**”Up I Get—So No One Else Can Have Him!” How Granny Rose Rose from Her Bed When She Suspected Grandad Alf of Shenanigans**
Granny Rose had grown terribly weak. She had no strength to speak, to rise, or even to glance out the window. She lay there, turned toward the wall, as if she’d made up her mind about everything. Her husband, Grandad Alf, came in as usual, boiled the kettle, and brewed a fragrant pot of tea—the scent filling the house just like the old days. He’d hoped to cheer her, but her words weren’t what he expected.
“My dress is in the wardrobe,” Rose whispered. “And the scarf I’m to be buried in… Don’t mix them up—they’re in separate bags.”
“What nonsense are you on about?” Alf snapped. “As if I’d forget your dress! But speaking of—guess who I ran into at the shops? Gladys! Done up like a queen, she was. Came right up to me and said, ‘Fancy a stroll, Alfred?’ What do you make of that, eh?”
And then, a miracle happened. Granny Rose flung off the blankets, sat up sharply, and—stood! Slowly, but firmly, she marched to the wardrobe.
Alf froze, teacup in hand.
It had all started earlier, when Laura and Emily, two nurses, were on night shift at the village clinic. The patients slept soundly, so the women settled in to watch their favourite romance film.
“Never gets old, does it?” Emily smiled.
“Every time, I think of my grandparents,” Laura said. “Granny Rose and Grandad Alf—just like something out of a film. Their love’s the real thing.”
She told Emily how Rose would grumble fondly at Alf, and he’d just grin:
“Always nagging at me, aren’t you? Other men drink and carry on, but I’m golden!”
To which Rose would shoot back:
“Golden *now*, maybe! Back in the day, you were quite the charmer!”
When Rose took to her bed, everyone feared the worst. Both she and Alf were well past eighty. Doctors came, and their children even called in a private specialist. But her tests were fine, her blood pressure steady, her temperature normal as could be. Yet Rose lay there, refusing food, her gaze distant.
“Nothing sits right,” she murmured. “No appetite. It’s time…”
Alf hovered around her like a lost soul.
“Cuppa with lemon?”
“No.”
“Porridge, then? I made it meself!”
She’d just turn to the wall. Still, for his sake, she managed a spoonful or two—plain oats in water.
One day, Alf tugged on his cap and headed out. Rose lifted her head weakly.
“Where’re you off to?”
“Back soon,” he muttered.
He went to see Maud—the local wise woman. She gave him herbs, whispering how to “bring his love back to life.”
“It’ll work,” she said, “if you do it proper.”
Alf returned, brewed the herbs, and the aroma filled the house. Then Rose started again:
“My dress is in the wardrobe… For when I’m gone…”
But Alf cut in:
“Saw Gladys at the shops! Done up like a peacock, she was. Said it’s spring, birds are singing, perfect for a stroll. Even asked me to join her. Imagine that?”
Gladys had been his first sweetheart. Widowed twice now, she’d taken to winking at Alf, hinting he’d missed his chance, that things could’ve been different.
Rose knew all about her little remarks. And though Alf always denied it, doubt festered.
Then he added:
“And Phyllis! Like a picture, she was—new coat, lipstick, eyes sparkling. Her husband’s half-dead, but *she’s* still a firecracker!”
That’s when Granny Rose threw off the blankets, swung her legs over the bed, and stalked to the wardrobe.
“Don’t fret—I remember your dress. You’ll be the belle of the funeral,” Alf said drily.
“Funeral my foot!” Rose snapped. “I’ve got nothing decent to wear! Coat’s moth-eaten, hat’s ancient, scarves fit for the bin!”
“You said you didn’t need anything—”
“Well, I do now!” She began yanking old clothes out with fury.
“Gladys and Phyllis must be rubbing their hands, thinking I’m done for. Well, look at me—*up*! Where’s that stew? I’m starving. And bring that fancy tea!”
From that day, Rose was back—tidying, cooking, grumbling as usual. Where her “frailty” went, no one knew.
Alf bought her a new coat, hat, and even a cheery spring scarf. Now Granny Rose walks through the village like royalty, Alf shuffling beside her, grinning like he’s outwitted the lot of them.
“Just look at him!” Rose complained to their daughter, visiting the next week. “I wasn’t even cold, and he’s chasing after Gladys and Phyllis! Village heartthrob, my foot. Well, he’s not having it. I’ll live to spite the lot of ‘em!”
That night, Laura and Emily finished their film. The shift was long, so they chatted.
“Your grandparents are wonderful,” Emily sighed. “True love.”
“They’ve passed their golden anniversary,” Laura said proudly. “Diamond’s not far off. Age has slowed ‘em, but they’re holding on. And they *adore* each other.”
“Think Rose worries Alf might stray?”
“Oh, absolutely!” Laura laughed. “But she needn’t. He’s loyal as a sheepdog. Still, good motivation, eh?”
And they laughed—warmly, the way you do when years weigh on your shoulders, but real love still glows in your heart.
