“I want to stop thinking about death. I just want to go home, put on normal clothes and watch television.”
Raymond stubbed his cigarette out and then buried it in the flower bed behind us.
“No one wants to go to these things, Eleanor,” he said gently. “You have to, though. For the family.”
I must have looked sad. “You don’t need to stay long,” he said, his voice soft and patient.
“Just show face; have a cup of tea, eat a sausage roll—you know the drill.”
“Well, I hope they’ve at least got a high meat content and friable pastry,” I said, more in hope than in expectation, and shouldering my handbag.
The Hawthorn House Hotel was walking distance from the crematorium.
The woman at the reception desk smiled, and it was impossible not to notice that she had only one front tooth;
the remaining molars were the exact same shade as Colman’s English mustard.
I’m not one to make judgments about other people’s personal appearance, but really;
of all the available staff, was this woman the best choice for the front desk?
She directed us to the Bramble Suite and flashed us a gappy, sympathetic smile.
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