‘But I had to find out where your fucking funeral is!’ I yelled at the wall. ‘And thanks to that, not only have I been reminded hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times that you’re dead and with the angels and never to be forgotten and taken too soon, but I’m wondering why Florrie called you her fucking Stormtrooper? Since when were you into Star Wars? What the actual … Jack?!’

I wished for him to be checking the spice rack for paprika, or singing the wrong words to Elton John songs from the bathroom.

I opened Facebook again. Not to read any more tributes, though. I wanted to see him; Jack. I tapped on his photos, something I hadn’t done since our earliest days – when I found them, to be honest, uninteresting. His profile pic was simply his bushy beard and his teeth grinning. His last upload had been in March this year, and, typical Jack, it wasn’t a photo of him. It was a photo of a different person altogether. The man sat in the shopping trolley.

The last morning we spent together floated into my mind: him pondering the meaning of what could be behind the picture. I wished I hadn’t rushed off to work, wished I’d been given the gift of hindsight so I could have called in sick, spent the day with him. Oh, how we could’ve pondered such notions all bloody day! I looked up from my laptop, over towards the cooker where the picture hangs, and saw Jack, arms folded across his chest, a smile – a little smug – stretching across his face.

‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ I imagined him saying.

‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael,’ I said.

And now, today, it’s his funeral.

I squeeze my feet back into my heels. A couple of people have arrived, a few cars parking on the quiet country road. I stand; not sure why. It’s not like I’m looking out for a mate or hoping to be noticed. So I sit back down again and wait, watch; some women my age, linking each other; another with a baby in a sling, bouncing. Four fellas get out of one car, a variety of beards, all suited and booted. None of them are wearing black. In fact, their attire is more in line for a wedding. They all know each other. The fellas kiss the women on the cheek; coo at the baby.

More people filter into the old graveyard, tombstones so ancient that the writing is too weathered to make out. And more, and more. A scattered few in black: the older generation.

I spot Florrie running towards the group with the baby, hugging each one individually and swaying from side to side mid embrace. She’s got a peach fascinator on her head.