"Do you think his shoes need polishing?"
Mum was fidgeting with one of Dad's ties.
"I don't think anyone will see them."
Dad's suit was laid over the back of the armchair like an antimacassar. A white shirt billowed, ghost-like, from the door handle.
Dad kept the polish in a biscuit tin under the sink. Every Saturday night he would collect our shoes and line them up on the fire surround - at one end his brogues and at the other, Julie's Startrites.
When we got older us kids started wearing trainers so Dad had only his own and Mum's to do. When he retired he discovered trainers himself. The polish, unused, dried up.
"They'll be here soon to pick up his things."
Mum, foraging in the cupboard, flinched when the doorbell rang. I looked out the window at the van parked outside, its name on the side, "Hanbury - Undertakers".