“Up I get—so no one else can have him!” How Granny Joan rose from her bed after suspecting Gramps George of mischief
Granny Joan had grown terribly weak. She hadn’t the strength to speak, to rise, or even to glance out the window. She lay turned toward the wall, as though she’d already made up her mind about everything. Her husband, Gramps George, shuffled into the cottage as usual, put the kettle on, and brewed a pot of strong tea—filling the whole house with its comforting scent, just like the old days. He meant to cheer her up, but what she whispered back wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear.
“My dress is in the wardrobe,” Joan murmured. “And the scarf they’ll lay me out in when my time comes… Mind you don’t mix them up—it’s in a separate bag.”
“What nonsense are you on about?!” George barked, his temper flaring. “I’ll find your dress, all right! But guess who I bumped into down the shops? Margaret! All dolled up, she was—couldn’t take my eyes off her. Comes right up to me and says, ‘Fancy a stroll, George?’ What d’you make of that, eh?”
And then—a miracle happened. Granny Joan flung off the blanket, sat bolt upright, and then—she stood! Slowly but surely, she marched toward the wardrobe.
George froze, his teacup halfway to his lips.
It all started earlier, though, when nurses Lucy and Emily sat through their night shift at the village clinic. The patients were peaceful, the halls quiet, so the two women settled in to watch their favourite romance film.
“Never get tired of this one,” Emily sighed, smiling.
“Every time, it makes me think of my grandparents,” Lucy said. “Granny Joan and Gramps George—just like in the films. Their love’s the real deal.”
She recounted how Joan would grumble fondly at George, who’d just chuckle and say,
“Why you always naggin’ at me, eh? Other blokes are out drinking and carrying on, but I’m your golden boy!”
To which Granny Joan would snap back,
“Golden? Only since your pension came through! Before that, you were a right rascal!”
When Joan first took to her bed, everyone feared the worst. She and George were both well past eighty. The doctors came, their children summoned a private specialist from Manchester. But her tests were fine—blood pressure steady, temperature perfect. Yet Joan kept lying there, refusing food, avoiding eye contact.
“Nothing agrees with me,” she’d whisper. “No appetite left. It’s… my time.”
George hovered around her like a lost soul.
“Fancy a cuppa with lemon?” he’d offer.
“No.”
“Porridge, then? Made it meself!”
She’d just roll toward the wall. Still, for his sake, she managed a spoonful or two of plain oats.
One day, George tugged his cap low and headed out. Joan weakly propped herself up.
“Where you off to?”
“Back soon,” he muttered.
He went straight to Agnes—the local wise woman. She handed him herbs, whispering secrets on how to “wake the life” back in his wife.
“It’ll work,” Agnes promised, “if you do it right.”
George returned, brewed the herbs—and soon the whole cottage smelled divine. But then Joan started up again:
“My dress is in the wardrobe… The one for the funeral…”
George suddenly cut in:
“Saw Margaret down the shops! All done up, she was. Said spring’s here, birds are singing, perfect for a stroll. Even asked me to walk with her! Imagine that?”
Margaret had been his first love. Twice widowed, she’d taken to winking at George, hinting he’d missed his chance at happiness—that things could’ve been different.
Granny Joan knew all about those little remarks. And though George always brushed them off, a seed of doubt had taken root in her mind.
Then he added fuel to the fire:
“And Linda was there too! Dressed to the nines—new coat, lipstick, eyes sparkling. Her husband’s half-dead, but she’s still a cracker!”
That’s when Granny Joan kicked off the blanket, swung her legs over the bed, and stormed—grumbling—to the wardrobe.
“Didn’t forget your dress, don’t fret. You’ll be the prettiest one there,” George said, deadpan.
“What funeral?!” Joan snapped. “I’ve got nothing decent to wear! Moth-eaten coat, tatty hat, scarves fit for the bin!”
“You said yourself—no point in new things, since—”
“Changed my mind!” she declared, yanking old rags from the wardrobe in a fury.
“Margaret and Linda can keep waiting! Thought I’d kick the bucket, did they? Well, I’m up! Where’s those roast potatoes? I’m starving. And pour me some of that fancy tea!”
From that day on, Joan was bustling about again—dusting, scolding, back to her old self. Where all that “frailty” went, no one could say.
Gramps bought her a new coat, a smart hat, even a cheerful spring scarf. Now Granny Joan struts through the village like royalty! George shuffles beside her, grinning like he’s pulled off the cleverest trick in the book.
“Just look at him!” Joan complained to their daughter, visiting the next week. “I was barely cold in me bed before he’s making eyes at Margaret and Linda—flirts of the village! Well, he’s not having ’em! Got up out of spite—I’ll live to a hundred, see if I don’t!”
That same night, Lucy and Emily finished their film. With hours left on shift, they sat chatting.
“Your grandparents are wonderful,” Emily said warmly. “Real love, that.”
“Celebrated their golden anniversary last year. Diamond’s not far off,” Lucy replied proudly. “Slowing down, aye, but still going. And still mad for each other.”
“Suppose Joan fears he’ll wander?”
“Ha! No chance,” Lucy laughed. “He’s loyal as a Labrador. But good motivation, eh?”
And the two nurses laughed—brightly, kindly, the way only those can who’ve seen real love stand the test of time.
