Granny never warmed to little Archie.
“He’s not one of ours,” Edith would mutter to the women at the village shop. “Not truly.”
“Come off it, Edie,” one of them would say. “Look at himspitting image of your Tom!”
“I know, I know. In my head, I see itToms boy. But my heart wont believe it. My daughters children? Oh, theyre my darlings. But this lad? He wasnt raised with us. Runs about, chatters, calls me ‘Gran’… but no. When I look at him, all I see is that wretched Stockwell blood. Not mine. Not proper family.”
“Truth be told, its the same in my house,” another woman sighed. “My late mum doted on my Lilykisses, cuddles, the lot. But my brothers kids? Hardly glanced at ’em. ‘Course, hed get cross, say something sharp. And shed just pat his arm, say, ‘Dont take it hard, love. With a daughters child, you *know* theyre yours. A sons? Well… youll forgive me.'”
“Same here!”
“And mine!”
“Oh, listen to us!” Edith clucked. “Im no better. My daughters boy? Angel-faced, dimples and all. Grandad and I cant get enough. But my sons lad? Cant stomach him. Looks just like his mothers lot. Always sniffling, grubby. I tell his mum to tend to him proper, and she snaps, ‘When? Your son wants the house spotless, meals hotwhen do I get a minute?'”
I tell her, what about the others? Others manage, dont they? Back in my day, wed be up at four for milking. Knead the bread, leave it to rise, stoke the oventhen dash to the cows. Wake my Susan, half-asleep, and pray shed bake the loaves. One morning, I left her, told Grandad to mind her. Poor old thing could barely move, but surely hed help?
Something nagged at me. Asked Doris to cover my shift, ran home. And thereoh, my heart!Susan asleep, dough spilling off the table, hair in it, cheek on her arm. And Grandad? “Whats the fuss?” he says. “Bread wont run off, will it?” Strolled off in his vest, the daft old sod.
The talk turned, as it always did, from grandchildren to grievances. Edith slipped away, comforted only by knowing she wasnt alone.
Yet Archie adored her. Thought if he was like Gran, hed be closer to Dad. Dad had gone north years ago, when Archie was small. Off to work the oil rigs. Never came back. But Archie waited, wrote him letters, brought them to Gran.
Mum said the old bat was the only one who knew where that useless father of his had got to. But Archie knew Mum loved Dad. She was just sore he hadnt taken them with him. Where would they put Archie, though? She ought to understand.
Sometimes Mum screamed that Archie and his father had ruined her life. Said she shouldve married Johnny Spireshad his babies, lived like a queen.
Archie once rolled cheese in butter with the toy lorry Gran gave him (Dads money, he was sure). Mum nearly binned it, but he clung to it. Felt like Dad had handed it to him himself.
He never understood why Mum wanted that other life.
Dadll come back, he thought. Then theyd be happier than any Spires lot.
Visiting Gran once, he found his cousin Daisy there. Spoilt little thing.
“Gran got me a doll,” she sneered, tongue out. Archie didnt care for dolls.
“And shes making *me* pancakes with cream!”
“For everyone,” Gran muttered. She *did* love him, really.
Archie stayed for tea, asked if she needed help, then left.
“Ugh, finally,” Daisys voice carried. Gran shushed her, and Archies heart lifted. She *did* care.
Gran scolded Daisy later: “Shut your trap! Hell hear!”
“You wont whip me with nettles.”
“Whys that?”
“Cause you love me! Im your pretty, clever girl!” Daisy climbed into her lap.
“Oh, you little terror, my sweetheart…”
***
Dad never came. Mum married Johnnys cousin, Uncle Colin. Decent bloke. Never mistreated Archie, though he favored his own two with Mum.
Life was good. Archie still visited Gran, though he stopped writing letters.
Before joining the army, he learned Dad had a new family up north. Gran visited them often.
It stung. “Why didnt you say?” he asked Gran. “I *waited*.”
She waved him off. “Silly boy. Your letters are in the drawer. And your dad paid his dues. Your mum raised another mans kids on his money.”
Archie got drunkfirst and last time. Raged at Mum, Gran, Dad. Mum screeched, called him a drunk, a bastard, till Uncle Colin dragged him to the shed.
There, Archie wept. Told him how kids mocked him”no-dad brat,” “bastard.” How he fought to prove he had family. Even if Gran barely tolerated him, he went. Wrote those letters she stashed away.
Colin gripped his neck. “Listen here. Youre my son. Ten years Ive been with your mum, with you. *My* son.”
They sat, foreheads touching, crying.
“Son.”
“Dad.”
Mum nearly stormed in, saw the open whisky, then quietly shut the door. “Your father and brother are talking,” she told the others.
Archie visited Gran before enlisting. She pursed her lips but wished him well. Daisy sneered: “Thank God were done paying for *your* upkeep.” Gran said nothing.
***
The army flew by. Archie came home broad-shouldered. From that night in the shed, he called Colin “Dad.” No one batted an eye.
Gran Tess, Colins mum, doted on him. Skilled with his hands, Archie fixed her fence fresh off duty.
Daisy, living with Gran now, barred him. “Dads got a proper family. Who knows if youre even his?”
Gran stayed silent. Archie never returned.
He married, bought a house in town with his parents help. They moved nearby with Gran Tess. Two kids, a cargood life.
Then his back gave out. Limping through the hospital, he heard raised voices.
“My problem? *You* fix her!” a woman shrilled.
“Miss, home care would”
“Oh, *now* Ill play nurse! No. Put her in a home.”
“Shameful!” another snapped. “After all she did for you, Gail!”
“Just sign the papers,” Gail said flatly.
Archie stepped in. “Shes coming with me.”
“And you are?”
“Her grandson.”
Gail scoffed. “Oho, the prodigal returns! After her money? Too lateits all *mine*.” She flounced out.
Archie took Gran home. Mum shook her head, remembering how hed trailed after Edith as a boy, blind to her dislike.
Gran thrived. Apologised often, doted on his children.
When her time came, Gail didnt visit. Mum and Colin sent a telegram, some cash. Gail kept it.
“Well, well,” the shop women murmured. “The *unloved* grandson took her in.”
Those who played favorites paused. What if *they* ended up like Edith?
“Extra sweets, Kathy. For my grandkids.”
***
So it goes. Doted on the daughters child, scorned the sons. Yet in the end, it was the unwanted boy who held her hand, who buried her.
Makes you think.
