She saw the panic in them, the anguish and the reluctance. And then it dawned on her, very suddenly. The only dead body he had ever seen was David’s, in the shed. “I know. But it’s all right. I’m here too. It will be all right this time, Harold.”

“It was a gentle end,” the sister said. She was a plump girl with a rosy bloom to her cheeks. Maureen was comforted that such a young, vibrant woman could care for the dying, and remain so full of life herself. “Just before she went, she gave a smile. As if she’d found something.”

Maureen glanced at Harold and his face was so white he looked bled. “I’m glad,” she said. “We’re glad it was peaceful.”

The nun stepped away and then turned back, as if she had remembered more. “Sister Philomena asked if you would like to join us for evening prayer?”

Maureen gave a polite smile. It was too late to become believers now. “Thank you, but Harold is very tired. I think what he most needs is rest.”

Unperturbed, the young woman nodded. “Of course. We only wanted you to know that you are welcome.” She reached for the handle and opened the door.

♦

Maureen recognized the smell of the air as soon as she stepped inside. It held an iced-over stillness, imbued with incense. Beneath a small wooden cross, the body that had once been Queenie Hennessy lay with her white hair brushed over the pillow. Her arms were stretched over the sheet alongside her body, and her hands were open, palms uplifted, as if she had willingly let something go. Her face had been tilted discreetly towards the pillow, so that the tumour was mostly hidden. Maureen and Harold stood beside her in silence, coming to terms once more with how utterly the life vanishes.

She thought of David in his coffin, all those years ago, and how she had lifted his vacant head, and kissed him over and over, not believing that her wanting him alive wasn’t enough to bring him back. Harold stood beside her, with his fists clenched into balls.

“She was a good woman,” said Maureen at last. “She was a true friend.”

She felt something warm against the tip of her fingers, and then she felt the pressure of his hand gripping her own.

“There was nothing more you could have done,” she said. And she was thinking now not only of Queenie, but David too. Though it had cleft them apart and plunged them into separate darkness, their son had after all done what he wanted. “I was wrong. I was very wrong to blame you.” Her fingers squeezed on his.