No one could have imagined on that blazing day that within the year disaster, not triumph, would hammer the ship’s name into history. But the thing is, who would talk about the Titanic today if she hadn’t sunk?

When I arrived at the church, a little ahead of time, Phyllis was already in a pew, red-eyed and smart in her best navy coat. Mrs Murdie, never the biggest talker, hugged me for five seconds longer than she ever did before, resting her head lightly on my shoulder. Even Gavin was in evidence, stouter and less chatty, his natural windbaggery deflated by the gravity of the occasion. He greeted me with every appearance of deferentially controlled pleasure, in a long black coat with his hair neatly combed. He seemed to be making himself useful, having a prudent word with the funeral director, steering Mrs Murdie gently towards the next stage of proceedings. Not a bad oul stick, in the end.

I did my bit: helped to shoulder the coffin from the church into the car for the crematorium, with the six of us – including Gavin and a solemn trio of Murdie’s nephews – sweating discreetly as we quietly struggled to adjust for our difference in heights without visibly buckling or letting Murdie slide. That’s the pallbearer’s job, to uphold the dignity of the occasion. It’s the last chance you ever get not to let someone down at a bad time.

The coffin was surprisingly heavy. I wouldn’t have thought that dry wee man would carry such weight. Still, he did have weight for me: he looked out for me, always remaining alert to trouble coming my way, watching over me from a distance like a tough, chain-smoking guardian angel. Lung cancer finished him off almost as soon as the news leaked out that he had it, the final bill for all those years in bars breathing in the smoke from other people’s cigarettes and his own.

He was the one who knew everything about my family, and when he was cremated a piece of my own history burned up along with him. It was just over ten years since he’d stood at the airport and solemnly waved me off to London. Now it was my turn to say goodbye. When I saw the curtains closing around the coffin – it happens so quickly, that final mechanical conjuring trick – I put my two hands over my face and wept.

Soon after, I found out he had left me money in his will, a sum that he had carefully set to one side and grown over the years. The solicitor told me that Murdie had attached a note to it: ‘For Jacky, the son I never had, and in memory of his father, the best friend I ever had. To be spent on happiness and security. May your school never burn down.’