A FUNERAL SPARKS MEMORIES

Early May lingers longer than expected. The air is warm enough to loosen collars, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and damp earth. Along Curry’s suburban streets, nothing moves. Semi-detached houses sit in rows, curtains half drawn, windows reflecting pale afternoon light. The pavements are clean, unused, still holding the day’s warmth.

Cars roll slowly toward the graveyard, engines idling unevenly. They pause at the gate while drivers scan for space along the low stone wall. Doors open and close. Shoes scrape on gravel. A man shuts off his engine and sits for a moment with his hands on the wheel before getting out.

Across the road, sheep graze in the adjoining field. Their wool is matted and off-white, dotted with burrs. They tear grass close to the root, jaws working steadily. A few lift their heads briefly, then return to feeding. The sound of chewing carries over the wall. 

I walk between two cousins. Their coats brush my sleeves as we move. We exchange small nods, nothing more. Their faces are familiar, but the details feel distant—changed hairlines, deeper lines around the mouth. The years between us are evident in pauses, in what we don’t say.

At the front, James Walker’s wife Mary stands beside her husband’s grave. She wears a dark coat buttoned high at the neck. Her smile appears when someone approaches, fixed and practiced, her jaw tight. She shakes hands, thanks people for coming, meets each gaze for a second before moving on.

The son and daughter stand nearby, hands folded, shoulders slightly hunched. They look past the gathered crowd rather than at it. Two young girls linger behind them, tilting their heads upward, squinting into the light. When the first tears come, some are quiet and unguarded; others arrive after a pause, carefully wiped away.

Rose petals are handed forward. They are scattered softly on the coffin lid—red against the polished wood. A few stick where the varnish is still warm from the sun.

The service ends with a few words spoken by a clergyman. Planks are removed from over the grave. People shift their weight, check phones, clear their throats. Conversations resume in low voices. Groups separate and drift back toward the road. Engines start. Tyres crunch on gravel. One by one, cars pull away.

Near the entrance, parked at an angle, is a red MGB GT soft-top. The paint is glossy, the chrome clean. A wicker basket is bolted to the boot rack, unused and spotless. The car looks out of place among the modern saloons, older but carefully kept.

I recognize it as once sitting in the garage beside James’s house. Seeing it here, so close to the graveyard gate, stops me. The smell of petrol lingers faintly around it, mixed with oil and warm metal.

I remember the other car that was parked beside it then—a light-blue BMW Isetta bubble car. Small, rounded, its door set into the front. The paint was unmarked, the windows clear. The two cars stood side by side, both immaculately preserved.

Now only this one remains, waiting at the edge of the road. The gate closes behind it with a dull clang.