“Grandmother, Could You Be a Grandmother Again?”
“Whatever do you mean, Daisy, my love? I don’t understand.”
“Well, Grandmother, all the children in the square have grandmothers. Some have one, some two—but I have four! Two of my own, and one each from Mum and Dad. But poor Andrew hasn’t a single one, and it breaks my heart.”
“So you’d like me to be his grandmother, is that it?”
“Oh, Grandmother, don’t be silly! Not to give you away—just to share you. So you could make him pancakes too, and knit him a scarf for winter.”
“Oh, my little onion… Andrew did have a grandmother once—Nellie. We’d been friends since we were girls, thick as thieves. But she was lost… in that accident. Just when Andrew was born.”
“Grandmother, why are you crying?”
“It’s hard, my dear. She and his grandfather were on their way to fetch his mother from the hospital that morning. And then—a lorry, enormous, coming straight at them. The driver had fallen asleep… They were gone in an instant. Oh, the pain of it.”
“Grandmother… don’t cry. I’ll still bring Andrew round. He adores your pancakes. And you’ll knit him a pair of socks for Christmas, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. But Daisy, don’t tell him any of this. If his mother hasn’t spoken of it, there must be reason. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
“I can, Grandmother. I promise.”
“That’s my girl. Now run along—lunch will be ready soon.”
I dashed out to the square and skipped rope while the boys near Tommy’s house competed to see who could spit the farthest. Tommy was winning—his laughter made it plain, while Charlie and Andrew scowled.
“Oi! Someone’s moved into the empty house! Come and see!”
“Last one there’s a rotten egg!”
We stampeded down the lane. The house had stood empty for two summers, but now a lorry was parked outside, men hauling furniture in. We crowded closer. A portly man wiped his brow with a handkerchief.
“Lads, where’s a chap to get a drink round here?”
“I’ll fetch some from home!”
“There’s the pump!”
“Show us?”
“Come on, then. Who’ve you brought?”
“An old lady. A grandmother. Be kind to her, won’t you? She’s all alone. That’s all I know.”
“We’re always kind! Can we come meet her tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
The others scattered, but Andrew stayed. He dreamed of being a lorry driver one day—even loved the smell of petrol. He climbed the apple tree by the house and watched in silence.
Then a voice spoke beneath him.
“Forgive me, boy. I don’t mean to trouble you, but I’ve nowhere to sleep. I’ve lost my keys. Might you climb through the window and let us in?”
Andrew froze, then nodded.
“I’m Andrew. I’ll help. But I’ll need a lift from the men.”
He dropped from the tree and found himself beside a tiny grandmother with kind eyes.
“And what sort of pies do you fancy, Andrew?”
“Jam! And onion and egg!”
“I’ll remember. Bring your friends round in a few days—there’ll be pies waiting.”
He wriggled through the window and unlatched the door. The house was dusty and bare. His shirt tore on a nail—he winced. His mother would scold him. But the grandmother promised to mend it, and by morning, you’d never know it had been torn.
From then on, Andrew had a grandmother. A stranger’s, yet his own. She knitted him mittens, read him tales, invited him for tea. Even his mother visited with him. Then one day, Granny Olive fell ill.
Andrew and I made her porridge. I lit the stove, he peeled potatoes. Tommy even stacked the fire when the chill set in. The grown-ups helped, of course, but Andrew tended to her most. She was *his* grandmother, after all.
Now he’s like the rest of us—with a grandmother of his own. A stranger’s, yes. But truly family.
