“Just leave it, love,” John said, delicately restraining her.

Yvonne and I never got on, so it came as no a surprise that she would be like this at my husband’s funeral. To her, I was just the woman who swept her son off his feet and dragged him back to Manchester. She never forgave me for that. Although Harry had never implicitly said it to me, Yvonne blamed me entirely for our bad luck in conceiving, too, not that we even had a chance to. She continued to stare pure venom in my direction; she couldn’t even hold it back for a few hours out of respect for her son.

Half of the mourners looked genuinely upset, whereas the other half were either waiting for the sandwiches or secretly amused by Yvonne’s outburst. Stripped of the context, Harry would have found his mother saying that to me hilarious. He would have given me that knowing look that said, ‘I’ve had to put up with her longer than you have.’ I’d have to avoid her at the wake. It wasn’t worth the inevitable argument. The last shovel of dirt was placed on top of the mound, and it was done. The earth beside Harry had entirely depleted and had been returned to the grave. The digger gently patted the mound flat and turned to the celebrant conducting the ceremony with a nod.

“The family would like to thank you all for attending and warmly invite you to enjoy some light refreshments and swap some stories about Harry at the ‘Ox and Plow.’ Anyone who would like to pay their last respects are welcome to stay behind for a few minutes,” the celebrant announced.

The hungry ones left immediately. One by one, the rest of the mourners visited the grave and whispered some words into the soil. I wanted to hear them, but I was still submerged in a trance of disbelief. It was only weeks ago that we were trying our hardest to start a family, and then all of a sudden, I was burying him. I wanted to claw at the earth violently to save him, but what was left of my inhibitions, in my deeply fragile state, deterred me from actually going through with it.

A group had formed in front of me, waiting patiently for me to snap out of my trance. Each mourner greeted me individually, mostly stereotypically expressing their sorrow for my loss. Yvonne stood a few feet across from me, still glowering at me disapprovingly with her particular flavour of intense disdain. I did think about pulling a funny face at her, but the resulting scene wouldn’t have been worth it. I was certain that Harry wouldn’t have been able to resist; he had a dark sense of humour, and to him, it would have definitely been worth the repercussions. Part of me did feel for Yvonne, but to put it bluntly, she lost her son over a decade ago. Despite being very vocal that it didn’t bother him, I never managed to find out if Harry was actually secretly upset about not having a decent relationship with her. When his father died, he and his mother kind of just grew apart, and Harry moving away from Filey was the final nail in that coffin.

Only one mourner remained. I didn’t recognise her. She was still standing at the grave, delicately laying a single flower on it whilst carefully whispering something into the dirt. It was plain to see that she had been crying. The profound sadness on her face led me to infer she must have been close to Harry at some point. The jealous part of me thought she could have been an ex-girlfriend, not that it mattered, given the circumstances. I could see Yvonne was rather irked by her presence at the grave. She was now turning the poisonous glare she had been exclusively aiming at me throughout the funeral to the unknown woman.

“Who’s that? One of your… friends?” She quipped bitterly.

“Not a clue.”

“I’m going to ask who she is.”

“Yvonne, just leave her, she’s obviously upset.”

Yvonne, determined to find out who the mysterious mourner was, shuffled over to her and tapped her gently on the shoulder. I followed her, mainly just to diffuse her anger in case Yvonne saw red again. Not that she saw any other colour.

“I’m sorry, but I seem to don’t recognise you. How’d you know Harry?” Yvonne enquired.

“Just an old friend. I’m Kim. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Kim replied.

“Don’t be sorry, Kim,” I began, “I’m sure Harry would have wanted you here.”

“I hope so,” Kim smiled through the tears welling up in her eyes.

“You’ll be joining us for the wake, I assume?” Yvonne asked matter-of-factly.

“No, sorry, I have to get back. I’m glad to have met you both,” Kim responded awkwardly.

“You too,” I uttered as she briskly walked off in the direction of the car park.

“That was a bit strange, wasn’t it?” Yvonne remarked.

“Not really. I’d say most people don’t enjoy being at a funeral.”

“Well, I thought she was being odd.”

I didn’t care about Yvonne’s ramblings. I just wanted to be alone with him. He was there, and I could still feel him, barely. I was desperate not to appear petty or rude towards Yvonne, but internally, I just wanted to scream at her until she left. I kept my calm, obeyed social convention, and took a deep breath.

“Can I have a minute alone with Harry, please?” I asked gingerly.

Yvonne hesitantly placed her hand on my arm before leaving to give me some peace with my late husband. I watched her disappear into the distance, and I stood above the grave, staring down at the dirt that had been left there. I was half expecting Harry’s hands to slide around my waist from behind at any moment and for him to tell me it was all okay. But it wouldn’t be okay ever again. Without an audience, the floodgates finally opened, and the tears gushed down my cheeks and soaked into the loose ground beneath me. I wanted to let out a single, ear-shattering scream. I had everything I ever wanted, and it was taken away from me at the height of our love.

“Harry?” I wept, “I just want you to know I’ll never stop loving you.”

Harry remained uncharacteristically silent.

“You were everything to me, and now I’m lost without you. I’m so sorry for what happened.”

I had no option but to accept that I now had to navigate this world without him. He was my best friend, my soul mate, and I didn’t know what I’d do without him by my side. I thought we had so much more time together. We’d made plans, and we had a future to look forward to. But all of it was ripped away from us in the most devastating way I could ever imagine. Grief is a strange emotion, and admittedly, I hadn’t encountered it often in my life. What I felt stronger than anything else was the guilt, the world-shattering pit of inescapable guilt. I didn’t know if my response was the typical one. I just kept thinking about every decision I’d ever made, no matter how seemingly insignificant it may have been. Maybe if we’d conceived naturally, it would have made a difference, diverting the course of fate just enough for Harry to still be with me. I replayed in my mind every insignificant and frivolous argument we’d ever had. Perhaps if I’d conceded blame to a few, he would still be here. Or we would both be gone. At that moment, at Harry’s final resting place, either option was preferable to the truth.

“I miss you, Harry,” I whispered.

I turned my back on Harry and started the long walk to the car park. I wasn’t in any rush to get to the wake. Surely, I would be allowed some lateness, given the horrific circumstances.

The accepted story was that Harry had driven down to Filey and arrived safely. He met some of his old friends at the pub, as he often did. They tended to overdo it a little because they didn’t see one another as frequently as they used to. When the pub called last orders, they decided to continue drinking back at Steve’s house. He lived at and ran the caravan park right near Filey Brigg. Steve was Harry’s best friend growing up, and they were as thick as thieves. When the booze had run dry, Harry decided to call it a night and made his way back to Yvonne’s house but took the scenic route. In his drunken state, he somehow lost his footing at the top of the Brigg and plummeted from it. The coroner said Harry wouldn’t have felt any pain. He fell from quite a height onto the rocks below, so it was near instant. I didn’t find any solace in the coroner’s words; he shouldn’t have died like that, regardless of how quick it was.

Yvonne had been adamant that she wanted Harry buried in Filey; ‘It was his home’, she protested. I didn’t put up much resistance. It was best to let her win that one. In the end, he had turned his back on the village, but he still loved it there. The ‘Ox and Plow’ was a traditional public house in the centre of Filey. Harry had often regaled me with many stories of his misspent youth inside its walls. It was a dingy, little pub with wonky exposed beam ceilings and dimly lit walls. Locals would describe it as a ‘charming little boozer’, albeit to me, and putting it politely, it was a shithole. The walls were decorated with black and white photographs of the men who had wasted their lives in there since it had opened; I now wondered if Harry was featured in one of them.

Regardless, it was certainly a fitting place to send him off. It was his local, and anywhere else wouldn’t feel quite right. I was the last to arrive there, and the mourners were already a few drinks deep. They were laughing and joking, and I heard snippets of the stories they were telling one another as I meandered through the mass of people. I knew deep down that this was exactly what Harry would have wanted to see happening, but it grated at me. How dare they laugh and joke at a time like this.

“Whiskey, please. Double,” I said to the barmaid.

“Pace yourself, dear,” Yvonne interjected, appearing almost in a puff of smoke in the crowd of mourners at the bar.

“You’re one to talk,” I muttered under my breath.

“Sorry?” She replied.

“Nothing,” I smirked.

My whiskey arrived quickly, along with an unrequested look of feigned sympathy from the barmaid. Harry constantly lectured me that alcohol harmed the chances of conceiving, so I’d been trying to cut back. ‘Bottoms up,’ I thought. The amber liquid burned my throat as it coated my stomach; I puffed out my cheeks and held my mouth to prevent it from making an instant return.

“How are you feeling?” A voice behind me asked.

It was Harry’s older sister, Penelope, but everybody called her Poppy. I actually got on with Poppy, but we were very different people. Poppy was somewhat of a hippy and had this tendency to shoehorn spiritualism into every conversation she had. She frequently wore a carefully curated selection of crystals and vehemently claimed they all had specific spiritual powers. But not today; she was dressed in a floor-length black dress. I thought it was a respectful gesture. Harry never believed in any of that and called it nonsense. Given the choice, I’d have to agree with him.

“Amelia? Sorry, that was a stupid question,” Poppy asked.

“Sorry, Poppy, I was lost in my thoughts. Not great, to be honest,” I responded.

“I know, love. Great turnout, though. Harry would have loved to see the old gang back together again. We haven’t all been together properly since your wedding.”

“I know.”

“You know, at times like these—”

Here it comes.

“—There is some comfort in knowing that he isn’t really gone. He is all around us. You should speak to my medium, James. He’s very good. He might even be able to contact him.”

“Contact him? He is dead, Penelope.”