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hadn’t solved any of their money problems. They couldn’t budget properly on the piecemeal work he’d been getting from his contacts in the trade. Apart from Mitch, who was working for the government, most of the builders he knew who’d had their own businesses were either out of business like him or had gone back to doing small jobs: new kitchens and bathrooms and decks. They didn’t need Box. All Liz’s numbers had just made them more certain about the depth of the financial poo they were swimming in. And now here he was sitting at the same table, with the same coffee plunger, the same chip in the paint above the light switch by the back door, the dried flowers poking out of the pig-ugly vase Liz had inherited from her mother. Everything looked the same. Except, of course, instead of income and expenditure, now they were talking about the arrangements for their son’s funeral.
    The funeral director coughed quietly and Box was back in the kitchen.
    ‘Sorry. What?’
    ‘I was asking if you recalled the name of the church.’
    ‘It’s St Matthew’s. Anglican.’
    Another quick note in the little book. ‘I’ll contact the minister there and see if the church is available. And now there’s one other very important thing we need to discuss today. Before you arrived, Box, Elizabeth told me that she doesn’t want Mark’s body embalmed. Are you happy with that?’
    ‘I hated the way that Mum and Dad didn’t look like themselves,’ said Liz. ‘They were both like waxworks.’
    Box remembered the taut grey skin, the head-hunter’s shrunken face. ‘Sure. That’s fine with me.’
    ‘You understand that if we don’t embalm Mark’s body, we’ll need to keep him cool, essentially refrigerated, and the funeral will need to be as soon as possible. I suggest Wednesday.’
    Liz nodded.
    ‘Fine,’ said Box again.
    Fine. Fine. Why did he keep saying that? When actually it couldn’t be less fine if you tried. Things were a million miles away from fine.

    With his eyes closed, Box replayed a vivid image of his grandfather, Pop, walking down the rows of tomatoes. The old bloke is in the bottom field, probably in the late seventies, the years just before they’d had the big glasshouses built. Pop is moving slowly, wearing a black suit. It’s a sunny day.
    It’s a memory he has conjured up before, one he has even talked about with Liz. His grandfather was wearing the suit and the crease-topped hat because they were going to church. It must have been right on harvest because Pop was out there first thing, checking the plants, even though it was a Sunday morning. The only things that didn’t fit with the suit were the big, black, mud-encrusted gumboots. Pop had tucked the bottoms of his suit trousers into the tops of the gumboots so that they wouldn’t get muddy. He would stop every few steps to inspect one of the tomatoes, turning it between a permanently stained finger and thumb, gently, careful not to bruise it or pull it free too soon, scrutinising it to see if it had gone over the cusp into full ripeness.
    They, he and Pop and Dee and Paul, had probably walked together down from the house to the main road and then along the road to the church. It was, still is, a fifteen-minute walk. They took the farm truck only if it was raining or it looked like it might rain before the service finished. They didn’t go to church every single week, but they went most Sundays.
    Box opened his eyes. He was standing at the bathroom sink. Hot water was pouring down the drain, steaming the glass on the window. He turned the tap and the water stopped.
    There had been Saxtons living on the family land in Regent’s Bay for over a hundred years. His grandfather was the fourth generation to grow and harvest there. No, he thought, there was no doubt that Mark should be farewelled in the bay. That’s where he would be buried. There was no doubt.

Four
    The door to Mark’s bedroom was closed. Box stood outside in the hallway with his