The rain was pelting down heavily, our umbrellas doing little to stop us from getting soaked as we stood at the graveside.
Try as hard as I might, my gaze kept snapping back to the brass plate affixed to the oak coffin bearing the simple but stark statement:
Mark James Smith 1966-1987
…though it was often difficult to make out the words as the rain spattered the plate, to say nothing of the tears filling my eyes.
Through my tears I took in the huddle of black-garbed figures around me. I saw Mary and Jerry, my mum and dad, Tom, Cliff, and Tim. Paul and Helen were supporting Sam. Daphne was standing next to them, clutching a sodden handkerchief. All were gazing down into the open dark maw of the grave.
The vicar, his sodden clerical clothing billowing in the angry wind, held an umbr
