**MY, NOT MINE, BUT FAMILIAR GRANNY**
“Gran, could you be a granny again?”
“What’s all this, Poppy? I’m not following.”
“See, Gran, all the kids in the neighbourhood have grannies. Some have one, some have two, but I’ve got four—two of my own, plus one each from Mum and Dad. But Andy hasn’t got any. It’s just so sad.”
“So, you’re asking me to be his granny?”
“Oh, Gran, don’t be silly. Not giving you away—just sharing. So you could make him pancakes too, maybe knit him a scarf before winter.”
“Oh, you little goose… Andy did have a granny, Nelly. We were friends since we were girls. Thick as thieves. But she passed… in that accident. Right when Andy was born.”
“Gran, why are you crying?”
“It’s hard, love. She and her husband were driving to pick up Andy’s mum from the hospital. Set off early. Then a lorry came straight at them—driver fell asleep at the wheel. Crash. Just like that, they were gone. Oh, it still hurts.”
“Gran, don’t cry. I’ll still invite Andy over. He loves your pancakes. And knit him socks for Christmas, yeah?”
“Course I will. But Poppy, don’t tell him any of this. If his mum hasn’t, there’s a reason. You’re good at keeping secrets?”
“I am, Gran. Promise.”
“That’s my girl. Now off you pop—lunch soon.”
I dashed outside and started skipping. The boys were near Sam’s house, spitting to see who could go farthest. Sam was winning—you could tell by their faces, him grinning while Nick and Andy scowled.
“Oi! Someone’s moved into the empty house! Come on!”
“Last one there’s a rotten egg!”
We tore off down the street. The house had stood empty for two summers, but today there was a van out front, men hauling furniture. We sprinted closer. A burly bloke tipped his cap, wiping his forehead.
“Kids, where’s the nearest tap?”
“I can fetch water from home!”
“Or the pump!”
“Show us?”
“Come on then. Who’d you bring?”
“An old lady. A granny. Be kind, yeah? She’s got no one left. That’s all I know.”
“We’re nice! Can we meet her tomorrow?”
“Course you can.”
We scattered, but Andy stayed. He dreamed of being a lorry driver—even loved the smell of petrol. He’d clambered up the apple tree out front, watching quietly.
Then a voice drifted up:
“Sorry, lad. Hate to bother you, but I’ve nowhere to sleep. Lost my keys. Could you climb through the window and let me in?”
Andy froze, then nodded.
“I’m Andy. I’ll help. Just need a boost from the men.”
He dropped down, landing beside a tiny granny with kind eyes.
“What sort of pies d’you like, Andy love?”
“Jam. And onion with egg!”
“Noted. In a few days, bring your friends—pies all round.”
He wriggled through the window, unbolted the door. The house was dusty, bare. His shirt tore somewhere—he winced. Mum would scold. But the granny promised to mend it, and by morning, you’d never know.
After that, Andy had a granny. Not his, but still family. She knit mittens, read him stories, called him in for tea. Even his mum visited. Then one day, Granny Olive fell ill.
Andy and I made her porridge. I lit the stove, he peeled potatoes. Nick even stoked the fire when it turned chilly. Grown-ups helped, but Andy cared most. She was his granny, after all.
Now he’s like the rest of us—got a granny. His. Even if she wasn’t always. But truly family.
