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it was well attended. Everyone from the village was there, from the eldest to a row of squalling babies – there’d been a mini baby boom earlier in the year – who had never even got to be scowled at by Mrs Manse for not having the right change for a bath bun.
    All the fishermen, Polly noticed, lined up manfully to pay their respects to someone who, despite her demeanour, had been one of their own.
    Muriel, Polly’s friend who ran the little supermarket, shut the shop for an hour and joined them.
    ‘I’ve never before,’ she whispered to Polly, ‘been to the funeral of someone who only ever shouted at me.’
    ‘She did shout a lot,’ said Polly. ‘But she was all right really. Well. She was just very, very sad. Which makes this sad.’
    She had asked everyone if they wanted to say a few words, and nobody had done particularly – they had all shuffled and looked at the floor. It had really made her miss Tarnie; he would have been perfect for the job, would have done it properly and respectfully, without nerves or fuss. But unfortunately it looked like she was the only person left, after Janet declined to speak about her own sister.
    After the ceremonial bit was over, Polly got up and stood at the pulpit, feeling incredibly shaky and nervous. She looked out over the entire town’s population, telling herself crossly that it was just everyone she saw every day, people she knew… Actually, that made it worse. She coughed, and tried to stop her hands from shaking as she unfolded her piece of paper.
    ‘Gillian Manse was a daughter of Mount Polbearne,’ she started, her voice sounding incredibly quiet in the room. Huckle, standing at the back so that his big head didn’t get in anybody’s way, gave her a massive thumbs-up, which gave her the courage to go on.
    ‘Um,’ she said, feeling slightly braver. ‘She devoted her life to this town, to feeding it, and to her family…’
    Polly spoke about the hundred thousand loaves of bread Mrs Manse must have baked in her lifetime, and about her devotion to her son Jimmy – and when Polly mentioned him, and some of his scampish ways she’d heard about from the fishermen who’d known him as a young boy, there were smiles of recognition in the congregation – as well as mentioning her late husband Alf, who had been well liked in the town. She even risked a joke about Mrs Manse’s fierce reputation, pointing out that it was all in defence of the town where she lived. When she stepped down, delighted to have finished, there was a small round of applause. But of course what meant the most was Huckle holding her close when she joined him and squeezing her hand.
    Afterwards, Polly had arranged for Jayden and Flora to appear with fresh sandwiches, little cheese curls, vol au vents and miniature flans, light as air. There was tea and coffee in the urns normally used by the Women’s Institute, and at the last minute Andy, who ran the Red Lion pub and the chip shop, had sidled up sheepishly – he was known as being a tight operator – and said that Mrs Manse had been good to him when he was a lad when she’d caught him stealing a hot cross bun, and could he donate two crates of beer, which perked the fishermen right up. So it wasn’t as grim as Polly had feared it would be.
    Mrs Manse’s family were huddled to one side, looking at the townspeople suspiciously. Some of the older ones remembered Janet, who’d left the island when she got married, a very long time ago. She was looking large and stolid in a long black dress that gave her a slightly Victorian air, her hair, unusually long for a woman her age, piled on top of her head.
    Her two sons were also there. Polly was surprised. Gillian had never mentioned them, not once. Had it really been so hard for her, Polly wondered sadly, after she had lost her own son, that she could never have her sister’s boys to stay, never pour some of that thwarted love into her nephews? People were so strange sometimes.
    They were