She was no longer that child, Esther reminded herself. She was a young woman, a married woman, with a farm of her own, a husband – such as he was – and a child. Esther’s head came higher and her chin jutted forward. She had no need now to cower before their disapproval. She opened her mouth but at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the pain and sadness on her uncle’s ageing face. She closed her mouth, bit back the sharp rejoinder and smiled tenderly at him.

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she found herself saying instead, and nodded to her cousins, before sitting down on the chair her uncle held out for her.

Will Benson, following her into the room, came and stood behind her chair. They waited in silence, the awkwardness in the room growing with every minute. No one had anything to say. There was so much they could have said, and yet so little. Hannah, even from her coffin, seemed to dominate the gathering.

It seemed an age that they remained in that small, stuffy room, everyone nervously on edge, awaiting the arrival of the undertakers. A sigh of relief wafted through the parlour when there was a knock at the door and the village carpenter, dressed in his funereal garb, entered the room, and he and George carried the coffin out and on to the cart waiting in the yard.

The family, with Esther and Will bringing up the rear, fell into procession behind the cart. Last as always, Esther thought wryly, and most definitely least in Hannah’s estimation, even at her funeral.

After the service in the village church and the committal in the churchyard, Esther found herself alone for a few moments whilst George shook hands with all the villagers who had attended the funeral. His children stood dutifully in line beside him to receive the condolences of their neighbours, but Esther felt she had no place there now.

She wandered amongst the gravestones, reading the inscriptions, recognizing some of the names of the elderly of the village she remembered from her childhood. Some of the not so elderly too, for death was no respecter of age. Not all were allowed their three score years and ten. Even her mother . . .

Esther’s footsteps had brought her to that part of the churchyard where she knew her mother lay in an unmarked grave.

‘I’ve no money to spare for fancy gravestones, not for the likes of your mother, girl . . .’ Aunt Hannah’s voice echoed from the past.

Esther stopped in surprise. In the place she knew to be her mother’s grave, there was now a small, white marble headstone, simple yet quite beautiful in its simplicity.

She bent closer and read: ‘In loving memory of Constance Everatt who fell asleep 9th June 1893, aged nineteen years. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’