**Diary Entry 12th June**
Bloody hell, what a week its been. It all started with the caror rather, the lack of one. Ever since some drunkard smashed our old Rover last winter, weve been stuck taking the bus or begging lifts from neighbours. Not ideal when the allotment needs tending and the grandkids are itching for summer trips to the countryside.
So there we were at the garage in Manchester, staring at a rusting 1970s Morris Minor. Three grand for this scrap? I slammed the bonnet shut, scowling at the seller. Its more patch than paint!
Its a classic, he sniffed, patting the cracked steering wheel. Fully restored, engine like clockwork. You wont find another like her.
A clock thats stopped, more like, I muttered, turning to my wife, Margaret. Lets go. Im not wasting our savings on this heap.
Margaret sighed, giving the man an apologetic smile. Hes right, Im afraid. We need something reliable for the allotment, maybe the odd trip to the seaside. This isnt quite
Twenty-eight hundred, then, he cut in. Final offer.
No, thank you, Margaret said firmly, looping her arm through mine. Well keep looking.
We trudged past rows of garages, me fuming, Margaret lost in thought. Maybe we should just take out a loan for something newer? she ventured.
With our pensions? I scoffed. No, well find something decent second-hand. Just need patience.
Patience wont dig the potatoes, Margaret said, adjusting her scarf against the spring chill. The kids promised to help, but you know how it isArthurs up to his eyes in work, Emilys swamped with the twins
Speaking of the kids, I said, brightening, what about your mum? Granny Ediths got a tidy nest egg, hasnt she?
Margaret froze. Mum? Shes eighty-two!
Age is just a number! That womans fitter than I amyoga at dawn, bingo nights, tea with her WI lot. And shes always going on about her savings for a rainy day. Well, its pouring, love.
You cant be serious, Margaret hissed. That moneys for the grandchildrens university fees. Or her care home, God forbid.
Wed be using it for the family! I insisted. A car means trips to the coast, fresh air, proper family time. Thats an education in itself.
Margaret shook her head, but the seed was planted.
Sunday dinner brought the whole brood roundArthur and his wife, Claire, with their lad, Jack (fifteen going on thirty), and Emily with her husband, Tom, and the twins, Lily and Oliver, freshly turned thirteen. Over roast beef, the subject resurfaced.
So, no luck with the car? Arthur asked, passing the gravy.
None, Margaret sighed. Everythings either a fortune or falling apart.
Dads got a plan, I announced. Granny Ediths savings.
Emily nearly dropped the Yorkshire puddings. Youd ask Gran for money?
Why not? Its coming to us eventually, I said. Might as well put it to good use now.
Margaret shot me a look. Shes always said that moneys for the childrens futures.
And whats more future than family memories? I countered.
They humoured me, but the twins exchanged glances. Later, once the dishes were cleared, Jack cornered us in the kitchen.
Weve had a family meeting, he said solemnly. The twins nodded behind him.
About what? I frowned.
Granny Edith, Lily said. You cant ask her to move in.
I nearly choked on my tea. Who said anything about moving in?
You did, Oliver said quietly. Last night. You said youd convert the box room.
Margaret paled. That was just a thought, darling. Wed never
Its not fair, Jack cut in. Her flats her home. All her things, her friends next door. You cant just yank her out because you want the rent money.
Its not about the money! I spluttered.
Isnt it? Oliver said. You havent visited her since Christmas. Now suddenly you want her underfoot?
The truth of it stung. Granny Edith was old-schoolno-nonsense, suspicious of smartphones, forever nagging the kids to put down those screens and read a proper book. The idea of her rattling round our cramped semi, policing bedtimes and scoffing at takeaways, was well.
Margaret wiped her eyes. Youre right. Well call her tomorrow. Tell her weve reconsidered.
And visit more, Lily added. Like, every Sunday. Properly.
The next morning, Margaret rang her mother. I braced for tears, but she came back smiling. She said shed never have agreed to move. But shed love more visits. Ohand she offered to chip in for the car.
Bloody hell, I muttered.
Margaret shook her head. I told her no. Her moneys hers. Well sort the car ourselves.
Later, over a pint, it hit me. The kids had seen right through us. Granny Edith wasnt a cash cow or a live-in nanny. She was familystubborn, loving, and fiercely independent. And that was worth more than any Morris Minor.
**Lesson learned:** Family isnt a ledger to balance. Sometimes the best way to care for someone is to let them be. (And maybe take the bus to the allotment for once. So we did. We took the bus every Saturday, Margaret and me, with our trowels and seed packets, earning the odd strange look from commuters. The kids started joining usnot every week, but often enough. Jack even snapped a photo of Oliver trying to eat a raw potato, which somehow went viral on that TikTok thing.
Then, last Tuesday, a letter arrived. From Granny Edith. Inside was a key and a note: *Sold my old bungalow. Moved downstairs in the blockmuch easier. The extra cash? Well, I wont be needing it all. Theres a nice little van down at Alfies Motors. Semi-automatic. Good for the allotment. Dont argue. Love, Mum.*
We stood in the driveway, staring at the letter. The van was second-hand, white with a dent on the nearside, but it started first time.
Margaret laughed. She always was two steps ahead.
We didnt argue. We loaded up the tools, packed a flask, and drove out past the canal, windows down, the wind tugging at our sleeves. For the first time in months, it felt like summer.
