It had been decided that Cissy would stay with her granddaughter, and Ruby would represent Adam’s in-laws with Olive. The last few days had taken their toll on Cissy, and both Ruby and Olive were worried that the length of the mass funeral, coming so quickly on the heels of George’s the day before, would be too much for their mother to cope with.

It seemed as though every house in every street of the town had their curtains closed as a mark of respect as the two women walked on, and when they reached Olive’s back lane no bairns were playing out as would have been expected. In fact, everywhere was still and quiet with no sign of activity in the backyards and no washing hanging out even though it was a Monday. Ruby had never known anything like it and it felt eerie.

When Ruby looked back on that day in years to come, she could only picture it as a series of images in stark monochrome. The dark clothes of the townsfolk lining the funeral route under the white winter sky; the grim procession of black plumed horses pulling the hearses; the blindingly spotless snow coating the cemetery; the dark wood of endless coffins with their wreaths of white flowers, and overall the bleached pinched faces of the mourners standing like a flock of desolate crows round the graves. Black and white. All colour sucked out of the world by the scale of the tragedy that had unfolded.

When Adam’s coffin was lowered into the ground side by side with Fred and Peter’s, Ruby found herself holding her sister up as Olive’s knees gave way. Up to this moment Olive had been quietly stoical but now she was unable to control her sobs, the sound being torn out of her like a wounded animal in a trap. All Ruby could do was to hold Olive tight, their tears mingling as their faces pressed together. And still more names were called and more coffins lowered and more wives and mothers sobbed and grieved and more fathers and sons cursed the pit.

And then, at last, it was over.

‘But – but you don’t have to do this. I mean – why would you? I can’t let you . . .’ Olive’s voice trailed helplessly away.

It was the morning after the funeral and Olive, Ruby and Cissy were sitting at Cissy’s kitchen table having a cup of tea while Alice looked at a picture book on the clippy mat in front of the range. There had been no semblance of colour in Olive’s face when she had walked into the house that morning, nor any life in her voice when she had said that yes, she was all right, thank you, and yes, she would have a cup of tea, but over the last few moments her countenance had changed. Cissy, too, was staring at her younger daughter in sheer amazement.