Everyone noticed him as they walked into the chapel. He sat six rows from the front, a solitary black man, dressed in a slightly dishevelled suit, a gnarled walking stick resting on his knee, and his glasses held together by grimy pieces of Elastoplast. The deceased’s daughter was the first to speak, “Ag, shame, man, he knew Mom when she taught here, way back when we were little kids.” “I suppose you gave him some money?” whispered her brother, “You’re a sucker, you always have been!” “Shame, look at him, he’s poor. It’s not his fault, man.” “No, no, I…