We get off the train and jump in a cab. We then walk up the sloping hill towards the large funeral room where the service will take place, and everyone is waiting outside, standing around with paper cups of coffee. I’m holding a bunch of flowers and the water in the little plastic bit at the bottom is starting to drip all over my black boots. I look around at all the varying gravestones, all the messages and birth dates engraved. My heart lurches when I see a date that is too short, too young to be on a grave: 1991–2003 RIP. I shudder, and link arms with Marcus. I am aware that this must be awful for him; no one likes being reminded of death. But his body is like a radiator right now, warming me up.

Funerals are funny things. These sorts of enclosed environments always make me nervous that I’ll say something super-inappropriate, or I’ll look too happy at the wrong moment. Everyone is so formal in their posh, stiff, black clothes, but underneath it all, people are screaming out for a bit of light relief. When we go inside we sit three rows back, out of respect because we hardly knew Dorothy and we’re sure her nearest and dearest might want to sit at the front. We are among the first to arrive, and I’m wondering how many people even knew Dorothy, or that she’s died.

‘If no one turns up, we should move to the front,’ I whisper to Marcus. He nods politely.

Before we know it, the rows are filling up and, when I turn around, we see people standing at the back, squeezing in. I hear someone gossipy murmur in front of me – something about Dorothy’s son turning up. Someone subtly points as he walks down the aisle to sit in the front pew. He is around six foot tall with dark, floppy hair; he is holding a baby in his arms and his partner is walking slowly behind him wearing a black pashmina and thin-framed glasses. My heart beats fast, and I feel both sad and happy that he is here. Dorothy had always seemed quite down that they hardly saw each other. I understand that Australia is far away, and perhaps time does run away with all of us. But you know what they say: funerals bring people together. I keep staring at him as he bounces his baby up and down, dwelling on the sadness and the irony.

It’s suddenly quite hot and crowded in here. Hundreds of people are piled into one small room. The celebrant does his spiel. It’s not very religious, which surprises me. Just upbeat, celebratory and reflective. Mary, Dorothy’s eighty-five-year-old cousin who’s sitting next to me, tells us she is doing a little speech. When her time comes, she takes ages to get to the stage with her walking stick and her son helps her hobble up to the podium. She puts on the tiniest reading glasses and reads off a tiny scrap of paper.