At last William turns. Had he looked after her daughter, held up a piece of her clothing? Was she one of the mothers who sank to her knees at the sight of it? Was she the girl with the perfect hand? And today, this woman sits next to Gloria, in a cheerful spring coat with apricot-pink lips. Humans beings are extraordinary, he thinks.

‘And I went back down that hill,’ she continues, glancing at William, ‘and I didn’t feel any better, but somehow I had hope, that in time, I’d be able to bear it.’

Gloria looks at William. She won’t cry, but he knows she wants to.

‘William, come and say hello to this lady.’

He walks towards her, his hand held out.

‘Hello’ – her grip is firm – ‘welcome back.’

‘Thank you,’ he says, connecting with her intense gaze. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘If you like.’ She nods, a slight smile lifting her mouth.

‘When I was here, a woman turned up at the chapel and helped us get the children ready to be identified. Betty. Her house had been knocked down. Do you know her?’

‘Course I know Betty.’ The woman smiles. ‘Everyone knows everyone here. They rebuilt her house. You’ll have seen them on the way in. Very swanky, they are. All mod cons.’

‘Do you think she’d mind if we visited her?’

The woman stands and smooths her coat. ‘I’ll walk you down, shall I?’

65

The doorbell is shrill and tinny. There’s a movement, the blur becomes a neat figure, and the door opens.

‘Look, Betty!’ The woman presents them as if they’re quarry she’s hunted down. ‘I’ve brought you some visitors.’

Betty looks at Gloria first, registers the pregnancy. ‘Who’s this?’ She smiles. Her hair is grey, her floral dress is not smothered by a man’s jumper, and she’s wearing slippers not wellies. Her face has more lines and is fuller. But to William, she is exactly as she was.

‘Betty.’ He moves towards her. ‘I’m William Lavery. I was a volunteer embalmer.’

Betty’s hands lift to hold her face as she breathes in. ‘Oh my word! Would I ever forget you?’ She moves over the step to hug him, wrapping her arms tight round his waist, her face unashamedly pressed against his chest. He feels her small hands gripping his back.

‘And this is …?’ she asks, letting go of him, smiling at Gloria.

‘My wife, Gloria.’

She puts her hand softly on Gloria’s cheek. ‘Tea?’ Her eyes are tiny blue lakes.

‘I could murder one,’ Gloria says, her smile creeping across her face, ‘after I’ve used your loo, if that’s all right?’

Betty stands back a minute and holds both of Gloria’s arms. ‘You look exhausted. How about we bring the tea up for you in my spare bedroom and you have a lie-down?’

Gloria smiles her gratitude.