The walk to the podium feels like a hundred miles. The only sound in the church is my echoing footsteps. I look out at the sea of gloomy faces, but the only one I focus on is Daphne’s. I feel unsteady on my feet, and my stomach is roiling like crazy, but slowly, I start speaking.

‘I wanted to read one of Mum’s favourite poems,’ I say into the microphone. ‘It’s called “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman. Mum was always on at me to read it when I was younger. She was always on at me to read a lot of things but, being a typical moody teenager, I never listened to her. And then, a week ago, Simon and I were going through stuff at her house, and I spotted this on one of her bookshelves.’ I take the tatty Walt Whitman paperback out of my pocket and hold it up. ‘It’s not exactly in great condition, as you can see. And as everyone here will probably know, that’s typical for one of Mum’s books. Pretty much every book she ever owned has a cracked spine and dog-eared pages and is full of scribbled notes in the margins. She was proud of that. She used to say to me: “That’s how you know they’ve been properly read.”’

There’s a warm ripple of laughter at this, and for a moment it drowns out all the sobs and sniffs. I keep going.

‘A week ago I finally read this poem, and I can see that I should have listened to her all along. Because she was right: it’s brilliant. She was always right, really … about everything.’ I feel myself starting to falter, and I have to grip both sides of the podium. ‘I’m not going to read the whole thing, because it’s far too long. But the last stanza was where Mum had done most of her underlining and scribbling, so I thought I’d read that. So, here goes.’

I take a deep, wobbly breath. And as I lay the book open on the podium, I spot him.

The watch-seller.

He’s sitting in an empty pew right at the back of the church, his blue eyes fixed straight on me. The rest of his face is unreadable beneath his wild grey-gold facial hair. He’s still wearing his shabby suit, with the jacket buttoned right up and his reindeer tie just about visible underneath. He nods at me solemnly, and without thinking, I nod back. A sad smile cuts through his scruffy beard, and I’m reminded again of Grandad Jack. It’s weirdly comforting, like there’s another member of my family here, spurring me on.

In the front row, Daphne is smiling encouragingly too. Three rows behind her, Harv is doing the exact same thing.