“Don’t come back, lad…”
“Right, Grandad, I’m off then! Been grand here, just like when I were a kid! That steam in the bath—proper magic! Feel like a new man! Might pop round next weekend, eh?”
“Best not come again, son,” Gran wiped her hands on her apron and sighed, heavy as lead.
“Gran, what’s got into you?” Egor was stunned. He’d always reckoned himself their pride and joy—raised by ’em till he were twelve, called ’em Mum and Dad an’ all.
“Ain’t no point,” Grandad cut in, his brow dark under thick eyebrows. “See now why your wife left you. How’d you turn out like this, eh?” He waved a rough hand, turned on his bad leg, and hobbled toward the shed.
“Graaandad!” The woman burst barefoot onto the porch, heedless of the biting September wind and drizzle. Birch leaves whipped blind into her face as iron-gray clouds rolled overhead.
“Graaandad! Egor just rang! He’s comin’! Oh, what joy!” She clutched her hands to her chest, beaming.
The old man straightened with a groan, wiped sweat from his brow with a frayed sleeve.
“What you doin’ out here barefoot? Catch your death!” he scowled. “Get inside—I’ll be in shortly.”
“But I—just wanted to share the news, me heart couldn’t hold it—”
“Inside, I said!”
Gran sniffled and shuffled back to the cottage. But inside, her heart churned. Egor—their little Egor, the light of their lives. Raised him from nappies, his first steps, first word—”Gran”… Then their daughter showed up. Took him. Soon as she got back on her feet. Twelve years later. Like he were on loan, and the debt was due. Grandad had raged then, shamed her, tried to stop her—all for nowt. They left. Egor cried, called at first, then less… till silence swallowed the house. Hollowed their souls. When he wed, he didn’t even tell ’em. Heard it from strangers. That cut deep. And now—he’d rung. He was comin’. Hope bloomed warm in her chest.
Three days she scrubbed and baked like it were Christmas. Didn’t sleep—wondered how he’d turned out, grown tall, handsome, no doubt…
At dusk, a sleek black car rolled into the yard. Windows black as pitch. Skin prickled. Out stepped Egor—stocky, cropped hair, flash jacket. Grinned. Nodded.
“Grandad, Gran! Got owt to eat? Starvin’ here!”
“‘Course, lad. Come in…”
No one expected gifts—times were tight. But a bit of decency… Somethin’…
He stuffed himself, flopped his boots on the table, lit a fag, and bragged about his “brilliant life.” Grandad’s mouth twisted. He stood, stiff, and walked to the woodshed.
But Egor rattled on. Bragged about his wife—some MP’s daughter. How she “didn’t appreciate him,” ran crying to Daddy. How they made him work, but he’d not married for that. Got sacked. No place to live. Now a chauffeur. That car, black as sin, windows like the dead of night.
“Need money,” he said. “You’ve had your turn, Grandad. My time now.”
Grandad split logs in silence. Hands itched to dirty, but Gran stopped him, led him away. She sat, listened to this stranger, crossed herself soft. Past midnight, he passed out at the table, empty glass in hand.
Sunrise—he sprang up fresh as a daisy. Demanded another bath. Ate. Slunk to the porch. “Right, off then.”
“Aye, off you go,” Grandad muttered, tugging his coat tight.
Gran watched him—overnight, he’d aged ten years. Hunched, shoulders slumped.
“Egor, love,” she whispered, drawing her shawl close. “One last thing. The world don’t spin for you. You’re dust. Treat folk how you want treatin’. And your soul… it’s like them car windows. There, but nothin’ shines through.”
She crossed him, then followed Grandad, hand pressed to her heart. In that heavy autumn air, it dawned—spring wouldn’t come for them again.
And don’t you come back.
