“Up I Get—So No One Else Can Have Him!” How Granny Betty Rose from Her Bed When She Suspected Grandad Bill of Playing the Field
Granny Betty had grown terribly weak. She had no strength to speak, to rise, even to glance out the window. She lay there, turned toward the wall, as though she’d made peace with everything. Her husband, Grandad Bill, came in as usual, boiled the kettle, and brewed a fragrant cup of tea—filling the cottage with the smell, just like the old days. He’d hoped to cheer her up, but her words weren’t what he expected.
“In the wardrobe, there’s my dress,” Betty whispered. “And the scarf I’m to be buried in… Don’t mix them up—it’s separate, in a bag.”
“What nonsense are you on about?” Bill snapped. “Blimey, I’ll find your dress! But guess who I ran into at the shop today… Margaret! Done up like she’s off to a garden party, she was. Couldn’t miss her. Comes right up to me and says, ‘Fancy a stroll, William?’ What d’you say to that, eh?”
Then came the miracle. Granny Betty flung off the blanket, sat bolt upright—and stood! Slowly but surely, she marched to the wardrobe.
Bill froze, teacup in hand.
It had all started earlier, when two nurses, Lucy and Claire, were on night duty at the village clinic. The patients slept soundly, so the women settled in to watch a favourite romance film.
“Never get tired of this one,” Claire smiled.
“Always makes me think of my grandparents,” Lucy said. “Granny Betty and Grandad Bill—like something out of a film. Love just as real.”
She told how Betty would gently nag at Bill, and he’d just grin:
“Always on at me, aren’t you? Other blokes down the pub, gambling their pensions—but I’m your golden boy!”
To which Betty would shoot back:
“Golden now, maybe—after your retirement! But back in the day, you were quite the ladies’ man!”
When Betty took to her bed, everyone feared the worst. Both were past eighty. The doctor came, the kids from London even called in a private specialist. But her bloods were fine, her pressure steady, temperature normal as could be. Yet Betty just lay there, refusing food, avoiding eye contact.
“Nothing stays down,” she murmured. “No appetite. It’s… my time.”
Bill hovered like a lost soul.
“Cuppa with lemon?” he’d ask.
“No.”
“Porridge, then? Made it meself!”
Betty would just turn to the wall. Still, for his sake, she managed a spoonful or two—plain oats, no milk.
One day, Bill tugged on his flat-cap and headed out. Betty weakly propped herself up.
“Where you off to?”
“Back soon,” he muttered.
He went straight to Agnes—the local wise woman. She gave him herbs, whispered in his ear how to “bring his missus back to life.”
“It’ll work,” Agnes promised, “if you do it right.”
Bill brewed the herbs at home—rich, aromatic tea that filled the cottage. Then Betty started again:
“That dress in the wardrobe… For when I’m gone…”
But Bill cut in sharply:
“Saw Margaret by the shop! Dressed to the nines, she was. Said spring’s here, birds singing, perfect for a walk. Even asked me to join her. Imagine that?”
Margaret was his first sweetheart. Twice widowed, she’d taken to winking at Bill lately. Said he’d let happiness slip through his fingers, that things could’ve been different…
Betty knew all about those little remarks. And though Bill always denied it, doubt gnawed at her.
Then he added:
“Ran into Rose, too! Dolled up like a film star—new coat, lipstick, eyes sparkling. Her husband’s half-dead, but she’s still a right firecracker!”
That’s when Granny Betty threw off the blanket, swung her legs down, and stomped to the wardrobe in a huff.
“Don’t fret—I’ll find your dress. You’ll be the belle of the funeral,” Bill said drily.
“Funeral? Rubbish!” Betty snapped. “I’ve got nothing decent to wear! Moth-eaten coat, ancient hat, scarves not fit for a jumble sale!”
“But you said—”
“I want new things now!” She began yanking old clothes from the wardrobe with furious energy.
“Margaret and Rose lying in wait, are they? Think I’ll kick the bucket? Well, I’m up! Where’s my potatoes? I’m starving. And that fancy tea—bring it here!”
From that day, Betty bustled about again, tidying, scolding as usual. Where her “frailty” went, no one knew.
Bill bought her a new coat, hat, even a cheery spring scarf. Now Granny Betty walks through the village like royalty! Grandad Bill ambles beside her, grinning slyly—as if he’s the one who played the cleverest trick.
“Just look at him!” Betty complained to their daughter, visiting the next week. “I wasn’t even cold, and he’s carrying on with Margaret and Rose—village flirts! Well, he’s not having them. Spite’s kept me alive, and I’ll stay that way!”
That same night, Lucy and Claire finished their film. With hours left on shift, they chatted idly.
“Your grandparents are marvelous,” Claire sighed. “True love.”
“Fifty years married already,” Lucy said proudly. “Diamond anniversary’s not far off. Slowing down, yes—but still devoted.”
“Betty must worry he’ll wander off?”
“Course she does!” Lucy laughed. “Needlessly. He’s loyal as a Labrador. But it’s given her a right boost!”
Both women chuckled—warmly, knowingly, the way only those can laugh who’ve seen years pass but know real love still glows beneath it all.
