When my father-in-law was admitted to the Royal, we all knew he wouldn’t be coming home again. We’d been told as much, but we didn’t speak about it. Not to each other. And certainly not to him.

He was old, frail and tired. Jimmy still had his family around him, but he had lost his wife a few years ago and sometimes he was like a lost soul, seeking something he could never find. That frustration often made him angry and impatient but now, near the end, he was calm and peaceful, with increasing medication keeping pain at bay.

He may have been nearing the end, but he was a determined wee man and stronger than he really should have been. Won’t be long now, the staff had said, but Jimmy stayed with us for a week.

It shouldn’t have surprised us. During the war, Jimmy served on merchant navy convoys and his ship was sunk by enemy destroyers in the Atlantic. He only told me the story once, but I never forgot it – the death of friends alongside him, the black smoke that made it impossible to see, the sea aflame with burning oil … and then the horror of being fired on by the enemy while struggling for his life in that hellish inferno. It later transpired that the Germans were firing at sharks that were circling the stricken sailors.

Jimmy survived, of course – if he hadn’t there would be no story! – and then endured a trek across Europe to a succession of PoW camps in Germany. The wee man was made of tough stuff. Hearts of Oak, indeed.

Back home, his mother never gave up hope. She just knew … and he eventually made it home.

During those final days and nights we took it in turns to be with him, and sometimes there were long silences as we ran out of things to say. Outside, the world moved on, but in our hospital bubble time seemed to stand still: without checking your watch or drawing back the curtains you were not part of that life.

I tried to make myself useful by becoming the official bearer of family sandwiches. Each day I would call into Sainsburys and buy an assortment of sandwiches to take into the hospital. Eating helped to pass the time, and the sandwich fillings became a source of conversation.

On the evening Jimmy died, I left the hospital and wandered down Middle Meadow Walk to clear my head. It was a beautiful summer evening and the birds were still singing as the sun went down.
I took a seat on a bench and was visited by an inquisitive wee sparrow. I still had a packet of sandwiches in my pocket and had no appetite, so I fed my new friend before heading back to the hospital.

I’m not religious but I hoped Jimmy’s mum would be waiting up for him …