Caitlin took the seat by the bed, and held the thin, cold hand that lay on top of the covers, careful not to nudge the canula. The machine on the other side of the bed made the corner of the tiny ward seem crowded like there was another visitor looming over his frail body.

Her grandfather was sleeping. The tiny V of his taut, pale skin showed at the neck of the pyjama jacket. His face was greyish, hollowed, not at all like the man she had known all her life, and it seemed as if part of him was already somewhere else: he was a half-empty house waiting for a new tenant, though this body had finished playing host.

If she had been shown a picture of him as he looked now, she wasn’t sure she would have recognised him, and that made her feel even more guilty. He could have gone unclaimed.

His hair, thin and silvery grey, seemed glued to his forehead and cheek. It had got long, another sign he hadn’t been taking care of himself. She hadn’t been to see him as often as she should. His wrinkles seemed more deeply etched, the mobility gone from his cheeks and mouth. His hands were blue-veined and the fingernails were over-long and ragged, yellowed from long years of smoking, the knuckles knobbly and stiff.

She didn’t know what to do with her own hands. Surely the next of kin of the dying were compelled by love to perform some last caring service, something to reassure and comfort, but she had no love for him, just a desire to do her duty. She wanted his suffering to end and for him to move on to that better place people always talked about.

Then she could go home and forget him forever.

It would seem indecent if her phone were to ping in the middle of all this silence. She fished in her bag for it, to turn it off, and as she depressed the tiny button on the side, she glanced up to find his eyes open and watching her. She dropped her phone back into her bag and scooched forward to take his hand.

‘Gramps. It’s me,’ she said softly. She had been about to add her name, but he spoke.

‘Isobel? Your hair looks lovely in the firelight, my darling.’

Caitlin felt sad, but smiled, not about to correct him. Her grandmother had been dead for sixteen years.

He gripped her hand in a painful clasp of his cold bony fingers, and drew her closer to him, dipping his voice to say, ‘You didn’t say anything about the boy?’ And then he was asleep again.

Just twenty minutes later he stirred again, attempting to move his stiff ankles into a more comfortable position. He turned his head and saw her sitting there, alert for his barest movement. He smiled and moved his hand slightly in hers.

‘You don’t need to sit up all night, Isobel. Get your rest, dear. The children will need you in the morning.’

Whilst she was still searching her mind for some small lie to tell him to set his mind at rest, she saw he had gone back to sleep again. She’d been on the point of telling him that her mother had come to take care of the children, but then she realised she didn’t know if Isobel’s mother had still been alive when their children—her mother and her aunt—had been small. She knew so little about her mother’s family. He was her last contact with that side of her own past, and he was about to leave her forever. She didn’t know why the tears began to flow just then, but she found a tissue in her pocket and wiped them away.

He spoke again, ‘Don’t cry, pet. I know you didn’t tell anyone, just like you promised. No one knows. No need to fret, it’ll be all right. You’ll see. All done and dusted.’

His arm fell back to his chest, and for a few minutes he dozed.

A nurse peeked through the curtains.

‘Everything okay?’ she whispered.

Caitlin nodded. ‘He seems a little better,’ she said. ‘He’s been talking. Quite lucidly, except that he thinks I’m my grandmother. But yes, he’s definitely a bit better.’

The nurse nodded, biting her lip, and said nothing. She bustled away to see someone else.

A few minutes later, as Caitlin sat there, Gramps breathed in a great gasp of air. It seemed to leak slowly out at the corner of his mouth. Caitlin held her breath, watching, waiting. Then finally she realised it had happened, that thing she had been waiting for. Dreading. Almost without her noticing. He had not breathed in again. As the seconds stretched to minutes, she realised he wouldn’t breathe again.

She sat a bit longer, uncertain what to do. It had been so ordinary she found she wasn’t upset, after all, only vaguely surprised, and not quite sure if she was right about it, or if somehow she was imagining that he wasn’t breathing. She was still holding his hand. She patted it sadly, then stood to tuck it back under the covers and to straighten the sheet. She bent to kiss his cheek.

‘Goodbye Gramps.’

***