14th September
Today marks three weeks since the day my grandmother became the leading lady in the loudest scandal this village has witnessed since old Tom absconded with the village fete funds a few decades back. And thats saying something, considering weve endured all sortscancelled weddings, punch-ups at barn dances, even that time the church roof collapsed in the middle of Sunday services. But this THIS topped it all.
It all began when Gran met a kindly old gent at the Over-60s Club.
Hes a real English gentleman, darling, shed say, dabbing on blush-pink lipstick. And you know, he still drives.
Gran, hes ninety-one! Are you sure he should be behind the wheel?
Oh, hush. At least he still has a car.
Things moved with the speed of a soap opera romance. Within three weeks, hed proposed with a ringwell, it was a bit shiny but clearly straight from the market, and Gran wasnt bothered.
Im getting married on Saturday, Gran announced at our Sunday roast.
Mum nearly choked on her Yorkshire pudding.
Saturday? But thats in five days!
Precisely. No time to waste at my age. If I pop off on Friday, thats that, isnt it!
So, we hunted down a pearl-coloured dress, elegant but nothing flashy. Booked the church hall, ordered a modest cake from Mrs. Millers bakery, and one of my cousins got creative with tissue-paper flowers.
The big day arrived and Gran looked radiantdressed in her pearls inherited from her own mother, and beaming in a way I havent seen in years.
The hall was packed. Soft music trailed in the background. The vicar shuffled his notes. It all felt a bit magical, really.
Except the groom didnt show.
We waited twenty minutes.
Then forty.
After an hour, one of the cousins was dispatched to his flat.
He returned alone, face grave.
He says he cant do it.
The hall erupted in whispers. Gran turned pale.
What do you mean, he cant?
Hes frightened. Says hes too old, might fall ill, doesnt want to burden anyone. Thinks its for the best.
Gran just sat, clutching her bunch of white roses.
And then the doors swung open. In strode a manmid-sixties at a guess, neat suit, thick white hair, and pure fury on his face.
Wheres the bride?
And you are? a cousin asked, bristling.
The son of the coward who just left this lovely lady at the altar.
Thunderous silence filled the room.
He strode over and removed his hat.
Im here to apologise on behalf of my family. What my fathers done is beyond the pale.
Gran peered up at him, straight in the eye.
How old are you, son?
Sixty-seven.
Married?
Widower. Four years now.
Children?
Three. Grown, all sorted.
Still working?
Retired. Decent pension, small cottage in the village.
Gran thought for a moment, then stood with the help of her cane and stepped over to him.
Tell meare you frightened of commitment like your father?
No. I was married thirty-five years. Happiest years of my life.
And marriage?
Its the best thing that can happen to anyone. My father was a fool to miss this chance.
She eyed him top to toe and turned to address the hall.
Well, the halls paid for. The foods sorted. The vicars here. That cake cost a small fortune
Gran, youre not saying I began, stunned.
Would you do me the honour, sir?
The hall explodedlaughter, applause, someone knocked over a glass of sherry, another cousin frantically filming with her phone, completely baffled.
But I you
You came to defend my honour, didnt you? Im dressed up, and Im hardly going to wear this frock twice. So, yes or no?
The man laughed deep and genuine.
My wife always did say Id end up doing something completely daft one day. Seems she was right. Lets do it.
And so they married.
Right there, in front of everyone.
The vicar needed a sit-down afterwards, poor chap. One of the cousins cried so hard she ruined her mascara. My mother looked caught between laughter, tears, and utter disbelief.
But marry they did.
At the reception, as we shared cakeoriginally iced with the first grooms name, but hastily covered with masking tape and handwritten over in biroI leaned over to Gran.
Gran, you really just married a man youve known for all of two hours?
She grinned at me.
At eighty-nine, darling, Ive neither the time nor inclination for courtship. Hes got good manners, a sturdy pension, and a working gallbladder. You think Im passing that up?
But hes twenty-two years younger than you!
Exactly. Hell outlive me. Someone has to take care of my cats.
Its been three weeks. The jilted old groom eventually tried to ring and apologise, but Grans new husband answered and politely but firmly hung up.
Turns out, he cooks better than Gran (not that shed ever admit it), dances a lovely waltz, and drives her to every check-up in an old, lovingly polished Morris Minor.
Yesterday I caught them in the parkhe pushing her wheelchair, Gran cackling,
Steady on, this isnt the Grand Prix!
As you wish, my queen, he replied.
The ex-fiancé sent a blender as a wedding gift. Gran promptly raffled it off at bingo.
So, there it is: who else but my grandmother would end up marrying the sixty-seven-year-old son of the man who left her at the altar? And what sort of man would accept the hand of a woman he was supposed to call step-mum just five minutes earlier?
If theres a lesson to be had, its this: at any age, youre never too old for a bit of adventure, or for a second chance at happinessif youre brave enough to seize it.
