I didn’t think I would cry. The last time I saw Lorna she was not herself, but, even with dementia, she had retained her mannerisms and the softly spoken voice of a gentlewoman. That was two or three months ago, when Chris and I were passing by Lorna’s house and Peter was in the front garden, and he urged us to come in and say hello to Lorna.

There were some pretty blue flowers – I can’t remember what they are called – growing in profusion by the front gate; Peter pulled some out by the roots and gave them to me as we were leaving – “Lorna would love you to have them” he said. As soon as  we reached home I planted them in pots.

I did cry. The Reverend Chas Deacon spoke so nicely about Lorna. He didn’t rush. He told us of her not so humble origins (which Lorna had never discussed with her young art teacher) and her later life; he read the heartfelt words written by members of the family who were too distraught to speak themselves and twenty-one people wept.

The Reverend Chas Deacon did not interrupt the service when the chief pallbearer collapsed, quietly, at the back of the chapel; the mourners were unaware that anything was amiss – that the ambulance had been called or that the poor man had suffered a stroke or heart attack.

One of the plants that Peter had given me took to its new surroundings. I have it in a pot on the front steps and I every time I pass the plant I think, “Oh good, it grows well – it’s strong.” And I think of Lorna. It hasn’t flowered yet but it will flower next summer.