"Mr Jackson will not be here this morning, but I can show you anything you may wish to see." The smile again, this time with a glistening hint in her eyes. She was getting more interesting.

Together they toured the building. It was an Edwardian slab. The red brick felt cold against Portland stone columns. Wreaths of flowers condensed against polythene wrappers. Silver foil 'MUM' and 'GRANDAD' surrounded by the wilting heads of doomed flowers, already turning brown at their edges. It all represented depression. Why should the only certainty in life be associated with so much tacky solemnity Paul thought as he followed Margaret from room to room? He kept behind her tight bottom, wrapped in a dark blue skirt with two beautifully formed legs beneath. This woman was beginning to make him move. He had not felt like this for some considerable time. In fact he was beginning to wonder when he had last felt like this.

"What do you think?"

Paul was broken from his reverie. "Well, what do you think?" Frank grunted close to Paul's ear.

"Not bad, and we can handle the job as well." Paul grinned as Margaret turned to face him. She glanced away quickly. He was feeling really good.

"Yea, we need to fit a heat exchanger in the chimney, feed that back through to the domestic heating unit. Plenty of room in that plant-room, the one off the corridor at the back of the place where the coffin goes during the service."

"The catafalque," Margaret interrupted.

"Yea, there. Header unit up there, bit of ductwork into the chapel will give a bit of warm air in there or we can put it into a pre-heat unit to heat up the water before it goes into the domestic boiler, it's all easy enough, it's up to you. What do you fancy?"

He smiled at Margaret as she stepped back, turning towards the door.

"That will have to be explained again Mr Evans, slowly, in words of one syllable, so it can be understood by everyone."

"Don't worry, when he reads my report even Mr Trubshaw will understand what I mean, and I'll make personally sure that you understand everything about the system."

They all smiled, discreetly.

Frank drove back to the office, very fast and badly. Lurching acceleration and late braking did not encourage conversation and Paul was certainly not willing to break Frank's intense concentration. He sat in the passenger seat, alternately grabbing the door handle and pressing his right foot very hard onto the floor, while Frank hissed and snarled them to the grateful sight of the office car park.

Later that day they discussed the crematorium project over several large glasses of Scotch. It was the normal pattern. For some reason that Paul had never been able to understand Frank's wife lived in Wales. Frank stayed in London during the week driving to Wales at the weekend. Consequently he always wanted company during the week. Paul was expected to provide his fair share. At these sessions both men drank and smoked heavily and sorted out the problems of the world. They never talked about themselves, never mentioned their own problems, never revealed any innermost secrets. They were private men who together teased out the way forward for governments, for social and political history, for the future of their small business, but who kept their private nightmares to themselves. The drink helped, bringing the calm satisfaction that comes with impending oblivion. Eventually Paul would smoke a few joints while Frank crawled out for a take-away. More drink to wash it all down. Sometimes they would call for cab to take them home but normally both men would collapse over a desk until the cleaners arrived. It was a good life.