He’d joined the merchant navy when he left school but, soon tiring of life at sea,
he’d pitched up in Glasgow with ten pounds, a new suit and no desire whatsoever to return to farming.
He’d met Jean in Woolworths, looking for a needle and thread.
The minister, looking pleased with himself, said that they’d stitched a happy life together after that.
There was a brief religious bit—the usual balderdash—and then, like the assistant in Tesco,
he made the coffin conveyer belt move, and Sammy checked out.
Bright as a button, smile plastered on, as though this were the best part of the whole terrible event,
the minister announced that we would sing the final hymn.
Raymond and I made a valiant effort, but it’s impossible to sing when you’re crying—
there’s a lump like a plum stone lodged in your throat, and the music can’t get past it.
Raymond blew his nose and passed me a packet of tissues, which I gratefully accepted.
The family, the minister told us, would be very pleased if we would join them afterward at the Hawthorn House Hotel for light refreshments.
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