I cough nervously and briefly look up from the A4 sheet I am clutching. There are more than two hundred people in the congregation (I know this because I heard my parents talking about catering numbers for the reception afterwards), standing room only. And although I don’t think of myself as suffering from stage fright, I start to hyperventilate and think I may faint. Breathe Gil, breathe. I surprise myself that I am still on my feet. Start talking, Gil; talk, Gil. What’s the worst that can happen? That I will make a fool of myself? But everyone knows that it is the better of the two Pecks who has gone.

I cough to clear my throat. ‘I tried to write something,’ I say. My voice sounds dry and hoarse. ‘But I couldn’t get it right.’

Approving nods, murmurs of sympathy. Perhaps this is poignant, the brother who writes for a living but today can’t find the words. I avoid the gaze of those who’ve known me longest and best. I don’t have to look at my father to feel his disappointment. ‘What on earth is the boy going to do now?’ his voice says in my head.

‘Instead I thought about what she would have wanted me to read.’ I look at the A4, which is now creased from the pressure of my damp and anxious clutch. ‘It should really be a classic by Joey Ramone.’ Tim on my right gives an approving nod and smile. Phew.

‘But on reflection this is more suitable.’ I tamp the paper down on the lectern. ‘It’s by Thomas Hardy.’

Not a line of her writing have I

Not a thread of her hair,

No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby

I may picture her there;

And in vain do I urge my unsight

To conceive my lost prize

At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming  with light

And with laughter her eyes.

The poem is called Thoughts of Phena, at News of Her Death, written by him to mourn the death of his cousin. Clare loved Hardy, having been introduced to him by our favourite English schoolteacher. Hardy is lamenting how he was estranged from Phena, wishing he could find her again. It’s too late.

Halfway through I almost break down, but somehow get through it. By the time I’m finished, Dad is rigid, Mum is crumpled, in tears. When I return to my seat, I give her my fresh handkerchief from my pocket, though resist her offer to swap it for her sodden one. ‘Sorry’ she mutters. She puts it in her handbag.