Caring Granny
Gladys Thompson, a spirited and take-no-nonsense lady perched just over 60, one day cornered her granddaughter with all the subtlety of a marching band.
“Emily!” she barked. “Ive been patient, but Ive reached my limit. Are you ever going to let me die in peace?”
Emily, a slender brunette and an art historian, blinked in bewilderment at such a peculiar request.
“What do you mean, Granny?” Emily replied.
“When are you getting married? I need to know so I can shuffle off this mortal coil with a peaceful soul! Nearly twenty-seven, you are,” Granny continued, pointing an accusatory finger. “And why do you think I spent all summer in that draughty old cottage with that batty Edna Wilkinson, sympathising twenty times a day with her piles? I was hoping youd sort your love life out. But you didnt even meet anyone!”
“Granny, honestly, when and where am I supposed to meet people? Theres work, Spanish evening class, my dissertation. And at my museum, the only eligible man is Mr. Arthur Perkins you met him.”
“Yes, Arthur Perkins!” Granny agreed, grimly. “Hes not even a crab in a barrel, hes more like a half-dead prawn.”
The following day, she phoned the aforementioned batty Edna and learnt that Ednas granddaughter met her future husband in a nightclub.
Alas, Emily wasn’t one for nightclubs, which meant Gladys would have to investigate the options personally, either scouting for suitable husband-material in a club or finding some alternative venues.
Gladys, always resourceful, discovered women got free entry to the local nightclub between 9pm and midnight. Wasting no time, she announced to Emily that she was off for a bedtime stroll, then promptly marched to the club.
She verbally knocked out the bouncer (who dared suggest something about her age), then, with help from the same bouncer, parked herself on a tall stool by the bar and surveyed the scene with the sternness of a headmistress at an assembly after catching Year Seven smoking behind the cricket pavilion.
“So, how do you find it here, maam? Do you like it?” the bar staff asked nervously, sliding over a tall glass. “Non-alcoholic cocktail. On the house.”
“No. Completely hopeless,” Gladys declared. “Any respectable girl wouldnt find a thing here. Mind you, you wouldnt go bankrupt dropping a splash of brandy in my cocktail. And that red-head over there is he all right, or is that really how people dance these days?”
Before New Years, Granny attended a rock gig, a fire-juggling performance, a soul-crushing folk concert, a BMX trick show, a bridge tournament, and, out of sheer desperation, a gathering of young poets. The poets nearly finished her off. No point baiting the hook heaven forbid, she might actually catch one.
“Well, Emily, I understand,” Gladys sighed. “Back in my day, I chose between your granddad and at least a dozen others equally worthy. Even old Edna had options, though she spent her life making cow eyes at your granddad. But these days, dear, the men have shriveled up like last weeks lettuce. Nothing to catch the eye.”
In March, after visiting Edna, Gladys decided to drop in on Emilys workplace. Approaching the museum, she slipped and landed flat on the pavement thank heavens not on the steps. Some gentleman in uniform dashed over and helped her up.
Leaning on his arm, Gladys checked herself for fractures, then sized up the good Samaritan and said, “Major, you look like a tank commander! My late husband commanded a tank regiment, you know. Tell me, Major, have you got an hour free?”
Major Weston, convinced he was about to haul this tiny ex-commander all the way home and cursing his own good nature, nodded, resigned.
“Excellent. Tell me, have you ever been in this museum? No? What a shame. You must. Right this very moment! And ask for Emily Thompson to give you the tour shes brilliant, you wont regret it.”
The Major wasnt entirely sure why he was suddenly off to a museum, but Granny had, inexplicably, hypnotised him
***
Just recently, Gladys quietly whispered to her snoozing great-grandson, Timothy:
“There you are, my sunshine, my little teddy bear, soon youll be off to school. Your dad will finish at Sandhurst, your mum will finally wrap up her doctorate, and I can go to my rest with a peaceful heart. Unless, of course, you end up growing up all by yourself, my little sparrow? No, you need a sister! And when your sister arrives, then shell go to school, and then Well, well see, wont we”
