Coffins, not blanketed bodies, now fill the pews; some are dirty, smeared with slurry, though they tried not to let that happen. It takes him a moment to spot the brown bundle. Feeling the give of flesh, the bend of a leg, he wonders what lies inside, worries he might not have it in him to go through this again, marvels at Jimmy and Harry’s stamina. At least with Betty, he has reason to keep his face calm, tell himself he can do what he has to do.

Two buckets and two sponges are ready. Betty stands as if to attention on one side of the table.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘You’re welcome.’

He gives them both a moment, time to breathe in and out a few times.

‘This is going to be one of three,’ Betty says plainly, ‘I’ve seen the parents left outside.’

William pulls back a blanket for the last time. They look. William glances at Betty. She shakes her head, lips pursed. ‘Can’t be sure.’

Almost in synchronicity, the two of them plunge their sponges in the water and set to work. A peace settles over William, knowing most of this is behind him. He and Betty work well together, intuitively knowing which parts of the body she can clean, and which need his expertise.

Next to them, Jimmy is hand-pumping the embalming fluid through a body. For a few seconds, the only sounds William’s aware of are the suck and hiss of the pump and the swill of dirty water squeezed from their sponges. Then, a plummy voice from over his shoulder: ‘… Chapel Choir, Cambridge, singing Allegri’s “Miserere”.’

William spins round and lunges at the radio, his gloved fingers grappling with the knobs until the noise stops. He turns, radio in both his hands. Jimmy and Betty are staring at him.

‘Sorry.’ He exhales quickly to imitate a laugh. ‘Can’t stand that poncy stuff’ – he puts it back on the ledge – ‘can I retune it to something else?’

Jimmy nods at William’s workstation. ‘Best just get on, there are parents waiting.’

▪ ▪ ▪

The child’s silky black hair could have been recently combed, but the face is its own disaster zone. Betty rubs with the tired, soft sponge on the left forearm. William is glad that Betty doesn’t try to talk. She’s taken off her glove to scrape a stubborn patch of slurry with her fingernail. William glances at her every few seconds but she doesn’t look up.