Maybe this is why I’ve come back, then: so that we can go through this terrible day together, as a team. I have to relive these next few hours; I’ve got no other choice. The only thing I can do is to try and make them better than they were before.

I can already think of something I’ve always regretted about today. Something I was supposed to do but didn’t. My stomach twitches with nerves at the thought of it, but I suddenly know I have no choice but to do it.

I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my T-shirt. Daff goes to kiss me again, on my forehead, but I lift my chin and kiss her on the lips. She smiles in surprise – an effortless reflex smile – and a surge of strength shoots through me. That’s what I need to do, I realise: I need to let her in. To lean on her, and let her lean on me. That’s the only way it will be OK.

‘You’re right,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll get through this together.’

She touches her lips to mine again, and then nods. ‘You’d better go and put your suit on.’

‘I will. But first, can you help me find something? You know that book of Walt Whitman poems …?’

Chapter Thirty-One

‘Are you sure about this, Ben?’ Uncle Simon gives me a concerned glance in the rear-view mirror. ‘You know you don’t have to do it. No one’s expecting you to. No one will think any less of you if you don’t.’

He looks back at the road as he guides the car onto the dual carriageway. I can understand why he’s dubious. Three days before the funeral, I pulled out of reading Mum’s favourite poem during the ceremony. I just completely lost my nerve, terrified that I would break down in front of everyone. The programmes even had to be reprinted to remove the mention of my reading. So the fact that I’ve just told Simon – at the very last minute – that I’ve changed my mind again, and I now want to do it, must seem more than a little disconcerting.

But it’s like that kiss in the kitchen cleared the fog inside my head. It not only gave me a weird sense of courage and confidence; it also made me see how ridiculous it was to have spent this day entirely wrapped up in myself. I bottled out of reading the poem because I was scared of looking stupid or pathetic if I started crying. But really, who cares how I look? The most important thing is making the effort. Trying my best to do Mum proud.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell Simon, touching the dog-eared book in my jacket pocket. ‘I’ll be fine. I promise. I really want to do this.’