Louis played some Fleetwood Mac on his acoustic guitar, piped to speakers outside the crematorium for all the people who couldn’t get a seat inside. They’d reserved three seats right at the front, two for Gramps and me, one for Mum, who met us there. Most people reached for tissues during Louis’ solo and during the eulogy provided by the professor who’d mentored Aunty Kaye in her early career. Gramps dabbed his eyes with a hanky throughout. ‘You’re a strong lad,’ he said to me when the ceremony was done, ‘not embarrassing yourself by blubbing all over the shop like your sissy of a grandad.’

I met Aunty Kaye’s parents for the first time afterwards. I knew nothing of them, but they talked to me as if they’d watched me grow up, familiar with all my interests. I don’t think they noticed I couldn’t eat my buffet food while we chatted, but I was so intent on shoving it round the plate to look normal that I didn’t really concentrate on what they were saying. They’d heard good things about me, that was clear. I’m certain they left our conversation disappointed – feeling misled at least.

I chatted music with Louis, but it wasn’t like it had been that night in the club. He was a man. I was a kid. He motored through, talking for two, only fleetingly dipping his gaze to the teaspoon that jangled against the saucer of the coffee cup I held. Perhaps we both knew we’d break the promise we made to meet up again. I certainly did. The words were hollow as they left me.

I dodged any further interactions for the rest of the afternoon. But I wandered around the place: I read the cards; I studied the collage of photos; I stroked the mass of flowers. My appetite never materialized, but I picked at an untouched buffet plate of broccoli quiche because I felt sorry for it. Anything to delay our leaving. The party wound down until all that remained were empty glasses and relatives with bin bags. The drive home didn’t feel so different to that trip to hospital in the ambulance. I was leaving something behind.

And then came the normal. Gramps returned to his own bedroom. Conversation reverted to its ordinary rhythm, Aunty Kaye no longer always at its periphery, taking the floor whenever the chance arose. The phone company shut down her mobile, so I couldn’t keep calling her voicemail to listen to her speak. Sixty miles south, the funeral flowers wilted in the September sun. Term began and I returned to school.

But normal was not normal.