Richard’s house is big but there isn’t much stuff in it: “minimalist,” Becca would say. I wish there was more clutter to camouflage against. I feel too visible as we stand in the living room and are introduced to Nick’s dad and two cousins. Nick’s dad has the same family resemblance, less striking because he’s older. It’s almost a relief when the two black cars arrive and a flurry of activity distracts me. But then I glance out of the window and am embarrassed by my own jolt of shock.

Of course one of the cars would have a coffin in it. Of course we’d be riding to the funeral with Nick himself. What did I think would happen?

—

The only other funeral I’ve been to was my grandad’s. That was in a church, with hymns and readings from the Bible. I was only seven but I remember being fascinated by the man playing slow tunes on the organ. Nick’s funeral is in a crematorium surrounded by trees. A small crowd of people gathers outside, but when we get out of the car there’s no rumble of conversation, only silence. The coffin is carried through the middle and we walk behind with our heads low.

During the service I learn more about Nick than I did the whole time he was with my mum. He wanted to join the RAF but his eyesight wasn’t good enough. He used to like boxing when he was younger—I have to clamp my mouth so as not to react to that. His brother does a tribute and his voice wobbles twice. Every anecdote that’s shared and every song that’s played makes me more confused.

And I can’t stop staring at the coffin. I remember thinking that my grandad’s looked small—even to me as a kid. But Nick’s coffin is long and broad, the cherry-dark wood gleaming.

—

After the service we go back to Richard’s clean, empty house. People loosen their ties, speak a little louder; I pick at a triangular sandwich and feel like my legs won’t hold me up. Eventually I shut myself in the downstairs toilet, splashing cold water onto my wrists.

When I get back to the living room I see Nick’s dad heading toward my mum. I arrive at her side at the same time as he arrives in front of her. He glances at me, then locks eyes with Mum and says, “I’m very sorry.” It seems an odd thing for him to say to her. He’s lost his son after all. And there’s something about his words, something I can’t puzzle out.

Mum bites her lip. “So am I.”

“Could we have a quick talk?” he asks. “How about some air?”

Mum shifts her black handbag from one shoulder to the other. “Will you be all right for a minute, Kate?”