An oppressively cold, overcast, drizzling sort of day. The headline in the rolled-up Sun newspaper I’m carrying is ‘Ender a Legend’. Next to that is a tribute to Wendy Richard from Jade Goody. ‘Bodmin crematorium please,’ I tell the taxi driver waiting at the station rank. On the short drive up the hill, the taxi driver points out spots on the notorious stretch of road where deaths have occurred lately. ‘Mother and daughter, that one,’ he says, rather pleased, pointing out a sodden bunch of chrysanthemums fastened to a metal fence.
When he drops me off, I’m half an hour early. I inspect the wreaths on display outside the chapel and then I go and stand, alone, in the waiting room. The waiting room has blue velvet curtains, pink sofas, a tea and coffee machine. Via a loudspeaker above the door, highly emotional tributes, being paid to what sounds like an adored Mum, are relayed from the chapel nextdoor.
An official in a dark suit enters, introduces himself as Dave, and asks me if I’m here for Terry.
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