William and Betty fasten their coats and walk out into the night towards the refreshment station at the end of the street. Although it’s no longer raining, the October air is sodden. Aberfan is black, white or grey. The lights on the site are harsh and bright again, picking up the stark white stonework, like bared teeth, around the windows of the nearby terraced houses. There’s a gaping hole in the row directly in front of the school.

Betty pauses, hooks her arm in his and stares at the glistening rubble.

‘That was my home. Twenty-five years we’ve lived there.’

‘I’m sorry,’ William says.

She pulls at his arm to move him on. ‘We weren’t in it, that’s something.’

As they walk past houses, he can see dark shadows through the windows; mini mountains of slag in sitting rooms. From one, the top of a chair pokes out alongside a stiletto heel. They pass the school on their left, and a sharp wail turns their heads as a man folds in two at the sight of something being pulled from the debris. He presumes it’s the mother behind him, her hand still at her mouth, and there’s Jimmy, already lifting the body to get it to the chapel before it starts to decompose.

‘If I had a home, I’d have invited you in for a cuppa,’ Betty says, tightening her grip on his arm, ‘but my sister-in-law’s already got a houseful to look after.’ She raises a short leg to show William her wellingtons. ‘These are hers, they’re two sizes too big.’

‘That’s OK, we can’t stay away for long anyway.’

The lorries are still on the move, to and fro, to and fro. The rescuers, fewer in number than when he arrived, work on. The clang of shovel into slurry is quieter and calmer, but persistent. William and Betty stand on the edge for a moment. He imagines the initial adrenaline shot of horror that powered their shovels, stung their muscles into action, must surely have drained from their bodies after two days. There’s no hope of finding any life, but they can’t stop. Laundry that should have been taken down days ago criss-crosses the alleys in between the house backs; ghostly bedding ripples in the breeze. Shirts and jumpers, skirts and trousers not needed now.

‘Thanks, Betty,’ William says, as they lean against the sacks with their tea and sandwiches. ‘It’s a big help, having you there.’

They sip whisky tea, tangy and oily. Betty blows ripples across the top of hers, but William lets his burn his throat.