“Don’t come back, lad…”
“Right then, Grandad, I’m off! Lovely here, just like when I was a kid! That bath—proper brilliant! Feel like a new man! Might pop by again next weekend, yeah?”
“Best not come back, son,” Nan muttered, wiping her hands on her apron with a heavy sigh.
“Nan, what’s got into you?” Jack was stunned. He’d always been sure they adored him—raised him till he was twelve, called them Mum and Dad back then.
“No point,” Grandad cut in sharply, his brow heavy under thick grey eyebrows. “See now why your wife left. How the blazes did you turn out like this…” He waved a hand, turned on his heel, and limped towards the shed.
“Graaandad!” The woman dashed barefoot onto the porch, heedless of the blustery September drizzle. Birch leaves swirled blindly into her face as leaden clouds raced overhead.
“Graaandad, Jack called! He’s coming! Oh, what a joy!” she cried, clasping her hands to her chest.
The old man straightened with a groan, wiping sweat from his brow with his frayed jumper sleeve.
“What’re you doing out here barefoot? Catch your death!” he snapped. “Get inside—I’ll be in shortly.”
“I just—wanted to share the news, couldn’t keep it in…”
“Inside, I said!”
The old woman sniffled and shuffled back to the cottage. But inside, her heart churned. Jack—their little Jackie, the light of their lives. Raised him from a babe, first steps, first word—”Nan.” Then their daughter turned up. Took him. Took him the moment she “got back on her feet.” Twelve years later. Like she’d borrowed him and now the debt was due. Grandad had raged then, shamed her, all for nothing—they’d left. Jack had cried, called often at first, then less… and less.
Since then, silence. The house, hollow. When he married, he never even told them. Found out from strangers. Hurt like hell. And now—he called. He’s coming. Hope flared warm in her chest.
For three days, Nan bustled like it was Christmas Eve. Scrubbed the floors, baked pies. Barely slept—wondering: what’s he like now? Likely grown into a fine lad…
At dusk, a glossy black car rolled into the yard. Tinted windows—utterly dark. A shudder ran down her spine. Out stepped Jack—stocky, close-cropped hair, flash jacket. Grinned. Said hello.
“Grandad, Nan! Got anything to eat? Starving here!”
“Course, lad. Come in…”
No one expected gifts—not these days. But at least some decency… Something.
He stuffed himself, kicked his feet up on the table, lit a fag, and launched into tales of how “sorted” his life was. Grandad’s face twisted, lips trembling, before he stood and stalked to the woodshed.
Jack didn’t let up. Bragged about his wife—some MP’s daughter. How she “didn’t appreciate him,” whinged to Daddy. How they made him work, but he hadn’t married for that. Got sacked. No house. Now a chauffeur. Fancy car, black as pitch, windows like midnight.
“Need cash,” he said. “You’ve got that pension, Grandad. You’ve had your turn—now it’s mine.”
Grandad split logs in silence. Wanted to dirty his hands, but Nan stopped him. Led him away. She sat listening to this stranger, crossing herself under her breath. Past midnight, he passed out at the table, empty glass in hand.
Morning—bright as a button. Demanded another bath. Ate his fill. Slouched on the porch and announced he was off.
“Off you go, then,” Grandad grunted, wrapping his coat tight.
Nan watched him and saw: he’d aged a decade overnight. Shoulders sagged, face drawn.
“Jackie,” she said, tightening her shawl. “One last thing. The world don’t spin for you. You’re dust. Treat folk how you’d be treated. And your soul… it’s like your car windows. There, but you can’t see a bleedin’ thing through it.”
She crossed him, then followed Grandad, hand pressed to her chest. In that bitter autumn, it hit her—spring wouldn’t come for them again.
And don’t you come back.
