“Don’t come back, lad…”
“Right then, Grandad, I’m off! Been grand here, just like when I were a boy! That bath—proper brilliant! Feel born anew! Might pop round next weekend, eh?”
“Best not come again, grandson…” Gran wiped her hands on her apron and let out a heavy sigh.
“Gran, what’s got into you?” Harry was stunned. He’d always reckoned himself their own flesh and blood, their darling. Lived with ‘em till he were twelve, called ‘em Mum and Dad.
“Aye, no need for it,” Grandad cut in, glowering from under thick brows. “See now why your wife left you. How’d you turn out like this, eh?” He waved a hand, turned on his heel, and limped off toward the shed.
“Grandaaad!” The woman rushed barefoot onto the porch, forgetting the blustery September and the drizzle. Birch leaves fluttered blind into her face as leaden clouds raced overhead.
“Grandaaad, Harry rang! He’s comin’! What joy!” she cried, clasping her hands to her chest.
The old man straightened up, his back creaking, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his worn-out coat.
“What’re you doin’ barefoot? Catch your death!” he scowled. “Get inside—I’ll be in shortly.”
“But I… just had to tell ye, my heart couldn’t keep it in…”
“Inside, I said!”
The old woman sniffled and shuffled back to the cottage. Her heart churned. Harry—their little Harry, the light of their lives. Raised him from a babe, his first steps, first word—”Gran”… Then their daughter showed up. Took him. Took him once she’d “got on her feet.” Twelve years later. Like she’d borrowed him, and now the debt was due. Grandad had raged then, chased their daughter off, shamed her—but no use. They left. Harry wept, rang often at first, then less… till silence filled the house. Their souls went hollow. When he married—didn’t even tell ‘em. Heard it from strangers. Hurt like the devil. And now—he’d rung. Comin’ home. Hope warmed her heart.
For three days, Gran worked like it were Christmas Eve. Scrubbed the floors, baked pies. Barely slept—wondered: what’s he like now? Grown tall, no doubt, a right handsome lad…
Come evening, a glossy black motor rolled into the yard. Windows dark as pitch. Gave ‘em the shivers. Out stepped Harry—stocky, close-cropped, in a smart jacket. Grinned. Greeted ‘em.
“Grandad, Gran! Got owt to eat? Starvin’ here!”
“Course, lad. Come in…”
No one expected gifts—times were hard. But a bit of kindness… Somethin’…
He stuffed himself, propped his boots on the table, lit a cigarette, and started braggin’ how “sorted” his life were. Grandad’s lips twitched. He got up, stiff, and stalked off to the woodshed.
Harry nattered on. Told ‘em about his wife—some MP’s daughter. How she “didn’t appreciate him,” whinged to her dad. How they made him work, and he’d not married for that. Got sacked. No place to live. Now a chauffeur. Fancy motor, black as night, windows you couldn’t see through.
“Need coin,” he said. “You’ve got some put by, Grandad. You’ve had your time—now it’s mine.”
Grandad split logs in silence. Wanted to blacken his hands, but Gran stopped him. Led him away. She sat, listened to this stranger, crossed herself quiet. Past midnight, he slumped asleep, head on the table, empty glass in hand.
Morning came—bright as brass. Demanded another bath. Ate his fill. Slouched onto the porch and said he were off.
“Off you go, then,” Grandad muttered, pulling his greatcoat tight.
Gran watched the old man and knew—he’d aged ten years in a night. Hunched, shoulders sunk.
“Harry,” she said, tugging her shawl close. “One last thing. The world don’t spin round you. You’re dust. Treat folk how you’d be treated. And your soul… it’s like them windows in your motor. There, but not a flicker shines through.”
She crossed him, then followed Grandad, hand pressed to her heart. In that heavy autumn air, it turned clear—spring wouldn’t come for ‘em again.
And don’t you come back.
