‘I read somewhere that D. H. Lawrence’s wife had his ashes made into a fireplace,’ I said. ‘And I had a client once who wanted his wife’s ashes made into cufflinks – so she’d always be with him. There’s a whole line of cremation memorial jewellery – lockets for the ashes, rings made out of them; some of it is really tasteful too.’

‘Not sure I’d want to go round wearing my dead husband, though,’ said Marcia, ‘although my aunt Iris wanted her husband’s ashes to be put in an egg-timer, she said that way he’d finally do some work.’

I laughed, which caused an elderly lady in the group to turn around and frown at me, but the place, the conversation, the sombre atmosphere gave me the giggles, which soon set Marcia off too.

‘And of course there’s the famous joke about the mother who wanted her ashes scattered in Brent Cross shopping centre,’ said Marcia. ‘She said that way my kids will definitely come and visit once a week.’

Another of the tourists, this time an elderly man, gave us a filthy look for sniggering like a pair of teenagers, so we immediately attempted to straighten our faces.

‘And you can have your ashes shot up into space in a rocket. Some people even have them made into fireworks and go out with a bang,’ whispered Marcia.

‘I read somewhere that one of the most common last sentences that women say when they’re dying is, “Where’s my handbag?” It’s going to happen to everyone but I guess no one’s ready.’

‘I read that the most famous last words are “Oh shit!”’

‘Figures.’

‘And of course,’ Nigel went on, ‘one of the most famous people buried here is Elizabeth Siddal.’

That caught my attention. I still had my poster of her posing as Ophelia, painted by Millais, on my bedroom wall, and her tragic story and beauty had always captured my imagination. ‘Would it be possible to see her grave?’ I asked.

Nigel shook his head. ‘Not today. If you come back on Friday, one of us is doing a special tour of that area.’

‘You in, Marcia?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t Friday. I’m in the shop. What about you?’

‘Absolutely. I’ll make time. I had no idea she was here but, now I know she is, I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to see her grave.’

‘About one hundred and seventy thousand people are buried here in fifty-three thousand graves,’ Nigel continued, ‘which vary from the minute plot markers for foundlings and small children to the more ornate and ostentatious monuments we will see later.’