We had a full schedule today in the chapel of rest and on days like this, people would often linger for a while in the garden. It was the prettiest part of the North London Crematorium, in my opinion. The rest of the grounds around the chapel and the car park were laid to lawn and it always reminded me of the Teletubbies set: perfectly landscaped, beautifully green but with their man-made undulations and newly planted trees it was all a bit artificial. Nothing like the countryside where I grew up in the Derbyshire village of Fernfield, all woods and hills, streams and farmland. I suppressed a sigh and swallowed a pang of homesickness. I needed to stop thinking like this; home was here now, in London. With Harvey. I was lucky to have a job at all, not to mention one that allowed to be me outside in the fresh air.

Next stop the lovely yellow climbing rose. The ashes of a man called Shaun were scattered here. Killed in a motorbike accident, so his twin brother had told me.

Every part of this garden was special to someone: each plant, bench, wooden archway and stone ornament held treasured memories for people, the place where a loved one’s ashes had been sprinkled. And it was my privilege to care for them all. My working day was calm, ordered and, most of the time, entirely predictable. In fact, this garden was the only place in the world where I felt in control at the moment.

I picked up my watering can and made my way to Shaun’s rose bush. I got all sorts of odd requests from relatives; I was used to it by now. In this case, Shaun’s brother had asked if I would mind singing a particular song to him every now and then. I looked over my shoulder to make sure my colleague Alan wasn’t in earshot. I spotted him a little way off, going around the lavender bed with the edging shears. Mind you, even if he did hear me serenading the rose bush he would just shake his head fondly. Unlike my boss, Paula, who was very keen on remits and rotas and being discreet in public areas. She was all right, really, just a bit of a stickler for the rules. Singing and dancing were definitely not part of my job description.

But if it gave some comfort to Mr Wheatley to know that I had a chat with Gladys when I weeded the azalea he’d planted in her memory, where was the harm? And I’m sure Shaun’s rose bush had been perkier since I’d been singing his favourite Queen song to him. I began watering and cleared my throat before breaking into song.

‘Bom, bom, bom, another one bites the—’

‘Lottie? Can I have a word?’ came a voice from behind me.