They put your ashes in a wooden box. It was a handsome box with a lock and two keys, and ornamental metal chasing round the base and the lid. I carried you through security, Sean carried your three-year-old, Lu carried your baby. In the plane, we put you in the overhead luggage bins with all the other hand baggage. It was a long journey. The baby was in one of those fold-down cribs, but the stewardess wouldn’t let your three-year-old sleep on the floor. I wouldn’t let her wake him. I told her you’d just died, I said the plane wasn’t full, there was plenty of room in the next section—we’d leave the child on the floor or she could move one of the people lying stretched across three seats. She went away. She came back. Lu carried him through and laid him down, still sleeping, across two cleared seats. I sat beside him while he slept.

When we got to London Lu’s father was waiting. They took your bags and we took your box. We went to a Pret a Manger to buy a sandwich before the Dublin flight. Sean was at the counter paying. You were heavy so I put you on the floor. Two young Australian lads standing beside me noticed your box and began to admire it. They asked where I’d got it? I said it was my brother’s ashes, I was taking them home to Ireland. I think they thought they hadn’t heard right. Then they looked at each other’s faces and they knew they had. They said they were sorry. Then they weren’t there, and Sean was handing me a camembert and cranberry sandwich in a cardboard wrapper.