“Grandmother, could you be a grandmother one more time?”
“What are you on about, Poppy? I don’t follow.”
“You see, Grandmother, all the children in the square have grandmothers. Some have one, some have two—but I have four! Two of my own, and one each from Mum and Dad. But poor little Andy hasn’t any. It breaks my heart.”
“So you’d have me be his grandmother?”
“Oh, Grandmother, don’t be daft! Not to give you away—just to share you. So you might bake him scones and knit him a proper scarf before winter.”
“Ah, you sweet lamb… Andy did have a grandmother once, you know. Nana Nell. We grew up together, she and I. Thick as thieves since schooldays. But she was taken too soon… in that accident, the very day Andy was born.”
“Grandmother, why are you crying?”
“It’s a hard thing, dear. She and Granddad had gone to fetch Andy’s mother from hospital. Set out at first light. Then—barrelling toward them, a lorry. The driver had nodded off at the wheel… There was nothing left. Oh, the pain of it.”
“Grandmother… don’t cry. I’ll still bring Andy round. He adores your scones. And you’ll knit him socks for Christmas, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. Only, Poppy, don’t breathe a word of this to him. If his mother hasn’t told him, there’s reason for it. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
“I can, Grandmother. I promise.”
“That’s my girl. Now run along—luncheon won’t wait.”
I dashed out to the square, skipping rope where the boys were gathered near Sam’s house, spitting for distance. Sam always won—you could tell by the way he laughed while Colin and Andy scowled.
“Oy! Someone’s moved into the empty house! Come and see!”
“Last one there’s a rotten egg!”
We tore down the lane to the derelict house two streets over—empty all summer, yet now a removal van stood outside, men hauling furniture. We drew closer. A portly fellow tugged off his cap, mopping his brow.
“Lads—where might a man find a drink round here?”
“I’ll fetch some from home!”
“There’s the pump down Church Lane!”
“Show us, then?”
“Come on, we’ll take you. Who’s moving in?”
“An old lady. A grandmother. Be kind to her, eh? She’s nobody left. That’s all I know.”
“We’re always kind! Can we meet her tomorrow?”
“Aye, come by.”
We scattered homeward—all but Andy, who lingered. He dreamt of being a lorry driver someday, loved even the reek of petrol. He’d climbed the apple tree out front, watching quiet-like, when a voice startled him.
“Forgive me, lad. Hate to trouble you, but I’ve nowhere to sleep—lost my keys. Might you slip through the window and unbolt the door?”
Andy froze, then nodded.
“I’m Andy. I’ll help. Only I’ll need a boost up.”
He dropped from the branches and found himself beside a tiny grandmother with kind eyes.
“What sort of pies do you fancy, Andy-lad?”
“Jam ones. And onion with egg!”
“Noted. Bring your mates round in a few days—there’ll be pies.”
He shimmied through the window, unlatched the door. The house was musty and bare. His shirt tore on a nail—he winced, thinking of Mum’s scolding. But the grandmother promised to mend it, and by morning, you’d never know the rip was there.
From then on, Andy had a grandmother. Not his own, but as good as. She knitted mittens, read him tales, poured his tea. Even his mother began visiting. Then one winter, Granny Olive took ill.
Andy and I made her porridge—I lit the stove, he peeled potatoes. Colin even banked the hearth when frost set in. Oh, the grown-ups helped, but Andy tended her hardest of all.
After all—she was *his* grandmother now.
His own. Someone else’s once, perhaps.
But truly his.
