The Mass was interminable and the priest couldn’t even remember his name. The burial was worse, raining non-stop. And in the pub afterwards, distant relatives sat gawping at her. They were part of Robert’s extended brood from the countryside. Uncouthness clung to them like agricultural muck on your shoes.

            They were the first to leave, most of them with barely a word of commiseration. A middle-aged cousin stopped by her table, as unsure of himself as a ewe before a sheepdog.

            ‘So like, y’ know… he’ll be missed. Good fellow he was… yeah.’

            Missed? By whom? she’d wanted to say. But the ‘whom’ would probably have confused him.

            ‘Time to go home, Mum.’