Holiday-makers flood to the seafront and the beach armed with rubber rings and parasols. Mother and I, on the other hand, have something less frivolous to do. I was supposed to spend the afternoon at the newsagents but in the end it is decided I should be allowed to go with the grownups. Bob shuts up shop and comes along too, with his neighbour, Mrs Gracie, the one who made Lucas’ scarf. It is quite a gathering in the end, but not a nice end, a fair end. They say things are never black and white but on this day, as we shuffle into the cool church, they quite clearly are. The flowers in St Bartholomew’s are all white: in the porch, at the end of each pew, at the front where the vicar appears like a magician in his long dress and sombre face amid a puff of smoke. In contrast, everyone is wearing black: black suits, black skirts, black jackets. And all the ladies have black hats. Auntie Nina has a smart pill box with a veil. Mother has a wide-brimmed hat like Audrey Hepburn in the film where she wants diamonds and sings a song on her window ledge.
