The day Grandma married the son of the man who left her at the altar.
My grandmother, at eighty-nine, just became the heroine of the wildest scandal our village has witnessed since the vicar accidentally locked himself in the church crypt. And believe me, weve seen it all herecancelled weddings, a brawl at the May fete, even that time the church roof came down during Evensong. But thisthis was on another level entirely.
It all began when Grandma met a distinguished-looking gentleman at the Darby and Joan Club.
Hes a real gent, darling, she’d say to me, dabbing on faded pink lipstick. And still drives his own car, you know.
Gran, hes ninety-one. Should he even be driving?
Oh, hush. At least hes got a motor. Thats something.
Romance bloomed overnight. Three weeks in, there was a proposal, complete with a ringwell, a rather convincing imitation, but the gesture mattered.
Im getting married on Saturday, Grandma declared at Sunday lunch.
Mum nearly choked on her Yorkshire pudding. Saturday? Thats in five days!
Exactly. At my age, you dont hang about. What if I keel over by Friday?
A dress was boughtpearl-coloured, elegant but not excessive. The village hall was booked, a cake ordered. One of the cousins even crafted paper flowers from crepe.
The big day arrived. Grandma was radiantpearl necklace (real pearls, family heirloom), perfect hair, and the happiest smile Id ever seen.
The hall brimmed with guests. Light jazz played. The vicar leafed through his prayer book. It all seemed set for perfection.
Except the groom didnt show.
We waited twenty minutes.
Then forty.
After an hour, a cousin was dispatched to the fiancés cottage.
He returned solo, wearing a face appropriate for funerals.
He says he cant.
Murmurs rippled across the hall. Grandma paled.
What do you mean, cant?
He says hes frightened. Says hes too old, might fall ill, become a burden. Thinks its better this way.
Grandma sat, clutching her bouquet of white roses.
Thats when the doors swung open. In strode a man in his sixtieswell-dressed, a thick sweep of greying hair and eyes blazing with outrage.
Wheres the bride?
And you are? piped up one of the relatives.
Im the son of the coward who just left this lady stranded.
We stared, struck dumb.
He stepped to Grandma and doffed his cap.
Ive come to apologise, on behalf of our family. Its unforgivable.
Grandma met his eyes squarely.
How old are you, young man?
Sixty-seven.
Married?
Widower. Four years.
Children?
Three. Quite grown, all married off.
Work?
Retired. Pensions steady. Cottages mine.
Grandma mulled it over, then rose, leaning on her cane, and hobbled towards him.
Tell meare you afraid of commitment, like your father?
No. I was married for thirty-five years. Best years of my life.
And your thoughts on marriage now?
Its the finest thing a person can do. My fathers made a grave mistake, passing up this chance.
She scanned him up and down, then turned to the room.
Well, the halls paid for. The foods paid for. The vicars here. The cake cost me an arm and a leg…
Gran, you dont mean to I began, at a loss.
Would you do me the honour? she asked him.
The room erupted. Laughter, shouts, someone spilled their gin, another fumbled for their phone to filmthe entire event surreal.
But I… You…
You came to defend my honour. Plus, Im already dressed for it. I shant wear this frock again. Soyes or no?
He broke into genuine, roaring laughter.
My late wife always said Id do something daft one day. Seems todays the day. Lets do it.
And so, they wed.
Right then and there.
The vicar had to sit a while and compose himself. One relative wept so hard she ruined her mascara. Mum couldnt decide whether to laugh, cry, or simply faint.
But married they were.
At the celebration, eating cake (the grooms name hastily relabelled with a marker and a bit of sellotape), I turned to Grandma.
Gran, youve seriously just married a man you met two hours ago?
She beamed.
At eighty-nine, theres no time for long courtships. Hes polite, his pensions solid, and he still has his gallbladder. Did you think Id pass this up?
Hes twenty-two years your junior!
Exactly. Hell outlast me. Someones got to look after my cats.
Three weeks on. The jilted groom tried to ring, wishing to apologise. The new husband answered and hung up on him.
Turns out, he cooks better than Grandmathough shed never admit itdances elegantly, and diligently takes her to hospital appointments in a spotless, antique Morris Minor.
Yesterday, I saw them in the park. He was pushing her wheelchair and she was barking orders.
Slower! Im not a racehorse!
Yes, my queen.
Her ex-fiancé sent a wedding presenta blender. Grandma decided someone else might find it useful and raffled it off at bingo.
So, tell me: what sort of grandma marries the sixty-seven-year-old son of the man who ditched her at the altar, and what sort of son agrees to wed the woman meant to be his stepmother just five minutes earlier? Some questions, only dreams can answer.
