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On the journey home, Fleur pestered her father. ‘What will happen to Tom?’

‘I don’t know. He has family. They’ll step up.’

‘His aunt doesn’t want him.’

‘No,’ her father agreed, sounding contrite, as if caught in a lie. ‘But Tom’s father will be returning soon and will take charge of his son.’

‘What if he doesn’t?’

‘Then others will.’

‘Other strangers? Tom said he had no friends.’

‘Fleur, this boy is not our concern.’

‘Why did they bring him here?’

‘They are quite well-to-do, as you can see. Tom’s mother is one of two sisters and the family wanted her returned to Adelaide to be buried.’

‘They live up here in the city. If they’ve called you, it means they want her buried around the port. Why is that, Dad?’

First he cut her a smile. ‘You’re very perceptive, Fleur, and yes, it’s true. They want Tom’s mother buried far away it seems.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know why people think as they do, Fleur. Decisions are made for all number of reasons and it’s not our business to enquire. I still don’t know why they chose us to manage the burial other than we’re based at the port.’

‘They’re rich enough to have a family plot,’ she remarked in a huffy tone.

‘They are indeed. But clearly they don’t want Tom’s mother buried there.’

‘That’s cruel.’

‘Not really. It’s honest, perhaps. I sense that Tom’s mother has not been within the family bosom for years. She’s a wayward, and perhaps they’re simply doing what she might want. Maybe it’s a kindness. We can’t know.’

‘Well, if they’re that kind, why isn’t the family taking care of Tom?’

‘It’s complicated, Fleur. Families often are. You’ll discover this in time. We’re very lucky that we have such a happy little trio in ours. But let’s not forget our task is as funeral directors. We’ve been asked to do a job and we’ve accepted. Our task is to prepare Tom’s mother and sister for burial. They insist on a private funeral, so it’s going to be swift. I know you want to learn more because you’ve struck up a friendship with that lad, but we must be careful that we don’t appear too curious around the affairs of others. We must be relied upon to be trustworthy, especially as we’re entering their homes.’

‘Did she say what’s going to happen to Tom?’

‘Tom will go home. I can’t imagine he wants to be anywhere else.’

‘But there isn’t anyone there.’

‘They’ll sort it out, Fleur.’ He gave her a soft smile. ‘You mustn’t worry. Even if his father is not yet home, there will be neighbours and townfolk who will know him and do the right thing. Now, let me concentrate, my darling. The traffic is busy and I don’t want any problems. The bodies we’re carrying are ripening too fast.’

Fleur wanted to interject and let her father know that Tom lived in a situation of no neighbours and no townsfolk close by, but she could hear it in his voice that he was keen to get Moira Catchlove and her daughter properly prepared and buried. He wasn’t lying. The odour was leaking out of the pine coffin like an invisible wraith, surrounding them in the familiar aroma of human decomposition. It was unpleasant, but a smell that Fleur had become used to, just like the harsh-smelling formaldehyde that her father used with so much care.

Henry had counselled her on this since she was young enough to make sense of language. She could clearly recall the first time she’d been shown the formaldehyde.

‘This is toxic,’ he said, pointing to the large bottles. It had a skull and crossbones on the label to make the point, which he tapped, making sure she understood. ‘Never be curious about it. It can kill you. Never smell it directly. You see how I make sure all the windows are open and we are well ventilated? I don’t care if it’s the middle of winter and your fingers are frozen. Promise me, dear one, you’ll never open the bottle alone.’

She was excellent at taking instruction and knew she would never disobey his teachings.

‘I don’t think those Condy’s Crystals they had below Tom’s mother are going to be much help by the time we get back to the mortuary,’ she said, sounding as cynical as someone quadruple her age.

Henry laughed. ‘No, I think you’re right. We’re past potassium permanganate being able to absorb the smell. This body needs to go into the ground by tomorrow. We’ll be working fast on Moira Catchlove all day today. Mrs Oaten will have to wait – she’s on some ice anyway.’

Fleur knew all the stages of death already. The rigor mortis, then the flaccidity, the grey pallor that took over, while the pooling of blood in the lowest cavities created the purplish mottling. The eyes and cheeks sinking as the skin lost its elasticity and the inevitable putrefaction that was so evident now. She turned away to look out of the window and forget the smell of Tom’s mother decaying behind her, but she couldn’t help wondering about that wide-eyed boy, so contained, so intense. She wished she could write to him and keep him company through the lonely days ahead.

Her father’s voice startled her. ‘Still thinking about that boy Tom?’