Once breakfast was over, a chorus of lawnmowers would start up. Their first customers would be arriving soon. The smell of bread, fresh out of the oven, was already seeping out of the baker’s shop next door. At nine o’clock, the village shop would open. This was a Saturday, so nobody would be going to work and it was still too early for the homeowners to begin their weekend chores. The newspaper boys had done their rounds. The milkman had already made his deliveries and disappeared, the bottles rattling on the back of his van. The village itself was quiet, the streets empty. The new grave was to the east, close to the ruins of the old chancel where the grass was allowed to grow wild and daisies and dandelions sprouted around the broken arches. The church dated back to the twelfth century although of course it had been rebuilt many times. Botolph’s in Saxby-on-Avon had never looked lovelier, the morning sun glinting off the stained glass windows. The two gravediggers, old Jeff Weaver and his son, Adam had been out at first light and everything was ready, a grave dug to the exact proportions, the earth neatly piled to one side.
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