The grave was a mudbath. Marius and Eugene were at the front, Shane and Daniel at the back carrying her on their fine, wide shoulders, but they were slipping and sliding when they had to lower her in and our hearts were in our mouths in case there was a mishap. That she was going in beside her boys was cold comfort. John held up ’til they started to fill the mud in on top and then he lost it. The wet earth thumped on the lid, splat after splat, and with each shovelful the tears rolled silently down to his chin. None of us knew what to do. I looked at Lizzie Magee and she looked back, stuck for words when I needed her most. John’s no good with loss, says Bridie from a different life.

The boys stood with him, a strict unit of grief, and Serena stood with me. My mother looked utterly disgusted by a grown man crying; she was chewing the lemon lips off herself. She was wearing the same green felt hat that she had worn to my wedding. In the end it was Bernie who saved him. She stepped up and held his hand.

I regretted not going over to him myself as soon as my feet turned away. I couldn’t make myself move closer to him or to her grave; I didn’t want to look down and see Bridie’s name on the lid picked out in brass. I didn’t want to feel his pain. When he got to the parish hall with Bernie on his arm, he was ready to accept another round of ‘I’m sorry for your troubles.’ He looked stunning in a brand-new black suit and white shirt. His beauty could still take my breath away.

–  God alive, you must be ridin’ him twice a night at least?

–  Jesus, Lizzie! What are you like? At a funeral? At his mother’s funeral?

–  Oh alright, Modest Mary, I’ll shut my trap. It is such a shame about Bridie. Things are going to be a bit different at Johns Farm without her, aren’t they?

–  Yes, they are.

We went our separate ways as the early evening drew in, Eileen guaranteeing more visits and Lizzie with promises of phone calls and keeping track of Serena. I hoped she would keep her word; it had been three years since the Real IRA had bombed the BBC’s building and Ealing Broadway but you never know when madness might strike again. When I saw the pictures of the glass buildings in London all I could think of was the shards they’d make if broken, shards that could hurt my girl.