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We were late for the funeral, through the train being late, I think Tony would have found that amusing, perhaps, but we caught the train which should have taken us to Brighton at ten, was it, and it did not, it just stopped some miles outside, was held up for some reason or another, no reason was offered us, but when we arrived it was the time the funeral was starting, about, and though we caught a taxi at once, it was a long way, relatively, to the crematorium, he was cremated, after a simple non-religious service, up somewhere, on the Downs at some point, or another, I assume, but just as we arrived, they were coming out, the party, his mother I see still, tears, one foot on the upper step, the other one step down, caught, I see her as if in a still, held there, fixed. Friends, some of them I had met, had not seen since the days in this city, at the university, besides the family, his father dignified, carrying it, and June, already looking alone, already looking bereaved, lost, her face still showing all the pain she had carried, tall, and her mother was there, helping, I could see, in some way.                            Someone gave us a lift back to the house, I forget who, but it was packed, three or four of us in the back, the car, and as we went away up the hill, over the shoulder of the hill, I looked down and back at the crematorium, sunny but there was still a blue haze, perhaps from the sea, and there was a straight column rising from the chimney of the crematorium, it went straight upwards, as far as smoke can ever be said to move in a straight line, into the haze, the sky, it was too neat, but it was, it was.