FIREPLACES FIRES STOVES

would be intimate. In a couple of months we’d celebrate Jo’s life, at the cottage, with all our friends. But only those closest to us would attend her cremation in Batley.

I held my children’s hands. Cuillin and Lejla sat either side of me, having stationed themselves at a window each so they could look out at everyone lining the streets of Batley.

I could hardly take it in. We were being driven to Jo’s funeral. We had expected that hundreds of people would turn out in honour of Jo, but we were deeply moved that thousands packed the pavements.

The diversity of those people was inspiring. Workmen stood alongside British Asian kids who had been let out of local schools to pay tribute. People poured out of shops and stood beside university students who had travelled from Leeds.

Everyone thronged together on the streets. Road after road was filled. Ordinary people, from extraordinarily varied communities and backgrounds, were united in respect for Jo and all she stood for as their MP. But the tears being shed were more for Jo as a normal person, who had felt empathy for all people, no matter what they did or where their parents had been born.

The hearse drove more slowly than usual so children could throw flowers on to the bonnet. Many people waved to the kids, even as they wept, and Lejla waved at everyone she saw, while Cuillin said something simple but profound: “I knew that people loved mummy – but I didn’t know this many people loved her.”

Extracted from Jo Cox: More In Common, by Brendan Cox. Published by Two Roads on June 13, £16.99. Copyright © 2017 The Jo Cox Foundation Trading Limited.