**”I’ll Get Up—Just So No One Else Can Have Him!” How Granny Martha Rose from Her Bed When She Suspected Grandpa Alf of Being Up to No Good**
Granny Martha had become frail. She had no strength left to speak, to rise, even to glance out the window. She lay there, turned toward the wall, as if she’d already made her peace with the end. Her husband, Grandpa Alf, shuffled into the cottage, boiled the kettle, and brewed strong tea—its fragrant steam curling through the air, just like the old days. He hoped to lift her spirits, but her whispered words weren’t what he expected.
*”My good dress is in the wardrobe,”* Martha murmured. *”And the scarf—the one I’m meant to be buried in. Don’t mix them up; it’s in a separate bag.”*
*”What nonsense are you on about?!”* Alf snapped. *”I’ll find your dress easy enough. But guess who I ran into down the high street? Mabel! All dolled up like she was off to a ball. Fluttered her lashes at me, all coy-like—‘Fancy a stroll, Alfred?’ What d’you make of that, eh?”*
Then—a miracle. Granny Martha threw off the blankets, heaved herself upright, and *stood.* Slowly, unsteadily, but with iron will, she marched to the wardrobe.
Alf froze, teacup trembling in his hand.
It had begun earlier that evening, when nurses Lucy and Sarah sat through their night shift at the village clinic. The ward was quiet, patients asleep, and the two settled in to watch their favourite romantic film—the one that never grew old.
*”Could watch this a hundred times,”* Sarah sighed.
*”Makes me think of my grandparents,”* Lucy said softly. *”Granny Martha and Grandpa Alf—just like something out of this film. Love like that’s rare as hen’s teeth.”*
She told Sarah how Granny Martha would scold Alf with fond exasperation, and how he’d just grin in return:
*”Always nagging me, woman! Why? Other blokes drink, wander—but I’m your golden lad, aren’t I?”*
To which Martha would huff:
*”Golden? Only since your pension came through! Before that, you were a right scallywag!”*
When Martha took to her bed, everyone feared the worst. Both she and Alf were well into their eighties. Doctors came, their city-dwelling children sent for private specialists. Yet her tests were clean—blood pressure steady, temperature perfect. Still, Martha refused food, refused to meet anyone’s eyes.
*”Can’t stomach a bite,”* she’d whisper. *”No appetite left. It’s… my time.”*
Alf hovered like a shadow, desperate.
*”Cuppa? Lemon slice in it?”*
*”No.”*
*”Porridge, then? Made it meself!”*
She’d just turn away. But for his sake, she’d force a spoonful down—plain oats, no fuss.
One afternoon, Alf tugged on his flat cap and headed out. Martha weakly propped herself up.
*”Where’re you off to?”*
*”Back soon,”* he grunted.
He went to see Beatrice, the local wise woman. She handed him dried herbs, whispered instructions—how to *”bring her back.”*
*”It’ll work,”* she promised. *”If you do it right.”*
Alf returned, brewed the herbs—soon, the whole cottage smelled of them. And that’s when Martha started up again:
*”My burial dress—in the wardrobe…”*
But Alf cut in sharply:
*”Saw Mabel by the post office. Done up like she’s thirty years younger! Said, ‘Lovely spring, Alfred—fancy a walk?’ Cheeky mare!”*
Mabel had been his first sweetheart. Twice widowed, she’d taken to winking at Alf, sighing about *”missed chances”*—how life could’ve been different…
Martha knew. And though Alf always denied it, doubt festered.
Then he added salt to the wound:
*”Ran into Ethel, too! Dressed to the nines—new coat, lipstick, laughing like a girl. That husband of hers is half-deaf, but *she’s* still a live wire!”*
That did it. Martha shoved the blankets aside, swung her legs over the bed, and stomped—weakly, but furiously—to the wardrobe.
*”Don’t fret over your dress. You’ll look a picture,”* Alf muttered.
*”What funeral?!”* she spat. *”I’ve got *nothing* to wear! Coat’s moth-eaten, hat’s ancient, scarves all faded!”*
*”You said you didn’t need—”*
*”Well now I *do*!”* She yanked out mothballed rags with a vengeance. *”Mabel and Ethel can *wait*—think I’m done? I’m *up*! Where’s the stew? I’m famished. And pour me that tea—proper strong!”*
From that day, Martha bustled about again—dusting, scolding, *living.* Where her *”frailty”* went, nobody knew.
Alf bought her a new coat, a smart hat, even a floral headscarf. Now Granny Martha strutted through the village like the Queen herself, Alf shuffling beside her, grinning like he’d pulled off the heist of the century.
*”Just look at him!”* she complained to their daughter, visiting the next week. *”I hadn’t even cooled, and he’s already sniffing after Mabel and Ethel! Over my *dead* body—which *won’t* be anytime soon!”*
That same night, Lucy and Sarah finished their film.
*”Your grandparents are *marvellous*,”* Sarah sighed. *”Proper love, that.”*
*”Fifty years married,”* Lucy said proudly. *”Diamond anniversary soon. Slower these days, but still thick as thieves. And *still* mad for each other.”*
*”Think Granny Martha’s scared he’ll wander?”*
Lucy laughed. *”Dead right! But no chance. He’s loyal as a spaniel. Still—good motivation, eh?”*
Both women dissolved into laughter—warm, knowing—the kind that comes when years weigh heavy, yet love still burns bright.
