The Story of Us by Dani Atkins Page A

One of them was Nick, and seeing his usual jovial expression replaced by one of such solemn concentration tugged at my heart. I wondered if Richard was regretting his decision not to be up there beside him. I had been surprised when Donald Travis had asked both men to be part of the funeral procession; and even more surprised when Richard had sorrowfully declined. Looking at him now, and feeling the tension rippling through his body as he surveyed the casket as it slowly passed by, I had to concede he’d probably made the right decision. He scarcely looked capable of holding himself upright, much less of carrying such a precious cargo. His comment that he didn’t do well at funerals was an understatement.
    After the casket was carefully lowered by the bearers on to the stand, I found it impossible to look anywhere else. I know there were prayers said, and hymns were sung, and I guess I must have stood up and sat down at the appropriate moments, but the whole event felt disjointed and unreal, as though we were caught up in the world’s most vivid mass nightmare. It was an effort to stop myself from scrambling to my feet and shouting out my objection, that there’d been some dreadful mistake, and that Amy couldn’t possibly be lying stiff and cold inside that shiny black casket. But it’s only at weddings where you get the chance to object to the proceedings; at funerals you’re just supposed to keep quiet and accept it all, however terrible it might be.
    Donald’s eulogy to his daughter was heartbreaking, loving and brave, and that he got through it at all is testimony to an inner strength I doubt many people possess. I didn’t need to look around to know that pretty much every woman in the church had been moved to tears by his words; you could hear it in the rustle of tissues and the discreet sniffing. The men present weren’t immune either, and even though Richard hadn’t raised his head from the moment Amy’s father had begun to speak, the occasional tremor in his shoulders gave him away. I was deeply touched that he was so moved, because I honestly didn’t think I had ever seen him cry before. He wasn’t given to public displays of emotion. Even when I had wept like a lost child when I’d broken up with him five years earlier, Richard’s eyes had stayed stonily dry. Seeing him now, so openly vulnerable, was both unsettling and unfamiliar. I linked my arm through his and drew myself closer to his side, uniting us.
    Finally the service was over, and the congregation got to their feet in a collective daze as Amy was lifted and carried away for her final journey. Richard and I joined the shuffling queue of mourners preparing to exit the church. Amy’s parents were positioned just outside the main doors, to receive anyone wanting to offer some words of condolence or comfort, none of which would probably penetrate the white noise of their grief and pain. From the length of the line, it was going to take us a good ten minutes to reach them.
    â€˜I’m just going to have a quick word with someone,’ I told Richard, giving his arm a brief squeeze. He nodded distractedly, not even looking around as I slipped away and began to weave through the pews to the rear of the church. Some of the mourners had already left by a small side exit, and initially I couldn’t see him. Had he already gone? I mumbled ‘Excuse me’ repeatedly, as I squeezed past small clusters of people gathered around the exit.
    â€˜Emma.’
    I turned, and found he was right behind me. He was much taller than I had remembered.
    â€˜Hi,’ I replied, feeling an unexpected nervous flutter, somewhere at the back of my throat. I swallowed it down, and tried again. ‘Hello, Jack. This is a surprise; I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.’ It wasn’t exactly the most welcoming of greetings, but he didn’t appear to take offence.
    â€˜I bumped into