I wasn’t sure if Mr K was resting, asleep, or even unconscious. His breathing was so slow it gave me the panicky feeling of wanting to draw air into my own lungs but, as we watched, his eyes opened and he grunted.

‘Aww, there you are, love,’ said Mrs K. ‘Look, Abigail’s here and she’s done a painting of Brucie for you,’ she said again.

I gave Mr K a little wave and watched as his eyes roamed over the picture that Mrs K was holding out for him. Then he closed his eyes with an exhale of breath, as if it was all too much effort. His lips, I’m sure, curved upwards.

‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ said Mrs K. ‘I knew you’d like it. Now, where shall I put it? Somewhere where you can see it.’

‘Mrs K,’ I said softly, ‘I’m going to go and do the drinks. I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re doing. Can I get you anything? A coffee?’

‘Oh that would be lovely, dear, thank you, but no rush. Do the others first.’

‘Okay.’

I slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me. A nurse caught my eye and raised her eyebrows in question.

‘Not yet,’ I said.

I wasn’t in the room when Mr Keyson died later that afternoon, but I saw a nurse go in and I was waiting outside when she came back out. She shook her head, just two shakes, left and right, and tears sprung to my eyes, my throat tight. Even though it was expected, I couldn’t help but think it was too soon.

‘It was peaceful,’ said the nurse. ‘She was there. Do you want to go in? I think she’d like that.’

‘Sure.’

I dabbed at my eyes, took a deep breath, then slipped quietly into the room. Mrs K was sitting with her head bowed next to her husband, and I saw at once that the essence of him had gone, his body just a shell on the bed. I looked upwards as I always do at these times, imagining his soul flying happy and free. Mrs K glanced up as I entered. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Oh Abigail, he’s gone,’ she said. ‘It’s over.’ A sob ran through her.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I went to give her a hug and she stood up and grasped hold of me for a minute before turning back to her husband.

‘No, it’s… it’s good. He was in pain,’ she said. ‘He’s at peace now. He hated being sick.’ Her voice was tremulous.

‘I’m glad you were there,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘It will have given him a lot of comfort to know you were there.’

‘Do you think so?’ she asked. ‘Do you think he knew?’