Walter stroked his forefinger against the ridge of his thumbnail. The naked glare of the lightbulb cast shadows as it swayed above the kitchen table. It exaggerated his wife's expression. He thought about leaving. He imagined the sound of the chair scraping the floor, the gape of his daughter's expression as he walked out and the pause before she started her litany of why he was a bad father. It felt as though the walls might close in on them. No. On him. The pressure on his chest morphed into sharp pains in his ribs. Something was going to explode. He stroked the gap between his eyebrows and cleared his throat.
As the sand trickled between her fingers and skimmed the polished mahogany of her father's coffin, the first thought that came to Edna was that it was soft and granular, which was unexpected; the second went along the lines of oh-crap-that's-my-father-in-there-and-he's-going-underground-soon. It occurred to her that she must have missed the eulogies and the vicar's rambling attempt at canonising a man who was widely accepted to be a jerk. Stuart had clamped her arm in his clammy hand. He seemed more distraught than she was. As she stepped forward, past the grave and into the shade of the trees, she tried to wriggle out of Stuart's embrace. Whenever he held her bicep, it felt as though he was measuring her and making mental notes about how she could get the best out of her next gym session. It was an occupational hazard for a personal trainer, this much she knew, but it made her feel inadequate. Her sister Genevieve blew her nose into her husband's hanky and the collective winced at the sound. Edna tried to hide her giggles. She hoped it would look like a body-wracking sob. The snorts didn't help. Stuart leant closer.
