“MY, SOMEONE ELSE’S, BUT DEAR GRANNY”
“Granny, can you be a granny again?”
“What are you on about, Poppy? I don’t follow.”
“See, Granny, all the kids on our street have grannies. Some have one, some have two, but I’ve got four—two of my own, plus one from Mum and one from Dad. But poor Andrew hasn’t got any. I feel ever so sorry for him.”
“So you want me to be his granny?”
“Oh, Granny, don’t be daft. Not to *give* you away—just to share you. So you can make him pancakes too, and knit him a warm scarf for winter.”
“Oh, you sweet little onion… Andrew *did* have a granny, once. Her name was Nelly. We were best friends since we were girls—thick as thieves. But she… she passed away. In that awful crash. Right around the time Andrew was born.”
“Granny, why are you crying?”
“It’s hard, love. She and her husband were driving to pick up Andrew’s mum from the hospital. Early morning, it was. Then—this lorry, a massive thing, came straight at them. The driver had fallen asleep at the wheel… They didn’t stand a chance. Oh, it still hurts so much.”
“Granny… don’t cry. I’ll still invite Andrew over. He adores your pancakes. And could you knit him socks for Christmas? Please?”
“Of course I will. But, Poppy, don’t tell him any of this. If his mum hasn’t mentioned it, there’s a reason. You’re good at keeping secrets, aren’t you?”
“I am, Granny. Promise.”
“That’s my girl. Now off you pop—lunch won’t be long.”
I dashed outside and started skipping rope. The boys were by Alfie’s house, seeing who could spit the furthest. Alfie was winning—you could tell by their faces; he was grinning, while Charlie and Andrew scowled.
“Oi! Someone’s moved into the empty house! Let’s go look!”
“Last one there’s a rotten egg!”
We bolted down the lane to the next street. The house had stood empty for two summers, but today—a removal van, men hauling furniture. We rushed over. A bloke in a flat cap wiped his sweaty forehead and asked, “Kids, where’s the nearest tap for a drink?”
“I can fetch some from home!”
“There’s the one by the pump!”
“Show us?”
“Come on, then. Who’ve you brought in?”
“An old lady. A granny. Be kind to her, alright? She’s got no one left. That’s all I know.”
“We’re nice! Can we come meet her tomorrow?”
“Course you can.”
We scattered—except Andrew. He dreamt of being a lorry driver someday, loved even the smell of petrol. He’d climbed the apple tree outside the house and was quietly watching.
Then—a voice right beneath him:
“Excuse me, lad. Hate to bother you, but I’ve nowhere to sleep. Lost my keys. Could you nip through the window and let us in?”
Andrew froze, then nodded.
“I’m Andrew. I’ll help. Just need a lift up.”
He dropped down and stood face-to-face with a tiny granny with the kindest eyes.
“What sort of pies do you like, Andrew?”
“Jam. And onion with egg!”
“Noted. In a few days, bring your friends—pies all round.”
He wriggled through the window, unlatched the door. The house was dusty, bare. He tore his shirt on a nail—now Mum would scold him. But the granny promised to mend it. And by morning, you’d never have known.
From then on, Andrew had a granny. Someone else’s, but his all the same. She knit him mittens, read him stories, served him tea. Even his mum started visiting. Then one day, Granny Olive fell ill.
Andrew and I made her soup. I lit the hob; he peeled potatoes. Charlie even lit the hearth when it turned chilly. The grown-ups helped, but Andrew looked after her most. She was *his* granny, after all.
Now he’s like everyone else—he’s got a granny. His own. Even if she started out someone else’s. She’s family now.
