I opened the door to Gran’s house and cracked her on the elbow with the doorhandle. She was putting on a large, shapeless and totally unsuitable-for-the-climate coat. An equally shapeless woollen beanie perched on her head.

‘You’re going out, Gran,’ I said.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror and adjusted the beanie. It didn’t matter – it would look ghastly no matter the angle.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ she replied. ‘What gave you the first clue?’

‘Where are you going?’

Gran rarely left the house. She’d discovered the joys of online shopping and had food regularly delivered, though she complained that the supermarket used the opportunity to give her all the vegetables that were bruised and on the point of rotting. Sometimes she’d go and get her own, a ten-minute walk (three for someone with passable mobility) and bring it all back in one of those trolleys that old people like for carting around small dogs that yap at you in the street. If I was old, I’d sit in the trolley and harness the dog to the front, like those huskies you see pulling sleds on television shows that no one watches anymore.

‘The hospital,’ said Gran.

‘What? Why?’

‘I went to see Dr Death last week and he arranged an appointment for me.’

He isn’t really called Dr Death. His proper name is Dr D’Ath, so I guess the nickname was an inevitability. The doc is another dying breed, pardon the pun. He’s ancient and wears a waistcoat with a fob watch dangling from its front. He also was clearly at the back of the queue when bedside manner was being handed out, because he doesn’t suffer fools gladly and refuses to prescribe antibiotics unless you’re on the brink of carking it. The doc doesn’t have many patients, partly because no one wants an appointment with Dr Death, partly because he’s tight-fisted with the pills, but mainly because he isn’t a fan of sick notes either. If you want a day off it’s easier to see someone else at the clinic, someone in a rush who’s happy to sign bits of paper without looking at you. Dr D’Ath insists on a full examination. Who has time for that? I know all this because I went once with Gran and was so impressed by his grumpy character that he became my GP too. He doesn’t like me very much. Then again, he doesn’t seem to like anyone very much.

‘I’m coming with you, Gran,’ I said. It was the start of the two-week mid-year break, but I probably would’ve wagged school anyway in the circumstances. ‘I’ll order an Uber.’

She tugged the beanie and turned.

‘The bus is good enough for me,’ she replied. ‘I’m not made of money.’

‘I’ll pay,’ I said. The sixty bucks was burning a hole in my pocket.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Gran and that finished the conversation.

The bus was full of people, all of them checking their phones. Well, all but one. That was an old man with a long grey beard who sat at the back and muttered to himself, the occasional swear word drifting in our direction. Gran sat next to the window, her handbag perched primly on her lap.

‘Why the appointment, Gran?’ I asked.

‘I think I might be pregnant.’

‘Gran!’

‘It’s probably George Clooney’s.’

‘Gran!’

She sighed and watched the passing traffic out of the window.

‘Dr Death said he found a lump.’ She pointed towards her lap, or her handbag, it was difficult to tell which. ‘Down there,’ she added. ‘He wants me to be checked out by a specialist. Silly old bastard.’

‘Should I be worried?’ I asked. I mean, I know it was a stupid question. I was going to worry whatever her answer. Gran grunted.

‘What? Worried that a very old woman might be having some health issues? Save your energy, Grace.’

We sat in silence for a minute or two. She had a point, but that wasn’t really what I was asking. Of course her body was winding down. That’s what time does and I knew that. It was happening to me, like it happens to all of us, but the difference was that I probably had another seventy years of the wind-down. How long did Gran have? Could be a few years, could be a few hours. How do you cope with that? What goes on in your head as you face the inevitable? But of course, I couldn’t ask her how she felt about dying. It would be . . . inappropriate.

Another minute ticked by. The muttering from the old man got louder.

‘How do you feel about dying, Gran?’ I asked.

She chuckled, turned towards me.

‘You don’t have many attractive personality traits, Grace,’ she replied, ‘but I do so like your honesty. Sometimes you say the most inappropriate things and I can’t tell you how much I love that.’

I kept quiet. Not many attractive personality traits? I guess she was right.

‘Dying,’ she said. ‘Can’t say I’m a huge fan. I also can’t say that I don’t think about it a lot. You know, sometimes I check out the use-by date on a jar of pickles and wonder if they’ll outlast me. It’s a strange thing to know that if I was to get a pet – which, by the way, isn’t going to happen – even if it was a hamster or something, it would almost certainly have more years in it than I do.’

‘Are you scared?’

She thought for a moment.

‘Scared isn’t the right word,’ she said. ‘It’s going to happen sometime and in many ways I’m curious about it all. What’s it going to be like, this business of dying? I don’t kid myself that there will be anything after, by the way. That awful form of insurance that religion offers, where the premiums are faith and the abandonment of logic. What scares me is pain, Grace. I want to go in my sleep, not after months or, God forbid, years of suffering. They put down dogs to save unnecessary suffering, but it’s bloody hard to put down people for the same reason. Doesn’t make much sense to me.’

There were many things I wanted to say, and I ran some through my head before abandoning them. It will be fine, Gran. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Just a precaution. You know what doctors are like. You’ve got years left in you. Just as well I didn’t say them. Gran would have chewed me up and spat me out.

The hospital was like every hospital I’ve ever known, which, to be fair, isn’t many. White dominates. It’s as if the interior design is a guarantee to the general public that infection, illness, decay and death are not welcome there, that the dazzling white of the walls is a barrier to your worst fears. Or perhaps it’s a simulation of all those clichés about heaven, the white tunnel that leads to it, the dazzling, clinical brightness offering hope.

Or maybe I think about this kind of stuff too much.

I sat with Gran for about half an hour in a waiting room. When Gran was called I had to stay by myself. Medicine doesn’t like an audience, it seems. Its magic is a secret thing.

I waited for nearly two hours. I really wanted to check my phone, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it – not with everyone else in the waiting room absorbed in their own digital worlds. Joining in would be some kind of admission of failure. So instead I did simple tricks with pens and coins, just to keep my hands busy. At some point I looked up and a small kid I hadn’t noticed before was staring at me. I winked at her but she didn’t change her expression, which was fixed and serious.

Gran eventually came back in, a nurse guiding her with a hand on her arm. She looked tired. Gran and the nurse. I stood, tried to take over the hand guiding, but Gran waved me off. The nurse left.

‘How did it go?’ I asked.

‘Prodding, pushing, blood samples, constant invasion of my personal space and dignity.’ Gran sighed. ‘And bugger-all in the way of communication. Like I was a piece of meat.’

‘They didn’t say anything?’

‘I’m to come in tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘They’re going to stick me in a bed and do more things to me. Maybe they’ll tell me what they find, though I won’t hold my breath.’ She held up a piece of paper. ‘But apparently they’re okay with printed material. List of instructions to prepare me for tomorrow.’

‘You’re being admitted?’

‘That’s the general idea.’

I pulled out my phone.

‘I’ll call an Uber. Or maybe we’ll just get a cab from the rank.’ I’d noticed that there were lines of taxis outside. Not surprising really. Supply and demand.

‘Not going to happen,’ said Gran. ‘I’m not made of money.’

We didn’t talk much on the way back. There wasn’t much to say. Gran and I sat next to each other on the bus, each locked in our own heads going over . . . possibilities. I imagined we were thinking pretty much the same thing.

I wasn’t expecting it when Gran suddenly stood about halfway home. In fact, I’m pretty sure I gave an involuntary twitch. She pressed the bell and shuffled towards the door. I followed. What choice did I have?

‘Why are we getting off, Gran?’ I asked.

‘Stop calling me Gran.’

I supposed she was entitled to be grumpy. She once told me that being old meant she had no more shits left to give. I imagined being old and sick doubled down on that. I stepped off the bus behind her and looked around. There was a faint drizzle in the air, the type that soaks into your clothes and beads your skin. It fit our respective moods. Then I saw the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, all curves, and artistic in a last-century way. I recognised this cemetery, though I hadn’t been here in years. Dad was buried here. Did Gran come here regularly? It didn’t seem like the right time to ask.

I followed her along the path winding between gravestones. It was all a bit maze-like, but Gran seemed to know where she was heading. Finally we stopped before one headstone. It had weathered a little – a good few years had passed, after all – but the inscription was still easy to read.

Alan Patrick McKellon. In Loving Memory. Then the dates of his birth and his death. A small string of moss had invaded the e in Memory.

Gran just stood there, looking down at the headstone. I took up a position behind her, shuffling from one foot to the other and blinking away the rain. We stayed that way for probably five minutes, neither of us saying a word. Then Gran crouched down, took a bunch of dried twigs and mangled flower heads from the stained vase on the grave and threw them to the side.

‘If I’d known we were coming here,’ I said, ‘I would’ve brought some fresh flowers.’ I don’t know why I said that, because I probably wouldn’t have.

‘No point,’ said Gran without turning. ‘I never bring flowers. I think these must be the remains of some your mother brought along. God knows how long ago.’

I didn’t say anything to that. As far as I knew, my mother didn’t visit the cemetery. Then again, most of her life is a mystery to me. Most of everyone’s life is a mystery to me. When Gran spoke again, it was almost like she was talking to herself.

‘What’s the point of bringing something alive to a place of death, knowing that it will die too?’ She sighed. ‘Why pile death on death?’

I couldn’t think of an answer to that. I suppose one wasn’t required.

‘Let’s go, Grace,’ said Gran. She turned and walked past me without a backward glance. I followed.

We walked for a while in silence.

‘Not being morbid, Gran,’ I said finally, ‘but someone should know. Do you want to be buried next to your son?’

‘No,’ said Gran. ‘Burn me and stick me in the rubbish bin. They come on Wednesdays, about ten in the morning. Saves time and money and makes me feel that I’m getting value for my council rates.’ She paused. ‘Just make sure I’m dead first.’

I got out my phone and ordered an Uber. I thought Gran had reached the end of her energy. I was certainly stuffed and I wasn’t in the mood for an argument. And, for once, when the car rocked up three minutes later, I didn’t get one. She just plopped herself into the back seat and stared out of the window.

I burst spluttering from the water and checked the stopwatch. Two minutes and thirty-two seconds, a personal best.

I dried myself, put on new clothes and went to the kitchen. The fridge was, as always, nearly empty. A few scraps of browning vegetables in the drawer, an assortment of dairy products that were almost certainly harbouring cultures of exotic bacteria and some bottles of stir-fry sauce that were probably doing the same. I opened the freezer and pulled out a lasagne, stuck it in the oven. Mum was in her bedroom, probably lamenting the absence of Jim with a few snorts of vodka. I was going to feed her, tell her about Gran and then ring Uncle Mike.

He’s an arsehole, but he has a car, and there’s no way Gran was getting to hospital in a number 45 bus with muttering, drooling weirdos for company.

I wasn’t looking forward to telling Uncle Mike. I had a feeling he’d think it was an opportunity.