“Don’t come back, lad…”
“Well then, Grandad, I’m off! It’s been grand here, just like when I were a boy! That bath—proper lovely! Feels like I’ve been born anew! Might pop round next weekend and all!”
“Best not come back, son…” Granny wiped her hands on her apron and sighed deep.
“What’s this, Nan?” George was fair stunned. He’d always reckoned he were their pride and joy. Lived with ‘em till he were twelve, called ‘em Mum and Dad an’ all.
“Ain’t no point,” Grandad cut in, glowering from under his thick brows. “See now why yer wife left ya. How’d you turn out like this, eh?” He waved a hand, turned on his heel, and limped off toward the shed, his bad leg dragging.
“Graaandad!” The woman rushed out barefoot, forgetting the chill September wind and the drizzling rain. Birch leaves slapped her face, and leaden clouds raced overhead.
“Graaandad, George called! He’s comin’! Oh, what a joy!” she cried, clutching her hands to her chest.
The old man straightened up, his back cracking as he wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his worn-out coat.
“What you doin’ barefoot? Catch yer death!” he scolded. “Get inside. I’ll be in shortly.”
“I just—couldn’t keep it in, me heart near burst—”
“Inside, I said!”
The old woman sniffled and shuffled back to the cottage. But inside, her heart boiled over. George—their little Georgie, the apple of their eye. Raised him from a bairn, his first steps, his first word—”Nan”… Then their daughter turned up. Took him. Took him the moment she were back on her feet. Twelve years later. Like she’d borrowed him, and now the debt were due. Grandad had raged then, chased her off, shamed her—but no use. They left. George cried, called at first, then less… and less…
And since then, silence filled the house. Their souls went hollow. When he married, he never even told ‘em. Found out from strangers. Hurt like hell. Stung. And now—he’d called. He were comin’. Hope warmed her heart like cider on a cold night.
Three days she fussed like Christmas were comin’. Scrubbed the floors, baked pies. Couldn’t sleep—wondered how he’d turned out, all grown now, likely a strappin’ lad…
Come evening, a sleek black motor rolled into the yard. Windows black as pitch. Gave her the shivers. Out stepped George—stocky, close-cropped, in some fancy jacket. Grinned. Said his hellos.
“Grandad, Nan! Got owt to eat? I’m starvin’!”
“Course, lad. Come in…”
No one expected gifts—times were hard. But a bit of common decency… Somethin’…
He stuffed his face, kicked his feet up on the table, lit a fag, and started yammerin’ about how “proper sorted” he were. Grandad’s lips twitched, his face twisted, and he stood, heading for the woodpile.
But George didn’t let up. Yapped about his wife—some councillor’s daughter. How she “didn’t appreciate him”, always runnin’ to her daddy. How they made him work, but he hadn’t married for that. Got sacked. No place to live. Now he were a driver. That motor outside, black as coal, windows like the dead of night.
“Need money,” he said. “You’ve had yer time, Grandad. Now it’s mine.”
Grandad split logs in silence. Wanted to bloody his hands, but Nan stopped him. Led him away. She sat there, listenin’ to this stranger, crossin’ herself quiet-like. Past midnight, he conked out at the table, empty glass in hand.
Morning came—bright as brass. Wanted another bath. Ate his fill. Slouched on the step and said he were off.
“Well, off you go,” Grandad muttered, tugging his overcoat tight.
But Nan looked at him and knew—he’d aged ten years overnight. Hunched, shoulders slumped.
“Georgie,” she said, wrapping her shawl close. “One last thing. The world don’t spin for you. You’re dust. Treat folk how you’d be treated. And yer soul… it’s like them windows in yer motor. Might be there, but you can’t see a bleedin’ thing through it.”
She crossed him and followed Grandad inside, a hand pressed to her heart. In that heavy autumn air, it were clear—spring wouldn’t come for ‘em again.
And don’t you come back neither…
