick of her teeth against his, bone against bone amongst the warm softness of lips, mouth and gum. William considers finding a phone box to call her, but he hasn’t seen one yet and hasn’t got any change. Stop it, he thinks. Eat, drink, get back to work.

The smell of tannin and the rising steam from the urn balanced on stuffed brown sacks remind him how physically depleted he is.

‘Want something stronger with that?’ The tall uniformed man hands him a cup. ‘Some like a drop with their tea?’

‘Maybe. Yes.’ William passes his cup back.

The man unscrews the flat bottle and amber liquid slaps into his tea. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’ The man points to a fold-up seat a few yards away.

William realises how tired his legs are once he sits.

‘You must be one of the embalmers,’ the man says, handing him an egg and cress sandwich.

William nods, chewing.

‘You look young though.’ The man takes the empty cup back from William and pours him another one.

‘I qualified this week.’ William reaches out for a second sandwich, the white bread heavy and bending under the weight of the filling. His body is so greedy he barely tasted the first.

The man drinks his own cup of tea. ‘Family business?’

The cold is starting to affect William. His legs are trembling. He puts the tea on the pile of sacks and flicks up his coat collar. ‘Yep. I’m third generation.’

‘So you always knew that’s what you’d do?’

He shakes his head. ‘Dad was keen but Mum was against it.’

Two miners arrive, silent, before the urn. William eats another sandwich while they are served. They nod their thanks and walk away, shovelling the food in just as William had.

‘So your dad got his way, then?’ The man opens a packet of Kit Kats and hands one to William.

‘Not really,’ he says, ‘he died when I was eight.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He pauses. ‘Your mother must be proud of you now, though?’