Here's an extract from this recently-published book:

It is said that early traumatic memories leave the deepest impressions, which was why Claude was certain that his father's hastily constructed eulogy was going to stay with him for a long time; not merely due to the fact that it butchered his mother's memory, but it also represented a confirmation of her death. The only person Claude could now turn to - at least legally - for parental guidance had failed to imply, even grammatically, that there was still any hope for his mother to be more than just a fading memory. Repulsed by the idea of having to participate in any kind of continued performance, Claude sought his escape. It wasn’t simply the lack of direction that had Claude flailing but his audience. Everywhere he looked he saw his mother’s light eyes and long nose in unfamiliar faces that stared back waiting for an encore.
The trestle tables that had been hastily erected in the church hall contained none of Claude’s favourites. The hall was another hasty arrangement. Patience had struck a deal and provided they could be out before Bingo which started at seven pm, everything from the propped open fire exit door, to the headless crucifix leant in the corner was fair game. From his refuge, Claude watched the congregation of softly spoken words and awkward pauses that surrounded his father slowly give way to a more jocular hum, as his father swapped his coffee cup for a small glass of brown liquor.
Claude had passed the table designated for beverages earlier, laden with teacups, it had been absent of all such substances. Claude's eyes watered at the foul odour, though he knew at this distance he could only be imagining the smell. They probably weren't even talking about Mum anymore, Claude thought. The humming grew louder only to correct itself to a muteness at Claude's glare when he peeked out from behind his stack. Claude ducked back into his fortress.
Two deep and five high, the neatly stacked rows of chairs created the hiding place that was currently shielding Claude from the attention of consolers at the wake. There was only one person Claude wanted to speak to and his father had forbidden her from attending. If his mum was here, she’d be in the kitchen, busy ‘setting up’, and she would give Claude important jobs, or sometimes people would come up and ask where his Mum was and he’d go give her a message and she’d listen patiently while he mixed up Uncles. Then he would be given a snack, whilst some Aunt made a comment pointing at him ‘It’s the same food as’ll be out. You’ll see it in a minute. Be patient.’ But she would roll her eyes, and give him his snack. And it tasted great.
There was an absence here that filled the room; it was unforgiving and unexplainable. No one understood. Not the Aunts with their pointing fingers, or the confusable Uncles, who didn’t ask to send a message to his Mum today. They didn’t know they could, and Claude knew he couldn’t offer.

Not All There
Jane Barron de Burgh