Sam

Turning off the busy Brighton road was like stepping through the back of the wardrobe; suddenly the noise and traffic and clash of colours and architectures were all gone and we were on a quiet lane that wound away ahead of us, through the trees.

I drove slower than was necessary, the engine ticking over as we drifted reluctantly upwards. On the raised border to our right, memorial stones appeared, edges blurred with age, names still legible, a low-key welcome to the crematorium.

Further up, the ground dropped away slightly to our left and amongst the thinning trees we could see graves and their stones. More shapes, statues and names. We pulled over to park behind two cars, the chapel just coming into view as the road took a final lean to the left.

We were forty-five minutes early, which was a comfort given that we are a couple with a propensity for being late. I adjusted my tie, took off my sunglasses, put them on again. No one else arrived. A little time passed. I kept thinking about getting out my book but I was too absorbed by the stillness around us.

And then, almost imperceptibly, like the start of a light snow, people began to appear, moving past the car. People of all ages. Some of the young ones, teenagers, had odd outfits, as though they had simply selected the garments with the most muted colours from their wardrobes. Some of the slightly older people wore red hoodies or had them tied around their waists. Taking this in, I remembered that Sam was going to be cremated wearing hers, this uniform of the women's football supporters, and I felt a little lurch in my stomach.

The hearse glided past and we sat looking at the wreath in the back, fashioned in the style of an England football badge. I'm not sure when we decided to get out of the car but shortly afterwards I think perhaps one of us shifted and the other moved and then we were tightening our scarves and pulling our coats tight. We eased into the flow of people walking past, to join the crowd outside the chapel.

And it was a large crowd, lining the road on either side as it led up to the the doors. I stood opposite the side of the hearse, looking at the coffin inside, just visible through all the flowers. And then I realised it was moving, making the last fifty yards of its journey to the chapel. It was so quiet that I could hear the doors opening, the whispered instructions between the pall-bearers.

And once Sam's body was inside, so we started to move towards the doors. By the time we reached the threshold, the seats were all taken and we moved across to the wall. Stopping and turning round, we could see there was no sign of tide of people stopping. In the end, when the chapel was truly packed, the movement had to stop. I heard later that thirty or forty people were left standing outside.

The photo is of the order of service: the Minx's drawing of Sam, which was done at her family's request, and the photos of Sam on the back. The service itself was Humanist, stark but powerfully sad and moving when Sam's father spoke about her life and then her sister talked about Sam as we all knew her. I looked around the faces, some sombre and impassive, some weeping openly, some completely distorted by grief.

And then the curtains drew around the coffin and, after a long pause, the chapel started to empty, far more slowly than it had filled, none of us wanting to turn our back on Sam.