A young woman had fallen 650ft to her death from the top of the Cliffs of Moher.

Her four-year-old son, too, had plunged into the rocks and the water. They had both died, and it was so unnecessary. The crowd of mourners didn't know what to say.

Slowly, the funeral procession made the five-mile journey from Buttevant to Churchtown. The hearse carrying the large coffin led the way. Behind it, a small white coffin held the body of Evan Murphy. An arrangement of white flowers had been formed to make one word.

Simply: son.

Little was said during the removal service. Little was said as the congregation filed up the aisle to shake hands with Simon Meade - Evan's father - and Eileen Murphy's parents and siblings.

People left the church in silence.

The next morning, a bright cold sunshine beamed through the clouds and directly down upon the small yellow farmhouse where Eileen Murphy spent her childhood. Inside, the Murphy family was desperately trying to prepare itself for the joint funeral that was due to take place in just a few hours.

They wanted "to set the record straight", said Eileen Murphy snr. They wanted to honour the true memory of Eileen and Evan.

"We've just been so shocked by everything that's happened and everything that's been written in the papers, " she said. "No one has asked us for the truth or the right information. They've just done what they want with it."

The room lapsed into silence, broken only by a low din coming from a small TV that was perched high on a shelf. A cookery programme.

Eileen's sister, Valerie, went to change her clothes for the funeral, while William, Eileen's brother, paced the room. Agitated and anguished.

In a low armchair sat Liam Murphy.

Eileen's father. Evan's grandfather. "He used to call me Dad, " said Liam, smiling at the framed photograph of Evan that was sitting on the table. "He was just such a little doteen. I was mad about him.

I loved that little fellow. My pride and joy."

He trailed off, his gaze focusing vacantly on the television screen.

But the talk of Evan raised a smile with everyone. "His toys are all over the place, his Thomas the Tank Engine and everything, " said Valerie. "He had anything he wanted and wasn't it right? He was such a happy little boy, always happy."

The family insisted that there was no suicide note left by Eileen. That was why they wanted to talk, now, on the morning of her funeral. They wanted to have their say in the truth about what happened to their daughter.

"She was very quiet, but she was happy, " said Eileen snr. "She had brains to burn too. A really intelligent girl. She always wanted to go to college actually and she was really interested in doing a science course. But she couldn't go, you know, because of Evan."

There was more silence. More sadness.

"I had that television bought for her, " said Eileen, pointing to a large cardboard box in the corner. "I had just bought it and I was bringing it home in the car, when I heard on the news on the radio that two people had fallen off the cliffs. They didn't give any names, and I remember thinking that was awful.

"That evening, the garda and the priest came to the door. And I didn't think of it straight away. I said, 'Don't tell me, there's nothing up. There's nothing wrong.' And they said that we had better go inside because they had bad news.

That was how we found out."

Three hours later, just a short drive from the little yellow farmhouse in the sun, the church in Churchtown was packed with mourners. The two coffins stood side by side, covered in white sheets.

In the funeral homily, Fr Tom McDermott asked Eileen and Evan to "pray for us", promising the prayers of the congregation in return.

He didn't say a lot about the mother and son. He didn't say a lot about their lives, or their deaths. It was all so unnecessary and it was as though, like everyone else, the priest didn't know quite what to say.