The pavements fill with black-clad figures oozing from doorways. Keep your head down and your heart hard. That’s your kindness. Earlier, gazing into the purple dawn through the windscreen, William imagined a cup of tea with Betty, hearing about life with her sister-in-law. Now, he tells himself, he mustn’t think like that; he should leave these people alone, drawn tight into the folds of their community.

He turns away from the procession of hearses and overtakes the human tide rolling towards the mountain graveyard; black coats and hats, downcast eyes, flower-filled arms. William strides up the lane to the left of the cemetery gates, over tufts of grass and patches of moss blending with the bitumen. He’s unsure why, four days later, he’s returned, and that’s probably why he’s told no one. Not Uncle Robert, not Gloria, who he has only spoken to once since he got home anyway.

She was so pleased when he called the day after, her warmth and concern so palpable she may as well have been standing next to him. And he knew, as he answered her questions with lone words, like yes, and no, and terrible, and unbearable, that he was building a barricade between them. That when she said she’d love to see him soon, his maybe had made it clear to her as well.

William loves Gloria, has done ever since he met her lodging with her family for his embalming training. He’s loved her without a moment’s wavering through all that happened – things that would have sent other men running. And then, at last, at the dinner dance, with that kiss, he dared to believe they had a future. But Aberfan has scooped out the core of him, stretched it thin and catapulted it into the wild blue yonder. Maybe that’s why he’s here; to try and get himself back.

The path twists to the right, above the graveyard, on top of the mountain. William climbs quickly, heart thudding. Skinny autumn trees stand sentinel every two feet or so, their lower branches reaching straight out, as if to shield him from what’s about to happen. He’s glad of the criss-cross limbs, for he too is obscured. Across the valley, on the opposite hillside, are hundreds, maybe thousands of people gathered in stunned solidarity.

The world has been watching Aberfan, and the floral cross dominating the mountainside above the graves shows that it has also sent flowers. Mourners swarm the hillside. Some add their own bouquets to the cross, before heading towards the gaping wound where the coffins are laid. From up here, they look like beige piano keys, occasionally white; the ones Jimmy brought from Ireland. Two or three rows deep, mourners lean towards the open ground. Some drop a flower, some simply touch the earth, as if to be blessed, or to bless. What boundless capacity for pain, William thinks, is expected of such tiny, frail humans.