“Gran, can you be a gran again?”
“What’s all this, Lily love? You’ve lost me.”
“You see, Gran, all me mates have grans. Some got one, some got two, but I’ve got four—me two proper grans, plus Mam’s and Dad’s. But Andy’s got none. It breaks me heart.”
“So you want me to be his gran?”
“Oh, Gran, don’t be daft! I ain’t givin’ you away—just sharin’ you. So you can make him pancakes an’ knit him a scarf when winter comes.”
“Oh, bless your little heart… Andy did have a gran once—Nell. We were thick as thieves since we were girls, proper schoolmates. She… she died in that crash, love. Right when Andy was born.”
“Gran, why’re you cryin’?”
“It’s hard, pet. Her and Gramps were fetchin’ Andy’s mam from the hospital at dawn. Lorry came at ’em, full speed—driver fell asleep at the wheel. No chance… Oh, it still cuts deep.”
“Gran… don’t cry. I’ll still bring Andy round. He loves your pancakes. Knit him socks for Christmas, yeah?”
“Course I will. But Lily—don’t tell him. If his mam hasn’t said a word, there’s a reason. You’ll keep it quiet?”
“I will, Gran. Promise.”
“That’s my girl. Now off you pop—lunch won’t wait.”
I dashed out to the lane, skipping rope while the lads bet spitting distances near Jack’s house. Jack was winnin’, grinnin’—Tom and Andy scowlin’.
“Oi! Someone’s movin’ into the empty house! Come on!”
“Last one’s a soggy biscuit!”
We tore down the road to the abandoned house—empty two summers—now with a van out front, blokes lugging furniture. A sweaty fella tipped his cap, wiping his brow:
“Kids, where’s the nearest tap?”
“I’ll fetch water from ours!”
“The pump down the lane!”
“Show us?”
“Come on, then! Who’s movin’ in?”
“An old dear. No family left. Be kind, eh? That’s all I know.”
“We’re proper kind! Can we meet ’er tomorrow?”
“Course. Now scram.”
We scattered, but Andy stayed. Dreamed of bein’ a lorry driver, that one—even loved the smell of petrol. He perched in the apple tree, watchin’.
Then a voice beneath him:
“Sorry, lad. Hate to bother you, but I’ve lost me keys. Could you climb through the window an’ let us in?”
Andy froze, then nodded.
“Name’s Andy. I’ll help. Just need a boost.”
He dropped down beside a tiny gran with warm eyes.
“What’s your favourite pie, Andy love?”
“Jam. An’ onion an’ egg!”
“Noted. Bring your mates round in a few days—pie’s on me.”
He wriggled through the window, unlockin’ the door. Dusty inside. Snagged his shirt—mam’ll kill him. But the gran promised to stitch it. And she did—good as new by mornin’.
From then on, Andy had a gran. Not his by blood, but his all the same. She knit mittens, read tales, poured endless tea. Even his mam visited. Then one winter, Gran Mary took ill.
Me and Andy cooked her porridge. I lit the hob, he peeled spuds. Tommy even stoked the fire when chill set in. Grown-ups helped, but Andy fussed over her most. She was *his* gran, after all.
Now he’s like the rest of us—got a gran. His own. Not by blood, but heart. And that’s what counts.
