that he was wearing an ironed white shirt, a black tie, and black trousers.
I couldn’t see his feet, and issued a silent prayer that he was not shod in training shoes, even black ones.
“You look nice,” he said. I nodded, feeling slightly self-conscious in my new dress, and looked at him again.
He hadn’t shaved off his odd little beard, but it had been trimmed, and his hair was combed neatly.
The taxi moved off, and we joined the slow morning traffic.
The radio jabbered nonsense, and we didn’t look at one another or speak. There was really nothing to be said.
The crematorium was in the suburbs, a 1970s monstrosity of white concrete and brutal angles.
The gardens were neat in a sterile, municipal way, but, surprisingly, were full of beautiful blown roses.
There were lots of mature trees around the perimeter, which pleased me.
I liked to think of their roots, coursing with life, snaking under this place.
We drew up in an enormous car park which was already almost full, although it was only ten thirty.
The place was out of the way and would be impossible to reach by public transport, which was completely illogical.
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