‘Apologies.’ He holds it up briefly. ‘This is a telegram from Jimmy Doyle, Northern Ireland Chapter, and I’m afraid it requires our immediate attention.’ William’s eye is caught by Uncle Robert shuffling in his seat, disgruntled. ‘So, many congratulations, William Lavery, for being the first student to achieve full marks for every piece of work, both practice and theory,’ continues Mr Melling with a surge of good cheer, propping the telegram against a small vase in front of him. ‘Let’s give him a big round of applause.’ William stares at his crystal glass, smiles, nodding his head a couple of times. Sweat dribbles into his left temple. Gloria pats his knee under the table. ‘We expect great things from you, William.’ He pauses then reaches for the telegram. ‘But sadly, we have another important matter to consider. It concerns the tragedy at Aberfan yesterday, of which you will no doubt have heard.’ He reads aloud. ‘“Please share with gathered institute members.”’ William sees thin strips of David Melling’s scalp shining through his brilliantined comb-over. ‘“Embalmers needed urgently at Aberfan. Bring equipment and coffins. Police blocks surround village; password Summers.”’ He lays the telegram down and stares at it for a second. A cold creamy smell wafts up to William; the custard sitting in his bowl. ‘I suggest, gentlemen, those who feel able to answer this call for help, have a strong cup of coffee and be on your way. The rest of us will try and enjoy the remainder of the evening on your behalf.’

William knows his uncle expected more of his moment of glory, but he is relieved at the sudden refocusing of attention and feels a steadily building resolve in his chest.

‘I want to go,’ he says.

Uncle Robert’s face shows he wasn’t anticipating this. ‘I think they’ll want experienced men, William.’ He glances at Howard. ‘Maybe even with a bit of disaster experience.’

‘They didn’t say that,’ William says. Gloria is watching him.

‘Maybe I should go?’ says Uncle Robert.

‘Your back wouldn’t last,’ Howard says immediately. ‘No sleep, a long drive and then God knows what.’ Howard nods his head at William, but holds Uncle Robert’s eye. ‘The boy’s a wonderful embalmer, he’s stronger than you or I. Let him go.’

‘With respect,’ William hears himself say, ‘I don’t need permission. I’m going.’

Everyone at the table is looking at him – Uncle Robert, Howard, the Strouds, Gloria – but William doesn’t care.

‘Good on you, lad.’ Mr Stroud pats his hands on the table. ‘This says more about you than any exam results. You show ’em!’

Half an hour later, wrapped in his winter coat, William is on the pavement with his uncle. He’ll drive himself and two other embalmers back home to Birmingham, where they will get changed and load their cars with all the kit and coffins their hearses can hold.