Granny never took to little Val. Never acknowledged him, really.
“Hes not one of ours,” old Annie would mutter to the ladies at the corner shop. “Just doesnt feel right.”
“Oh, come off it, Annie,” Doris would say, nudging her. “Look at himspitting image of your Frank when he was that age!”
“I know, I *know*in my head, I know hes Franks boy. But my heart wont have it. Now, my daughters kids? Proper grandkids, those. But this one? Cant warm him. Runs about, chatters away, Gran this, Gran that but no. I look at him and all I see is that ruddy Thatcher nose. Not a drop of *my* blood in him.”
“Funny you say that,” chimed in Marge, nodding. “My late mum was just the same. Mollys lotoh, she doted, gave em the world. But Jims kids? Meh. Grandkids are grandkids, shed say. Jim used to get proper miffed, mind. And shed just say, Dont take it personal, love. A daughters bairnsyou *know* theyre yours. A sons? Well God bless em.”
“Same here!”
“Us too”
“Bloody Nora, Im just as bad!” laughed Betty. “My Lizzies boy? Proper little cherubdimples, curls, the lot. Me and Gramps cant get enough. But my sons lad? Ugh. I know hes mine, butblimeythat boys always snotty, always grubby. I tell my daughter-in-law to keep him tidy, and she just huffs: Too busy keeping *your* son fed and his socks folded! When am I meant to scrub *this* one?”
I say, what about the rest of us? We managed work *and* kids! Back in my day, up at four for milking, knead the bread, stoke the stovethen sprint to the cows before shift. Had to wake Dorothy once, half-asleep, left her to feed the loaves into the oven while Gramps kept an eye. Lord, my gut *knew*. Begged Sue to cover me, dashed homeand theres my girl, dead to the world, dough slumped off the table, hair in it sweet as you like, head on her arms.
“Dad!” I barked. “Whats all this?”
“Eh?”
“The *bread*! You were supposed to mind it!”
“Mind what? Its not gonna *walk off*.” Then off he shufflesin his underpants, no less. Men.
And just like that, the chat veered from favouritism to the general uselessness of husbands.
Annie slipped away, quietly chuffed to learn she wasnt alone in her coldness towards Val.
Oddly, Val *adored* her. Thought being close to Gran made him closer to Dad. His dad had buggered off up north when Val was knee-highsome oil rig gigand never came back. Val wrote him letters, left them with Gran.
Mum sneered that only that “old bat” knew where his “waste-of-space father” was hiding. But Val knew Mum still loved Dad. She was just sore hed left her behind to chase northern paychecks.
(Thoughhonestlywhere would he have stashed Val? She ought to *think* sometimes.)
Sometimes shed screech that Val and his dad had “ruined her life.” That shed have married Johnny Spires, popped out a brood, and been “rolling in clover.”
Val once took a cheese wedge, buttered it, and rolled it in his toy lorry (a birthday gift from Gran). Mum *shrieked*, tried to bin itbut Val clung on. That lorry *had* to be from Dad. Gran couldnt afford it. Dad mustve sent cash.
Mum ranted, “Chuck it! *Chuck it!*”
Val never understood why rolling in clover sounded so great. Cheese in butter was *manky*.
But when Dad came homeoh, theyd live *better* than any Spires. Mumd stop moaning then.
At Grans one day, his cousin Lucy gloated:
“Gran got *me* a dolly. *Nyah!*” Tongue out.
Val didnt *do* dolls.
“And *I* get pancakes with jam!”
“For *everyone*,” Gran clipped.
Val sipped tea, nibbled a pancake, asked if she needed help with the bins. Then left.
“Ugh, *finally*,” Lucy crowed as the door shut.
Gran snapped, “Shut your goot. Hes not even down the path!”
Vals heart lifted. She *did* love him.
(Meanwhile, Gran was hissing at Lucy: “Run your mouth, and the whole villagell know! Ill tan your hide with nettles!”
“Wont!”
“Wont I?”
“You *love* me! Im your *precious*!” Lucy clambered into her lap.
“Oh, you little terror”)
***
Dad never came back. Mum married Johnnys brother, Nigel. Decent blokenever laid a hand on Val. Didnt *love* him like his own two, but treated him square.
Even GranNigels mumliked Val.
Life was fine. Still visited Gran. Stopped the letters.
Before enlistment, Val learned Dad had a new family up north. Never visitedbut Gran did. *Often.*
Val was gutted. “Why didnt you *say*? I *waited*!”
Gran waved him off. “Sentimental twaddle.” She yanked a drawer opendecades of letters, unsent. “And your dad *paid*. Good money, too. While your mum bred another mans kids on it.”
Val got drunk. *Once.* Then screamed at Mum, Gran, the ghost of Dad.
Mum called him a “lout,” a “bastard”but Nigel hauled him to the garage. Val *sobbed*. Never cried, not even as a lad. Now? Floodgates. Told Nigel about schoolyard taunts”No-dad brat,” “Mums little oopsy.”
Thats why Val fought. Why hed forced himself on Gran*proof* he had family.
Nigel gripped his neck, their foreheads touching. “Listen. Youre my boy. *Mine.* Ten years Ive raised you. Bloods got no part in it.”
“Dad”
“Son.”
Mum nearly stormed in, saw the vodkathen shut the door. Told the littlies, “Leave them. Mens talk.”
***
Army flew by. Val came back broad-shouldered. Mum and *Dad* (no “Nigel” now) beamed.
Grans mum, Nana Tess, adored him. “Handy, our Val!” Hed barely demobbed before fixing her fence.
Lucynow *living* with Granhissed he wasnt welcome.
“Dads got a *proper* family now. Dunno if youre even *his*”
Gran said nothing. Val stopped visiting.
He married, got a house (parents helped), two kids. Happy.
Then his back went.
(“I *told* you,” Dad groaned. “Lifting like a muleyoull cripple yourself!”)
Now Val hobbled down hospital corridors, heard raised voices:
“My problem? *Youre* the doctors*you* fix her!”
“Miss, she *needs* home care to recover”
“Oh, *right*. Me, playing nursemaid? Not happening!”
“Then its the care home”
“Shame on you!” a third voice cut in. “Your gran *doted* on you, Lucy!”
“Paperwork me,” Lucy droned. “Ill sign.”
Val stepped in. “No need. Ill take her.”
“And *you* are?”
“Her grandson.”
“Proof?”
Val smirked. “Plenty.”
Lucy scoffed. “Ooh, *hero*. After the will, eh? Jokes on youshe left *everything* to *me*.” Slam.
Val took Gran home. Mum shook her headremembering his childhood pilgrimages, Grans pretend-love.
Gran thrived. Walked again. Apologised daily. Doted on his kids.
At her funeral, Lucy no-showed. Mum and Dad wired cash (which Lucy kept).
“Funny, that,” the village clucked. “Favoured one tossed her aside. Unloved one took her in.”
The gossips paused.
“Erm, Cathyextra jelly babies, eh? For my grandkids.”
***
Lifes funny. Gran poured her soul into Lucydaughters child. Valsons boy? Not a crumb. Even seeing Frank in his face, shed freeze.
Yet *he* held her hand at the end. *He* buried her.
Makes you think, doesnt it?
