It was the first time I’d worn a suit. Mum and Dad took me to a shop in the town centre, not a million miles from where Andrew and I had chained ourselves to the railings. Already that seemed like it had happened to a different person in a different time.

A man in the shop measured me up and promised Mum and Dad that he could do the necessary alterations in time. They didn’t have much call for suits that would fit a thirteen-year-old, and there wasn’t time to tailor one from scratch, but he had an idea of how to make separate elements – trousers and jacket – work together.

He was as good as his word. I went to the shop the day before the funeral and the suit fitted beautifully. He’d also found a waistcoat that matched and was the right size. I put on a bright white shirt, he knotted a red tie around my collar and took me to a full-length mirror.

It was amazing. I gazed at myself and it was like gazing at a stranger. I think it was the first time I’d smiled since Grandad’s death. I studied my reflection and I knew he would have been proud of me.

On the morning of the funeral, Mum asked if I wanted to say a few words during the service. The question took me by surprise and my heart hammered.

Did I want to say a few words? Of course I did. What’s more, I knew I could say a few words. If this had been only a few months previously, it would have been impossible. But my panic attacks were, for the time being at least, under control and my self-confidence high. All those challenges had brought me that confidence. But I shook my head.

‘I don’t think so, Mum,’ I said.

‘Are you sure, Rob?’ Mum ran a hand through my hair. ‘You might regret it afterwards.’

‘Yeah, I might. But I think I’ll just listen to what others say.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘This is not the right time for me,’ I said. I didn’t know why I knew this, but I did. ‘When it is, I’ll have my say.’

I was stunned by the number of people who turned up to the funeral. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, but I guess I must have assumed it would be just family, and maybe one or two people from the old folks’ home.

The place was packed.

Mum, Dad and I lined up at the entrance to the crematorium and welcomed the guests. Andrew was there, of course. Miss Cunningham came as well, which surprised me. I thought the principal would’ve hated Grandad, but it seems not. She told me she wanted to pay her respects to a man who was so passionate about my education.

Many of the old people from the home rocked up, as well as ten or twelve staff. The place had organised a couple of buses. I recognised nearly all the home’s tenants. I was pleased to see Jim wasn’t there. I’m not sure I could’ve coped knowing someone who had no idea what day it was had been made to come. Grandad would’ve hated that as well. Agnes gave me a massive hug and shook Mum and Dad’s hands. A whole procession of old people came along, and all of them hugged me as if I was a long-lost friend. How strange is that?

There were also six people I didn’t recognise. They were roughly Grandad’s age and a couple wore medals pinned to their chests. Each shook me by the hand and bowed their heads as they entered. Vietnam vets. People who’d known Pop for over fifty years, who knew what he’d been through because they’d been there with him. Did they have their own ghosts? I wondered. I imagined they did.

When everyone had taken their seats, the service began.

It didn’t last long, because Grandad had been clear on what he wanted. More precisely, what he didn’t want. God, for example, wasn’t welcome, because Pop wasn’t a fan of religion. No priest or vicar, because he didn’t want someone who’d never met him talking about what a great person he’d been. Instead, a number of people he’d known stood up at the front, next to the casket, and spoke.

Dad gave a moving speech. He made a few jokes and I even laughed at a couple. Two staff from the old person’s home got up and said something. One wiped away a tear, but there weren’t many tears. There were stories. Agnes stood, though she had to hold onto a rail for support. I wondered if she had any idea that Grandad had bet she’d die before him. Knowing Grandad, he’d probably told her. Agnes surprised me by saying that Pop had been the gentlest and kindest person she’d ever known. ‘He tried to hide that,’ she remarked. ‘He pretended to have a thick skin and to despise most people around him. Maybe he fooled some people, but he didn’t fool me. Pat Fitzgerald was a sook and I loved him for it.’

She looked around the crematorium.

‘I’ll tell you one thing. He wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this.’ I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing, even though it wasn’t the most original of jokes. A few other people did, too. ‘He told me he wanted to be burned in a big barrel on the edge of the lake at home,’ she continued. ‘“Put a grill over the top, douse me with petrol and cook up some snags,” he said. I pointed out that there weren’t many people, even in the Old Farts’ Palace, who’d be prepared to eat a smoked sausage sandwich with his smell clinging to it. “In this place,” he said, “that would be a step up in dining experience.”’

Agnes caught my eye.

‘I know he told Rob this,’ she said. I grinned and put a thumb up. ‘Rob who he loved more than life itself. And Rob who loved him. A strange couple, but one that made my life shine brighter, right towards its end. So thank you, Pat Fitzgerald and thank you, Rob Fitzgerald. For brightening my life. And for brightening each other’s.’

I didn’t cry then, but I came close. Grandad used to say I’d cry over a crook mosquito, that I was the biggest sooky la-la in the cosmos. But so far, I’d been strong.

That changed when one of the old men stood, pulled out a bugle and played The Last Post as Grandad’s coffin slid along a conveyor and through a pair of sliding doors. I wasn’t the only one who totally lost it.

It’s a universal truth, so I’ve been told, that after a funeral people can’t slink away home. They have to return to someone’s house, eat curled ham sandwiches and chat in low tones.

People came to our house, ate curled ham sandwiches and chatted in low tones for a while. The Vietnam vets didn’t, though. They melted away when the service was done. I guess when you’ve been through what they’ve been through, you can give ham sandwiches the middle finger if you want.

People came up to me and expressed their sorrow. I thanked them and we were all very, very polite in our suits and our little murmuring clusters.

When my phone buzzed, I assumed it was Andrew. He’d gone home after the formalities and I couldn’t blame him. But it wasn’t Andrew.

I have your last challenge for you, Rob, the text read. Meet me in your back garden. Now. I’ll give it to you personally. It’s time we met, don’t you think?