“Up I Get—So No One Else Can Have Him!” How Granny Joan Rose from Her Bed When She Suspected Old Bill of Playing the Field
Granny Joan had grown terribly frail. She hadn’t the 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, old Bill, shuffled in as usual, boiled the kettle, and brewed a pot of strong tea—the rich scent filling the house, just like the old days. He meant to cheer his beloved, but what he heard wasn’t what he’d hoped.
“There’s a dress in the wardrobe,” Joan whispered. “And the scarf I’m to be buried in… Don’t mix them up—it’s in a separate bag…”
“What nonsense are you on about?!” Bill burst out. “I’ll find your dress! But listen—who did I bump into at the shops? Emma! All dolled up, she was. Couldn’t take my eyes off her. Comes up to me, says, ‘Fancy a stroll, William?’ What d’you say to that, eh?”
And then, a miracle. Granny Joan flung the blanket aside, lurched upright, and—rose to her feet! Slowly but surely, she marched toward the wardrobe.
Bill froze, teacup in hand.
This all began earlier, when Lucy and Claire, two nurses, sat through their night shift at the village clinic. It was quiet, the patients fast asleep, so the women decided to watch their favourite romance film.
“Never gets old, does it?” Claire smiled.
“Makes me think of my gran and grandad every time,” Lucy replied. “Granny Joan and old Bill—it’s like they’ve stepped right out of a film. Love just as real as you please…”
Lucy told how Joan always fussed at Bill, and he’d just grin:
“Always nagging me, ain’t ya? Other blokes run about, drink themselves silly—but I’m your golden boy!”
And quick as a flash, Joan would snap back:
“Golden now you’re retired! Before that, you were a proper rogue!”
When Joan took to her bed, everyone thought it serious. She and Bill were both past eighty. Doctors came, their children fetched a private specialist from London. But her tests were clear—blood pressure steady, temperature like a fresh morning. Yet Joan lay there, eyes dull, refusing food.
“Nothing stays down,” she murmured. “No appetite. It’s… time…”
Bill hovered like a lost soul.
“Cuppa with lemon?” he’d ask.
“No…”
“Oatmeal, then? Made it meself!”
She’d just turn to the wall. Still, for his sake, she ate a spoonful—plain porridge, no fuss.
One day, Bill pulled on his cap and made for the door. Joan weakly propped herself up:
“Where you off to?”
“Back in a tick,” he muttered.
And off he went—to see old Margery, the village wise woman. She gave him herbs, whispered in his ear how to “bring his love back to life.”
“It’ll work,” Margery said, “if you do it right.”
Back home, Bill brewed the herbs—the scent so strong it filled the house! And then Joan started again:
“That dress in the wardrobe… For when I’m gone…”
But Bill cut in sharply:
“Saw Emma at the shops! Done up like a proper lady! Says it’s spring, birds singing, perfect for a walk. Even asked me to join ’er. Imagine that?”
Emma had been his first sweetheart. Twice widowed, she often winked at Bill. Said he’d missed his chance, that things could’ve been different…
Joan knew all about her little comments. And though Bill always denied it, a thorn of doubt pricked her.
Then he added, grinning:
“And ran into Sarah! Dressed to the nines—new coat, lips painted, eyes shining. Her husband’s half dead, but she’s still a right firecracker!”
That’s when Joan threw off the blanket, swung her legs down, and stomped—furious—to the wardrobe.
“Haven’t forgotten your dress, don’t fret. You’ll look a picture,” Bill said mildly.
“What’s this about dying?” Joan snapped. “I’ve got nothing decent to wear! Moth-eaten coat, tatty hat, scarves fit for the bin!”
“You’re the one who said it didn’t matter—”
“Well now it does! I want something new!” She yanked old clothes from the wardrobe, tossing them aside.
“Emma and Sarah must be rubbing their hands, thinking I’m done for. Well, look at me—I’m up! Where’s me potatoes? I’m starving. And bring that tea—proper strong!”
From that day, Joan was back—tidying, grumbling, herself again. Where her “frailty” went, no one knew.
Bill bought her a new coat, hat, even a jaunty spring scarf. Now Joan walks through the village—queen of the lane! Bill trails beside her, grinning like he’s pulled off the trick of the century.
“Just look at him!” Joan complained when their daughter visited the next week. “I wasn’t cold in me bed yet, and he’s making eyes at every skirt in the village! Emma, Sarah—a right pair of hussies! Well, he’s mine. Up I got—and I’ll live to a hundred, see if I don’t!”
That night, Lucy and Claire finished their film. The shift was long, dawn far off, so they chatted idly.
“Your gran and grandad are something else,” Claire laughed. “Proper love story.”
“Fifty years married. Diamond anniversary’s not far off,” Lucy said proudly. “Slowing down, sure, but they’ve still got it. And most of all—they adore each other.”
“D’you think Joan’s scared he’ll wander?”
“Lord, yes!” Lucy chuckled. “But she needn’t worry. He’s loyal as a sheepdog. Still, doesn’t hurt to keep him on his toes!”
And both women laughed—warm and bright, the kind of laughter that comes when you’ve seen the years roll by, but the heart still burns with love.
