*”Her Own, Another’s, Yet Still a Grandmother”*
“Gran, could you be a grandmother again?”
“What ever do you mean, Poppy? I don’t follow.”
“Well, Gran, all the children in the square have grandmothers. Some have one, some two, but I’ve got four—two of my own, and one each from Mum and Dad. But poor Timothy hasn’t a single one. It breaks my heart.”
“So you’d like me to be his grandmother too?”
“Oh, Gran, don’t be daft! Not to give you away—just to share you. So you could make him pancakes and knit him a scarf for winter.”
“Ah, my sweet lamb… Timothy had a grandmother once. Agatha, her name was. We’d been friends since we were knee-high. Thick as thieves, we were. But she… she was lost in that awful crash, just when Timothy was born.”
“Gran, why are you crying?”
“It’s a hard thing, love. She and her husband were on their way to fetch Timothy’s mother from the hospital. Set off at dawn, they did. Then—a lorry came, a great big thing. Driver had nodded off at the wheel… Collision. Gone, just like that. Oh, it still hurts so.”
“Gran… don’t cry. I’ll bring Timothy round anyway. He adores your pancakes. And knit him socks for Christmas, will you?”
“Course I will. But Poppy, not a word to him. If his mother hasn’t spoken of it, there’s a reason. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
“I can, Gran. I promise.”
“That’s my girl. Off you pop now—lunch won’t wait.”
I dashed into the yard and skipped rope while the lads near Johnny’s house spat to see who could go farthest. Johnny was winning—his grin said it all, while Tim and Colin scowled.
“Oi! Someone’s moved into the empty house! Come and see!”
“Last one there’s a rotten egg!”
We tore off like a pack of hounds toward the next lane. The house had stood empty two summers, but today a van was parked outside, burly men hauling furniture. We crowded close. One heavyset fellow wiped his brow with a cap.
“Lads, where’s a chap to get a drink round here?”
“I can fetch some from home!”
“There’s the pump!”
“Show us, will you?”
“Come on, then. Who’ve you brought?”
“An old lady. A grandmother. Be kind, eh? She’s no one left. That’s all I know.”
“We’re always kind! Can we meet her tomorrow?”
“Course you can.”
We scattered, but Timothy lingered. He fancied himself a driver one day—even loved the reek of petrol. He clambered into the apple tree by the house and watched.
Then a voice called up:
“Pardon me, lad. Hate to trouble you, but I’ve nowhere to lay my head. Lost my key. Could you slip through the window and unbolt the door?”
Timothy froze, then nodded.
“I’m Timothy. I’ll help. But I’ll need a boost from the men.”
He dropped down beside a tiny grandmother with kind eyes.
“What sort of pies do you fancy, Timothy, dear?”
“Jam. And onion with egg!”
“I’ll remember. Bring your mates round in a few days—pies aplenty.”
He wriggled through the window, unlatched the door. The house was dusty and bare. His shirt caught, tore—he fretted. Mum would scold. But the grandmother promised to mend it, and by morning, you’d never know.
From that day, Timothy had a grandmother. Another’s, yet still his own. She knit him mittens, told him tales, poured his tea. Even his mother came to visit. Then one winter, Granny Ethel took ill.
Timothy and I made her porridge. I lit the stove, he peeled potatoes. Colin even stoked the fire when the chill set in. Grown-ups helped, but Timothy fussed over her most. She was his grandmother, after all.
Now he’s like the rest of us—with a grandmother of his very own. Another’s, perhaps. But truly family.
