“Up I get—nobody’s having him!” How Granny Ellen got out of bed when she suspected Grandad Colin of mischief
Granny Ellen had been feeling poorly. No energy to talk, no strength to even sit up, couldn’t even be bothered to look out the window. She just lay there, turned toward the wall, like she’d made her peace with things. Her husband, Grandad Colin, came in as usual, put the kettle on, brewed a proper cuppa—the whole house smelled like old times. He was trying to cheer her up, but what she said next wasn’t what he hoped to hear.
“There’s my dress in the wardrobe,” Ellen whispered. “And the scarf I’m to be buried in… Don’t mix it up—it’s in a separate bag.”
“What nonsense are you on about?!” Colin barked. “I’ll find your dress, don’t you worry. But listen—saw someone by the shop today. Hannah! Done up to the nines, she was. Nearly dropped me tea. Comes up and says, ‘Fancy a stroll, Colin?’ What d’you make of that, eh?”
And then—a miracle. Granny Ellen flung the blankets off, sat bolt upright, and then—she stood! Slowly, mind you, but steady as you like, she marched to the wardrobe.
Colin froze, teacup halfway to his mouth.
This all started earlier, when nurses Laura and Grace were on night shift at the village clinic. Quiet night, patients snoozing away, so they decided to put on their favourite romance film.
“Never gets old, does it?” Grace smiled.
“Every time, I think of my gran and grandad. Granny Ellen and Grandad Colin—straight out of a film. Love like that’s proper rare.”
Laura told her how Granny Ellen would always grumble fondly at him, and he’d just laugh.
“You’re always having a go at me, woman! Other blokes are out drinking, causing grief—I’m a saint!”
To which Ellen would shoot back, “Saint my foot! Took you till retirement to settle down—proper wild one, you were!”
When she first took ill, everyone feared the worst. Both in their eighties now. Doctors came, their kids even fetched a private specialist from London. But all the tests were clear—blood pressure fine, temperature like an athlete’s. Yet Ellen just lay there, refusing meals, barely looking at anyone.
“Can’t stomach a thing,” she’d murmur. “No appetite. It’s… my time.”
Colin hovered like a lost pup.
“Cuppa with lemon?”
“No.”
“Porridge? Made it meself!”
She’d just turn to the wall. But for him, she’d nibble a spoonful—plain oats, no fuss.
One day, he shoved his flat cap on and headed out. Ellen weakly propped herself up.
“Where you off to?”
“Back in a tick,” he muttered.
He went to see old Antonia—the village wise woman. She gave him herbs, whispered something about “bringing life back” to his missus.
“Works a treat,” she said, “if you do it right.”
Back home, he brewed the herbs—smelled divine, filled the whole house! And then Ellen started up again:
“That dress in the wardrobe… my burial one…”
But Colin cut in:
“Saw Hannah by the shop! Done up like she’s off to Ascot. Says, ‘Lovely spring weather, fancy a walk?’ Cheeky mare!”
Hannah was his first sweetheart. Married a few times, widowed now, always giving Colin the eye. Said he’d missed his chance, that things could’ve been different.
Ellen knew all about her little comments. And though Colin denied it, doubt gnawed at her.
Then he dropped another bombshell:
“And I saw Rachel! Smart as paint—new coat, lipstick, sparkling eyes. Her husband’s half-dead, but she’s still full of life!”
That did it. Granny Ellen kicked off the blankets, swung her legs over the bed, and stomped to the wardrobe.
“Your dress’ll keep,” Colin said mildly. “You’ll look a picture.”
“What funeral?” she snapped. “I’ve got nothing decent to wear! Coat’s moth-eaten, hat’s ancient, scarves are rags!”
“You said you didn’t need owt!”
“Well now I do!” She yanked old clothes out violently.
“Hannah and Rachel, are they? Circling like vultures? Think I’m done for? Well, up I get! Where’s my potatoes? Starving. And that fancy tea—pour us some!”
From that day, Ellen was back—tidying, bossing him about, same as ever. Whatever “illness” she’d had vanished into thin air.
Colin bought her a new coat, hat, even a cheerful spring scarf. Now Granny Ellen struts through the village like the Queen herself! Grandad shuffles beside her, grinning like he’s pulled off the world’s cleverest trick.
“Look at him!” she moaned to their daughter a week later. “I’m not even cold, and he’s after Hannah and Rachel! Village Casanova, he is! Well, he’s not getting rid of me that easy. Up I got—and I’ll live to a hundred, see if I don’t!”
That same night, Laura and Grace finished their film. Long shift ahead, so they sat gossiping.
“Your gran and grandad are something else,” Grace said. “Proper love story.”
“Fifty years married now. Diamond anniversary next,” Laura said proudly. “Slowing down, but still going. And mad for each other, really.”
“Granny Ellen’s scared he’ll wander off, isn’t she?”
“Oh, petrified!” Laura laughed. “But she’s daft. He’s devoted as a bulldog. Though if this is her idea of motivation—blimey!”
And they both cackled—the deep, warm laughter of two women who know that even after decades, real love still burns bright.
