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plain coffin to its final resting place. The small cemetery was packed with silent women in unrelieved black, turned green from long years of service, and men in hard bowler hats saved specially for this purpose. The rooks cawing in the lattice of branches above almost drowned out the minister’s words, and Lily thought the sob wrung from Dick’s weeping mother at her side as the first clod of earth rattled on to the cheap wood would live with her for the rest of her days.
    There was no wake, no funeral cake, not even the money to hire the horse-drawn parish hearse, nor any exchange of chatter and happy memories. Paying the laying-out woman, gravedigger and minister would put Dick’s family into debt for weeks. There was certainly no money to spare for cold meats to feed those who came to grieve with them. Nor was it expected. This tragedy was too keenly felt, the boy too young for anyone to have the heart.
    Duty was dispatched as quickly as possible, words of sympathy issued, and then the grieving woman was borne away by her family and friends and everyone hurried back to their own home or workplace, dabbing at their eyes and blowing their noses. For the next few days at least they would exhibit a touch more patience towards their own loved ones.
    Lily was the last to leave, lingering by Dick’s grave to drop a wild rose she’d gathered specially on to his coffin. It seemed a pathetic offering in comparison with the enormous glass bowl of waxen lilies and white gardenias which had been sent by the Clermont-Reads. Though hers was offered with love, she told herself, not guilt as theirs undoubtedly was.
    As if spirited up by this thought, she found herself joined by a dark figure in greatcoat and tall hat.
    ‘Miss Thorpe?’
    Lily lifted her chin, gaze hostile, and was surprised to see grey eyes filled with sympathy fixed upon her.
    ‘My card. Should you ever require help or assistance in any small degree, you have only to ask,’ Edward Clermont-Read told her.
    Anger kept Lily silent, the scent of the graveyard yews becoming in that moment so overpowering she felt suffocated. How dare he? As if he could atone with money for having killed poor Dick.
    When Edward had gone, Lily sank to her knees and, finding the card still in her hand, thrust it into her pocket. For a long time she fixed her burning gaze, unseeing, upon Dick’s grave, determined not to break down, not to give Edward Clermont-Read the satisfaction of witnessing her weakness. At length the choking sensation in her throat eased sufficiently for her to put her thoughts into words.
    ‘Goodbye, my love. I’ll never forget you, Dick, for as long as I live. I swear it.’
    ‘I don’t wonder at it. He were a right grand lad.’
    The voice made her jump. Lily saw first a pair of patched black boots, from which protruded stick-like legs beneath several layers of indistinguishable clothing. Then the legs bent, and beside her squatted a girl of around her own age. Dark, curly hair hung in straggling rat’s tails about a small pixie-like face, from which a pair of moist dark eyes regarded Lily with candid interest. The end of the small pointed nose was red, as if it had been blown a good deal.
    'Who’d have thought we’d lose our lovely Dickie?’
    Lily stared at the girl. ‘Your lovely Dickie? I didn’t know Dick had any sisters?’
    The girl seemed to think this hilarious. ‘Bless you, I ain’t his sister. Me an’ him was, you know, friends.’ She winked, then seeming to realise what she had said, fresh tears spurted and she let out a great howl of anguish. ‘Oh, lordy.’ And plopping backwards on to the turf by the graveside, the girl brought out a big red handkerchief and buried her face in it. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ sobbed the muffled voice. ‘How will we manage without him?’
    Lily felt a bit odd inside. Who was this girl? What did she have to do with Dick?
    ‘Friends?’ she ventured. ‘What sort of friends?’
    The small face