Nan Knows Best

On a September afternoon about ten years ago, Rose, a cup of tea in her hands and a look of peace on her face, entered the living room of the humble semi-detached she’d then called home for thirty years, the last five of those spent as a widow. As of a year prior, when Rose's eldest granddaughter added to her offspring with her first great-grandchild, she was the progenitor of twenty people, all of whom she loved dearly and was loved by as much or more in return. She was never short of visitors to help her deal with the loneliness of widowhood and - being a naturally sociable person - was nearly always happy for the company, so long as there was quiet in the house during Countdown, Emmerdale, or Corrie.

Rose’s second eldest son had popped over early that morning to sort her boiler out, and her youngest daughter had joined her for a walk to the local park and taken her for lunch at her favourite café. As far as Rose knew, she’d had her social fill, and the rest of the day was hers to spend going through puzzle books, watching telly, getting a good nap in, and maybe making some progress on the knitting of a cardigan for her great-grandchild.

She sat herself down in her armchair, rested her slippered feet on her foot stool, and looked out her living room window up her street. It was a pleasant sight. Rose took a few sips of tea, smiled, and put it down on the table beside her chair in the space not taken up by puzzle books, her cordless phone in its charger, and her little book of phone numbers. It wasn’t long though before she spotted Paul, her grandson, on his way down the street. His appearance was out of sorts with the brightness of his surroundings. Neck bowed, eyes facing the ground, there was an overall sense of dejection in his bearing. He appeared to Rose as though he believed the weight of the world lay on his shoulders, themselves looking barely strong enough to support the weight of the antique globe on top of her bookshelf, she thought. ‘How come he’s not at uni?’ was her next thought.

She greeted Paul with a hug, which he returned in a limp manner, then led him through to the living room. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t fix. You sit down and make yourself comfy, pet. I’ve only just had the kettle on, so won’t take a minute to get another brew made,’ Rose told him. 

Paul took a seat on the three-piece while his nan pottered off to the kitchen. Though troubled, finding comfort here was easy, almost unavoidable. Throughout his childhood, this place was a home from home where he had received so much love and gathered many fond memories that, only being nineteen, were easy to recall in detail. Despite the passing of his granddad, there remained an unconquerable sense of assurance in the environment, bolstered by knowing if he was in the wrong, he would still be put right. Paul’s pushing of boundaries with his parents when younger made him realise at times they could be negotiated with. Nan and granddad’s word though, was law. Looking at a photo on the mantlepiece of himself stood between the pair of them, taken when he was eleven, his mind drifted to a memory of a dressing down he received not long before it was taken.

One Saturday afternoon, Paul and two of his cousins made their way to the local park to play football. When nearly there, they found themselves across the road from a group of three boys with a football of their own. These boys confidently strolled over to introduce themselves and ask if Paul and his cousins wanted a game. Paul’s oldest cousin answered on their behalf and said they did. The lads, who all lived in the run-down part of the estate, sensed the softness of a comfortable upbringing in Paul and his cousins. They took obvious pleasure in adding a bit of roughness to the game. After about an hour, Paul’s cousins, who were being picked up that evening, said they had to go. The three boys they’d met accused them of being too scared to carry on playing. Having already played for an hour, they denied the accusations, with little interest in an argument, and asked Paul if he was coming back with them. Paul, who was stopping the night at his grandparents, and was more susceptible to peer pressure, told his cousins he was staying. A combination of continued peer pressure, a belief that the distance from his home gave him some immunity to indulge in bad behaviour, and the shop in question being far away enough from his grandparents’ home as well, meant that not even two hours later Paul was brought around to the idea of shoplifting being a pardonable hobby.

His granddad had driven by the targeted shop on his way home from visiting a friend. He saw Paul, who had an odd look about him, blending nervousness and relief, exit with a can of pop and a chocolate bar. Unsure what he was doing over this side of the estate, he was about to beep the horn and ask Paul if he wanted a lift home, when he saw his grandson meet up with a group of three boys that he didn’t like the look of. He slowed down and watched as Paul, after a look back over his shoulder, pulled several things from his inside coat pocket to show off.

When Paul came home a little later, Rose asked him what he had been up to for the day. He told her the things she would have no issue with.

‘Anything else?’ he was then asked, with obvious severity.

‘No,’ Paul answered, a slight tremor in his knees as he wondered how she could possibly know.

His granddad told Paul what he’d seen. He gave him a thunderous telling off, with equal weight given to the shoplifting and lying to his nan. The tremor in Paul’s knees moved through his whole body, as the recent pride that had swelled in him turned to shame. He started to bawl his eyes out. While Paul was still in tears, his granddad drove them all to the scene of Paul’s crime.

When they arrived, Rose took Paul by the hand into the shop. She made him queue up and wait for his humiliation. When he reached the front of the queue, with three people watching behind, Paul was made to tell the shop owner what he had done and what he had taken, before apologising for his stupidity. Not having the items anymore to return, or the money to pay for them, his nan told the shop owner that he had a free employee for three hours the following morning. ‘You can stack shelves instead of emptying them,’ she told Paul.

The following morning, when Paul finished his three hours work, the shop owner, a sweet old man, gave him five pounds. Paul bought his nan a big bar of Dairy Milk and his granddad a pack of Werther’s Originals.

His grandparents thanked him, then explained their reaction to his foolishness was motivated by their love for him and wish to keep him from waywardness he would pay for later in life if unchecked. Next, they asked if he had learned his lesson. Paul told them he had learned his lesson, thanked them for it, and said that he loved them also.

‘OK, pet. We’ll say no more about it,’ his nan had responded.

‘Don’t let me catch you hanging about with those wrong’uns again though,’ his grandad chimed in.

Paul had toad in the hole for Sunday lunch, followed by treacle pudding. After telling his nan how nice the meal was, he volunteered to do the dishes. He never hung out with the wrong’uns again, nor did he shoplift.

‘Would you like something to eat? A sandwich maybe?' Paul heard, interrupting his revery.

‘I’m not hungry, thanks. I had a sandwich before heading over,’ he answered.

‘OK, pet. What about some biscuits for your tea? I’ve got Bourbons or Custard Creams. Our Jim was over this morning and had the last of the Hobnobs,’ his nan followed up.

‘No thanks,’ he answered almost instinctively, though he wouldn’t have minded a couple of biscuits.

Paul heard cupboards close, and the rattle of jolted cutlery from the opening and closing of a drawer. When his nan opened the fridge for milk, she spoke again.

‘Oh! I forgot. Sue and Pete were over last night for dinner. I made apple crumble for dessert. There’s still some in the fridge. Wouldn’t take long to warm up. I’ve got vanilla ice cream. It’s the kind you like, with the black vanilla bits in it.’

‘Honestly, nan, I’m not hungry,’ he answered again in spite of himself, for he couldn’t remember there ever being a time that he couldn’t make room for Rose’s apple crumble.

‘Right you are, sweetheart.’

Paul soon heard the bluster of the oven getting going, and the grating of its door. Next was the sound of the kettle click, shortly followed by the clinking of a teaspoon against a cup. His nan came back into the living room. She put Paul’s tea down on a coaster on the coffee table in front of the three-piece and a side plate with three Bourbons and three Custard Creams beside.

‘What’s bothering you then, love? I thought you’d be enjoying your time back at uni,’ she asked tenderly.

Paul, taking a moment to collect his thoughts, which included gratitude to his nan for ignoring his claim of not wanting biscuits, dipped a Custard Cream in his tea. ‘I think I might have ruined my life, nan,’ he then answered, before removing the tea-drenched biscuit and languidly consuming it.

‘How have you managed that?’ Rose asked, the obvious hyperbole in her grandson’s statement not reducing the amount of compassion in her response.

Paul had begun the second year of his Literature degree two weeks before. During his summer break he read several books with familiar themes of idealistic young men frustrated at having their genius go squandered due to societal constraints − the chief among them being a lack of money and social status − and their efforts to resist the grinding down of their will by a dull, mechanical world, and unleash their potential. Some succeeded, others perished, but all went about their task with passion, wit, and imagination that lit a fire in Paul’s impressionable mind.

Paul, who had only done OK in his first year at uni, convinced himself that his inability to really shine was due to similar constraints, and that the everyday concerns of life were unfair burdens to foist on a man of promise such as himself. He found himself bored on his return to uni, harbouring a suspicion that maybe his lecturers were insufficiently inspirational. He felt that measures needed to be taken to stop his talents being squandered. Not nearly as imaginative as the young men he read about, he quickly settled on a plan of withdrawing his student loan and heading to a casino.

After an hour on a roulette table, he had tripled his money. His head filled with ideas of a brilliant future, he decided he would triple it again. Another hour later, he had burnt through all but a hundred pounds of his overdraft.  

‘Well, that was a bit daft. How has it ruined your life though, pet?’ was Rose’s casual reaction to the tale.

‘I’ve had to drop out of uni and I’m several grand in debt. I’ll never be a writer,’ Paul replied bluntly, feeling like his grand tragedy wasn’t being given the deference it deserved.

‘Doesn’t sound like anything you can’t get over. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think knocking the degree on the head is a good thing. And I’ll tell you for why,’ Rose began in response. ‘Have you met Janey that comes around to do my hair?’ she then asked.

‘I remember meeting her once, I think,’ Paul, who definitely remembered meeting her, and more than once, answered with irritation at her inclusion in a conversation that was supposed to be about himself.

‘Her Scot wanted to be a writer. He went off to uni to study literature about seven or eight years ago. There was something in his temperament, which I think you might have, that just made him easy prey for silly ideas and getting carried away in his own little world. In his second year, he got himself in a right old mess and ended up jumping off a bridge into the river.’

‘What happened?’ Paul asked, hoping the casual tone of his nan’s delivery was an indication of things turning out OK, so he wouldn’t have to feel guilt at the lack of animation in his question.

‘He realised the bridge wasn’t high enough and that he was a strong swimmer,’ Rose answered. ‘Pass me a Bourbon please, love,’ she then asked. Luke handed one over. After a dip and a bite, Rose carried on. ‘Janey and her husband were worried sick about him. They tried with the doctors and medication and all that and convinced him to take the rest of the year off uni, saying if he felt better by the following year he could go back. Now, his dad, he owns a landscaping business. They wanted to keep Scot under watch as much as they could, give him something to do to keep him getting all muddled in his thoughts and having more silly ideas, like finding a higher bridge. His dad gave him a job.’ Rose, sensing a sullen disinterest in Paul, stopped a moment to dip the rest of her biscuit and finish it off. ‘Are you listening?’ she asked with some sternness in her voice and a direct look into Paul’s eyes.

‘Yes, sorry,’ Paul replied, partially shamed out of his self-centredness.

‘That’s OK. I am going somewhere with this. Your nan’s not lost her marbles, yet,’ she told him with a conciliatory smile. ‘I know these things aren’t ever that simple,’ she started up again, softening her tone and slowing her speech, ‘but I have spoken to Scot about it. Lovely lad, he is. He tells me physical labour was the best thing for him. Said it got rid of all that nervous energy during the day and that he enjoyed reading a lot more in the evening for it. In the end, he found he was more interested in the gardening than becoming a writer. Started up a business of his own. He’s done some work for me a couple times out the back. Did a brilliant job. Well. I bumped into Scot a few weeks ago. He has a lot of work on and is struggling to find labourers.’ Rose paused a moment. ‘I think you should let me ask him to give you a job. What do you think?’

‘She’s obviously losing a bit of her savvy with age,’ was what Paul thought. ‘Thanks, nan. I don’t think that’s what I really need right now, though,’ was what he answered.

‘Sounds to me pet, that what you need right now, is money. I know you probably think you’re too clever for manual labour, but it will do you good. Your mum and dad worked so hard to get you a comfortable life that it seems like something you think you’re owed. That sort of thinking is bad for you in the long run. And it’s clearly not doing you any favours now. I mean, look at you. You’re all skin and bone, love. And you’re pale as anything, when it’s still summer. A bit of honest graft out in the sun while it lasts is the best thing for you. I’m sure of it. You’re not going to want to gamble money away after working hard for it, either.’

The gentleness in the tone of her rebuke made the harsh truths delivered in it all the more piercing. As he brought his cup to his lips, Paul noticed the lankness in his hands and forearms, and the jutting of his wrists. Surveying the rest of his body, with his eyes and with his soul, he realised the vigour of youth that should have been there was missing. His nan waited patiently while Paul, knowing that he’d be teased by labourers, and realising that he’d become a bit of a know-it-all who deserved to be brought down a peg, looked pensively into his cup. 

‘OK,’ he eventually answered, his decision driven by necessity, his ego pacified with thoughts of finding poetic inspiration in gardens, and his troubled soul assured by Rose’s track record for good advice and a suspicion Scot was the kind of person he should be spending time with.

‘Good lad,’ his nan responded, taking up the phone and her little book of phone numbers. After a pleasant five-minute conversation, the phone was put back.

‘You start Monday,’ she told Paul. ‘Perfect timing,’ she added in response to the ding of the oven timer.

Rose soon came back in with a bowl of apple crumble and ice cream.

‘Thanks, nan. I thought I said I didn’t want any though,’ Paul, who had genuinely forgotten whether he had, said as he took the warm bowl.

‘You did, pet,’ Rose replied, taking up Paul's empty side-plate and cup. She returned from the kitchen seconds later, holding her own bowl. ‘You should know by now that your nan knows you better than you do,’ she followed, getting herself comfortable in her seat again.

Paul put a spoonful of crumble and ice cream in his mouth. Resisting the urge to describe it to himself, he simply enjoyed it. ‘I really should,’ he answered with a glowing smile.