We were waiting when the car pulled into the drive at four o’clock.

My mother came through the door first, tanned, carrying a new designer handbag, mid-sentence and laughing.

“Giselle!” she called down the hall.

“I certainly hope you’ve cleaned this place up, it smelled absolutely dreadful when we left.”

Then she came into the living room and saw the urn, and her laugh died in her throat.

“What,” she said, going still, “is that on the table?”