Endnotes

I went to a funeral in early December. In the tropical heat, mourners stood waiting in the shade of the portico, some staring down at the photograph on the single sheet of paper that carried the bare facts of Eddie's life and death, others fanning themselves or twitching their shoulders inside new shirts. Eddie - the teacher, the coach, the deceased - had been well loved. That he was only 60 cut deep with the mainly middle-aged congregation.

Inside, the chapel seats filled quickly. The women tended towards the front; the more senior men, reluctant to push forward, stared down at their shoes or rolled their order-of-service programs into hollow tubes. The late arrivals, most of them young men, all curiously alike with sun-bleached hair and dark glasses, formed a cordon around the back wall. As we waited in the low yellow light, I watched this pageant of youth, three deep in places, quickly assume the appearance of children who have stumbled on a tragedy while playing near the water's edge. I recognised their surprised horror. It was the sight of the pine box on the stage. The same emotion had taken possession of me.