The Convenient Grannies Helen awoke to laughter. Not a soft chuckle, nor a discreet giggle, but a booming, uninhibited guffaw completely out of place in a hospital ward—exactly the sort of laughter she couldn’t stand, and had avoided her entire life. It was coming from her bedmate, who was clutching a mobile to her ear, gesturing flamboyantly as if her conversation partner could see her antics. “Oh Len, you’ve got to be joking! Really? He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven—fifteen precious minutes left before the nurses would rouse everyone, fifteen minutes that could have been spent in blissful silence, collecting her thoughts before surgery. The previous evening, when Helen had been wheeled into the ward, the other woman was already there, tapping rapidly on her phone. Their greetings had been concise. “Good evening”—“Hello,” and then each had retreated into her own thoughts. Helen had been thankful for the quiet. Now, all she could think was that the ward had turned into a circus. “Excuse me,” she said quietly but firmly. “Could you keep it down?” The other woman spun around. A round face, a short grey haircut that wasn’t hiding the silver, and a shockingly vibrant red polka-dot pyjama—hospital, of all places! “Oh, Len, I’ll catch you later—someone’s set on giving me a ticking-off,” she said, tucking her phone away and flashing Helen a broad smile. “Sorry about that! I’m Cath. Did you manage to get any sleep? I can never sleep before an operation, so I just call everyone I know.” “Helen. And just because you can’t sleep, doesn’t mean the rest of us want to be kept awake.” “You’re not asleep now though,” Cath winked. “All right, I promise—I’ll whisper.” She didn’t. By breakfast, she’d been on the phone twice more, and her voice was only getting louder. Helen ostentatiously turned to face the wall, blankets over her head, but it made no difference. “My daughter rang,” Cath explained over breakfast, though neither of them ate. “She worries, bless her. I try to calm her down as best I can.” Helen said nothing. Her son hadn’t phoned—not that she expected him to; he’d warned her he had an early, important meeting. She’d taught him herself: work is serious, work is responsibility. Cath was the first to be taken to theatre. She marched off down the ward, waving flamboyantly and shouting something that made the nurse laugh. Helen hoped they’d find her a new bed after the operation. Helen was wheeled off an hour later. Anaesthetic always hit her hard—she came round with nausea and a dull ache in her side. The nurse told her everything had gone well. She only needed to be patient. Patience was Helen’s forte. By evening, when she was brought back to the ward, Cath was already lying quietly, face ashen, eyes closed, a drip in her arm—the air of boisterousness gone. “How are you feeling?” Helen found herself asking, though she hadn’t meant to start a conversation. Cath opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Still here. You?” Helen nodded. “Same.” Twilight gathered outside, and the drips ticked quietly. “Sorry about this morning,” Cath said suddenly. “Whenever I’m nervous I just can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying—I honestly can’t help it.” Helen wanted to snap, but she was just too tired. She managed, “It’s all right.” That night, neither of them slept. They both hurt—Cath didn’t phone anyone but Helen could hear her tossing and sighing. Once, it sounded like she was crying—softly, into her pillow. In the morning, the doctor did her rounds, checked dressings and temperatures, declared them both ‘doing brilliantly’, and Cath immediately grabbed her phone. “Len, hi! Yes, I’m fine! Alive and well—you can stop worrying. How are the kids? Kieran still feverish? What? Oh, he’s better? Told you there was nothing to fret about.” Helen couldn’t help but listen. “The kids”—her grandchildren, clearly. Daughter checking in. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son, time-stamped the evening before. “Mum, how are you?” and, “Text me when you can.” She replied: “All fine,” adding a smiley. He liked emojis, said messages seemed cold without them. Three hours later: “Great! Hugs.” “Yours aren’t coming in, then?” Cath asked later. “My son works. Lives far. No need—I’m not a child.” “Too right,” Cath nodded. “Mine says the same—‘Mum, you can manage, you’re a grown-up!’ Why come round if I’m fine, right?” Something in her voice made Helen look closely. Cath was smiling, but her eyes weren’t cheerful at all. “How many grandchildren have you got?” “Three. Kieran’s eight, then Maisie and Louis—they’re three and four.” She took her phone from the locker. “Want to see photos?” She showed photo after photo: kids in gardens, at the beach, with cakes—and on every one, she was there, arms round them, pulling faces. The daughter was missing from all pictures. “My girl takes the photos—she hates being on camera.” “Do your grandkids stay over much?” “I practically live with them! My daughter works, her husband too, so…I help—pick them up, check homework, cook.” Helen nodded. She’d been much the same—those early years, always helping out. Now she visited maybe once a month, on Sundays—if it suited everyone’s schedule. “And you?” “One grandchild. Nine. Very bright, into sports.” “See him often?” “Sundays, sometimes. They’re very busy. I do understand.” “Yeah,” Cath turned towards the window. “Busy.” Silence. Outside, rain streaked the glass. That evening, Cath muttered, “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Cath was sitting on her bed, knees pulled to her chin, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve thought and thought—and I don’t.” “Why ever not?” “What’s the point? I’ll get back, and Kieran’s not done his homework, Maisie’s snotty again, Louis has torn his trousers—my daughter’s at work till late, her husband’s always away. It’s just wash, cook, clean, help … and they don’t even—” She faltered. “They don’t even say thank you. Because I’m Nan, aren’t I? That’s what Nan is for.” Helen said nothing; there was a lump in her throat. “Sorry—” Cath wiped her eyes. “I’m coming apart, aren’t I?” “Don’t apologise,” Helen murmured. “I retired five years ago. Thought I’d finally do something for myself—go to the theatre, exhibitions. Even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity. Asked me to help out. I’m the granny—at home all day, must be easy. I could never say no.” “How was it?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, so every other day. School—once a week. Now…now they’ve got a nanny. I just sit at home waiting for the call—if they remember.” Cath nodded. “My daughter was going to visit in November. I scrubbed the house, baked pies. Then she rang—‘Mum, sorry, Kieran’s got football, we can’t come.’” “And she didn’t?” “She didn’t. I gave the pies to a neighbour.” They lapsed into silence. Outside, rain drummed on the glass. “Do you know what hurts?” Cath said suddenly. “It’s not that they don’t visit. It’s that I still wait. I clutch my phone, thinking—maybe they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Just for me, not because they need something.” Helen felt her eyes sting. “Me too. Every time the phone rings, I hope…maybe my son just wants to chat. But he never does. Always something practical.” “And we jump to help,” Cath managed a wan smile. “That’s what mums do.” “Yeah.” The next day, it was time for dressings—painful. Afterwards, both women lay in silence, until Cath suddenly said: “I always thought I had a happy family. Beloved daughter, decent son-in-law, lovely grandkids. I thought they needed me. That they couldn’t cope without me.” “And?” “And I realised in here—they cope just fine. My daughter hasn’t once said she’s struggling. In fact, she seems fine. It’s just easy when there’s a granny-nanny around.” Helen propped herself up. “I’ve realised it’s my fault. I taught my son that mum would always help, always drop everything, always wait. That my plans didn’t matter, but his were sacred.” “I did the same,” Cath sighed. “Drop everything when my daughter rings.” “We taught them we’re not people,” Helen said quietly. “That we don’t have our own lives.” Cath nodded, silent. “And now?” “I don’t know.” By the fifth day, Helen was getting out of bed unaided. By the sixth, she could walk to the end of the corridor. Cath lagged a day behind, but persisted. Together, they shuffled along the ward, gripping the handrail. “After my husband died, I lost all direction,” Cath said. “My daughter said—‘Mum, you’ve got a new purpose: the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. But it’s one-way traffic—I give everything, they only give back when it’s convenient.” Helen told her about her own divorce, thirty years earlier. Bringing her son up alone, studying at night, juggling two jobs. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, my son would be a perfect son. If I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up and got on with his own life,” Cath finished. “Yes. Which is normal, I suppose. I just didn’t expect to be so lonely.” “Neither did I.” On the seventh day, Helen’s son visited. No warning, just appeared at the door—tall, expensive coat, bag of fruit. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! Doctor says just a few more days. Thought you might come stay with us awhile? The guest room’s free.” “Thanks, but I’ll be better off at home.” “Whatever you think. Just shout if you want collecting.” He stayed twenty minutes—chatted about work, the car, the grandchild, asked if she needed money. Promised to call by next week. Left—relieved, it seemed. Cath was lying on her bed, pretending to sleep. After he’d gone, she opened her eyes. “Yours?” Helen nodded. “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Mm.” “And cold as ice.” Helen couldn’t answer. Her throat ached. “You know,” Cath said gently. “Maybe we need to stop waiting for them to love us. Just…let go. Accept they’ve grown up, have their own lives. And we need to find ours.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But what’s the alternative—waiting endlessly for them to remember us?” “What did you tell them?” Helen said, switching to ‘you’ without realising. “My daughter? I said after discharge I’d rest for a fortnight. Doctor’s orders—no childcare. She protested, but I told her—‘Len, you’re grown up, you can manage. I can’t help just yet.’” “She was upset?” “Sulking, yes!” Cath chuckled. “But you know what? I felt lighter. As if I’d shed something heavy.” Helen shut her eyes. “I’m afraid. If I say no, if I refuse, they’ll take offence. Might stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much as it is?” Silence. “Exactly. It can only get better.” On the eighth day, they were discharged together. They packed in silence, as if for ever. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cath suggested. Helen nodded. They put each other in their phones. Stood awkwardly. “Thank you,” said Helen. “For being here.” “And thank you. You know … I’ve not talked like this in thirty years. About real things.” “Me neither.” They hugged, carefully, wounds wary. The nurse brought their papers and called taxis. Helen went first. Home was silent and empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Her phone had three texts from her son: “Mum, home yet?”, “Call when in,” “Don’t forget your tablets.” She texted, “Home. Fine.” Set her phone down. She got up, opened the cupboard, took out a folder untouched for five years. Inside, a French course pamphlet and a season ticket schedule for the Philharmonic. She stared at the leaflet. Considered. The phone rang—Cath. “Hi. Sorry, is this too soon? Just—felt like calling.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “How about we meet up? Once we’re strong again. Two weeks maybe—tea somewhere? Or just a walk? If you’d like to.” Helen looked at the leaflet, then at her phone, then back again. “I’d love to. I don’t want to wait two weeks. Saturday? I’m tired of staying in.” “Saturday? You sure? Doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years putting everyone else first. Time to think of myself.” “Saturday, then.” They said their goodbyes. Helen picked up the brochure again. French classes started in a month—enrolment still open. She opened her laptop and started filling out the application. Her hands trembled, but she kept going. All the way. Outside, the rain had stopped; pale autumn sun was peeking through the clouds. Helen suddenly thought—maybe life was only just beginning. And hit ‘Submit’.

Comfortable Grannies

Margaret Rose awoke to laughter. Not a faint chuckle or a polite giggle, but a great booming guffaw that seemed to rattle the hospital ward, the sort of laugh shed never been able to abide all her life. The echoing mirth belonged to her bed neighbour, who was clutching a phone to one ear and gesticulating wildly as if the person on the line could see her antics.

Oh Jude, youre too much! Did he really say that? In front of everyone?

Margaret glanced at the clock. A quarter to seven in the morning. Another fifteen minutes until the nurses would come round fifteen minutes to gather her thoughts in the quiet, to ready herself for the operation ahead.

The evening before, when Margaret was brought to the ward, her roommate was already propped up in bed, furiously tapping at her phone. Their greetings had been brief Good evening. Hello. and then they had returned to their own thoughts. Margaret had appreciated the silence. Now, the peace was gone.

Excuse me, she said crisply but quietly. Would you mind lowering your voice?

The other woman turned. Round face, hair cropped short and fully grey, not a hint of dye, not a care for appearances, and a pyjama covered in bright red polka dots. In hospital, no less.

Oh, Jude, Ill ring you back, love Im disturbing the room, she chirped, putting down the phone and turning to Margaret with a sunny smile. Sorry, dear! Im Patricia Smith. Did you sleep well? Me, I never sleep before these things, so Im wittering away on the blower.

Margaret Rose. Just because you cant sleep doesnt mean others might not wish to rest.

But youre awake now, arent you? Patricia winked. Alright, I promise whispering from now on.

She absolutely did not whisper. By breakfast Patricia had managed to call two more people, her voice swelling with each ring. Margaret ostentatiously rolled over to face the wall, pulling the blanket over her head, but the noise barreled through.

My daughter called, Patricia explained over the untouched breakfast tray. Operations got her worried, poor soul. I keep telling her its fine.

Margaret said nothing. Her son hadnt rung. She hadnt expected him to hed let her know the night before he had an important meeting first thing. Shed brought him up to know: work comes first, its a duty.

Orderlies collected Patricia first for surgery. Trotting down the corridor, waving and shouting after the nurse, she all but left a trail of cheer behind her. Margaret half-hoped theyd move her to a new room afterwards.

An hour later Margaret was summoned herself. Anaesthetic always floored her. She awoke to nausea and a hollow ache in her right side. The nurse told her all had gone well, but Margaret must bear the discomfort. And bear it she did; Margaret was, above all, a woman who could endure.

By evening, when she was wheeled back, Patricia was already reclining in her own bed. Her face was ashen, eyes closed, a drip running to her arm. Quiet, for the first time.

How are you? Margaret asked, though shed not planned a conversation.

Patricia opened her eyes and managed a thin smile. Still alive. You?

The same.

They lapsed into silence. Outside, dusk seeped across the windows. Drips gently tinkled.

Sorry about this morning, Patricia blurted suddenly. Its justwhen Im nervous, I cant stop talking. I know its maddening, but I simply cant help myself.

Margaret wanted to retort with something sharp, but was too weary. Instead, she simply said, Its all right.

That night, neither slept. The pain gnawed at both of them. Patricia no longer rang anyone, but Margaret could hear her fidgeting and sighing, and, once, thought she heard quiet sobs stifled by a pillow.

In the morning, the doctor arrived. Checked stitches, took temperatures, declared, Well done, both. All progressing nicely. Patricia seized her phone at once.

Jude, hi! Yes, alls fine, you can stop fretting. How are my lot? Is Oliver really still feverish? Did you what? Oh, better now? See? I told you, nothing to worry about.

Margaret found herself listening. My lot that meant grandchildren, then. Her own phone was silent. She checked two texts from her son. Mum, how are things? and Let me know when youre up. Sent yesterday, while she was still groggy.

She replied: All fine. Added a smiley, knowing her son liked those, said it made the messages feel less stiff.

Three hours passed before a reply: Brilliant! Love you xx

Later, Patricia asked, Yours not coming to visit?

My sons working. Lives some distance away. And reallyno need. Im hardly a child.

Quite right, Patricia agreed. My daughters the same Mum, youre grown, youll cope. No point coming round if everythings ticking over, is there?

There was something in Patricias voice that made Margaret study her more closely. Patricia smiled, but her eyes held no mirth.

How many grandchildren do you have?

Three. Olivers the eldest, eight. Then Daisy and Charlie three and four, close as peas in a pod. Patricia rummaged in the little bedside cabinet. Want to see photos?

For twenty minutes Patricia scrolled through pictures. Children at the seaside, at the allotment, with birthday cakes. In every shot, she was there too holding them close, kissing, pulling silly faces. Her daughter was unseen.

She takes the pictures, Patricia explained. Doesnt like being in them.

They stay with you often?

I practically live with them. My daughter works full-time, son-in-law as well, so I well, I do my bit. Pick them up from school, help with homework, make dinners.

Margaret nodded. Hers was much the same. For the first few years after her grandson was born, shed helped every day. Then, as he grew, she started visiting less. Now, maybe once a month, on Sundays. If schedules aligned.

And you?

One grandson. Nine. Bright lad, does well, goes to swimming club.

See him much?

Now and then, Sundays if theyre free. Theyre all busy. I do understand.

Yes, Patricia turned to the window. Busy.

They fell quiet again. It began to rain.

That evening, Patricia suddenly declared, I dont want to go home.

Margaret looked up. Patricia sat on her bed hugging her knees, staring at the floor.

I really dont. Ive thought and thought, and I dont.

Why?

What for? Ill get back, and Oliver wont have finished his homework, Daisys bound to have a streaming nose again, Charlie will have torn his trousers. My daughterll be at work till late, her husband off in Leeds or somewhere. Washing, cooking, cleaning, mind them, help out And they never even she faltered, never even say thank you. Its just thats Grans job.

Margaret said nothing. Her throat tightened.

Sorry, Patricia wiped her eyes. Silly of me, falling apart.

Dont be, Margaret whispered. I I retired five years ago. Thought Id finally do something for myself go to the theatre, visit galleries, even signed up for French classes. Lasted all of a fortnight.

What happened?

My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked me to help out, of course. Im Gran, not working, should be easy. I couldnt say no.

And?

Three years, every day. Then once he started nursery, it was every other day. Then schoolonce a week. Now Now they hardly need me. Theyve a nanny. I just sit at home, waiting for when they might call. If they remember.

Patricia nodded. My daughter promised shed come in November. Visit me. I scrubbed the place top to bottom, made pies. Then she rang Sorry Mum, Olivers got football club, cant make it.

And didnt come?

No. Gave the pies to the neighbour.

They sat in silence as the rain whispered against the glass.

Do you know what hurts the most? Patricia said. Not that they dont come. But that I keep hoping. Clutching the phone, waiting for them to ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need something.

Margaret felt her nose sting.

I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I hope its my son wanting a chat. But it never is. Always business.

And yet we help out, Patricia gave a crooked smile. Because were mums.

Yes.

The following day, dressing changes. Painful for both. Afterwards they lay in heavy silence, until Patricia mused quietly:

I always thought I was lucky happy family, loving daughter, good son-in-law, joy in the grandchildren. I believed I was truly needed. That they couldnt do without me.

And?

And only here have I realised theyre absolutely fine when Im not there. My daughter hasnt once said shes struggling. If anything, shes breezy as ever. So, they do manage. Its just convenient when Im around as the ever-ready free babysitter.

Margaret propped herself up.

I think I see it now too. Its my fault as much as his. I showed my son Id always pitch in, always be there, always put him first. That my plans never mattered, his were sacred.

I did the exact same, Patricia said quietly. A call from my daughter, and I dropped everything.

Weve taught them we arent people, Margaret said slowly. That we dont have our own lives.

Patricia nodded. They both went quiet.

And now what?

I wish I knew.

By the fifth day, Margaret could get out of bed unaided. The sixth, she managed the corridor and back. Patricia trailed a day behind but pressed on determinedly. Together they strode the ward, hand to the wall.

After my husband died, I was utterly lost, Patricia confided. Thought my life had ended. But my daughter said, Mum, youve a new purpose now the grandchildren. Live for them. And I did. Only, its such a one-way street. Im there for them; for me, only when it suits.

Margaret shared her own story the divorce, thirty years ago, when her boy was five. How she raised him single-handed, worked two jobs, packed her studies in at night.

I believed that if I was the perfect mother, Id get the perfect son. That if I gave everything, hed always be grateful.

And he grew up and lives his own life, Patricia finished.

Yes. And thats probably how it should be. I just didnt expect to feel so alone.

Nor did I.

Seventh day, Margarets son appeared, without warning. She was reading when he arrivedtall, in a sharp wool coat, carrying a bag of fruit.

Mum, hello! He grinned, kissed her forehead. How are you? Improving?

Getting there.

Good! Doctor says another three days and youll be home. Thoughtmaybe youd come stay with us? Lisa says the guest rooms ready.

Thank you, but my own home is better.

As you wish. But call, all right? Well come pick you up if you like.

He stayed twenty minutes. Talked about work, his son, the new car. Checked if she needed money. Promised to visit in a week. Left quickly, with a sense of relief.

Patricia pretended to be asleep across the ward, but when the door closed, she opened her eyes.

Your son?

Yes.

Handsome.

Yes.

And cold as marble.

Margaret didnt answer. Her throat squeezed unbearably.

You know, Patricia said softly, Ive been thinking. Perhaps we just have to stop expecting love from them. Let go. Understand theyve grown, have their own lives. And that its time we found ours.

Easy to say.

Hard to do. But is there any other way? Or shall we just sit here, waiting for them to remember we exist?

What did you tell your daughter? Margaret asked abruptly, surprising herself by switching to you.

Told her Id need a fortnights rest after discharge, doctors ordersno heavy lifting, no minding the kids.

And?

She was put out, at first. I said, Jude, youre a grown woman, youll have to sort it yourself. I cant just now.

Did she take offence?

Oh, dashed right she did. Patricia gave a lopsided grin. Butyou know? I actually felt…lighter. As though Id sloughed off a burden.

Margaret closed her eyes.

Im afraid. If I refuse, say no, theyll be hurt. Stop calling altogether.

And how often do they ring now?

Silence.

There you are, then. Things can only get better.

On the eighth day, both were discharged together. They packed in silence, as if they might never meet again.

We ought to exchange numbers, Patricia said.

Margaret nodded. They keyed them in, paused, looking at one another.

Thank you, said Margaret, for being here.

Nothank you. I dont think Ive talked like this to anybody in thirty years. Really talked.

Nor have I.

They embraced awkwardly, gently, mindful of stitches. The nurse brought their discharge letters, summoned cabs. Margaret was first to leave.

The flat was quiet and hollow. Margaret unpacked, showered, and lay on the sofa. Her phone chimed three messages from her son: Mum, are you home? Ring when youre back, Dont forget your tablets.

She replied: Home. Alls well. Put the phone aside.

She got up, walked to the cupboard, and took out a folder unopened for five years. Inside was a French course brochure and a schedule of concerts at the Philharmonic. She gazed at the brochure, lost in thought.

The phone rang. Patricia.

Hello. Sorry to ring so soon. I just wanted to call.

Im glad you did. Really glad.

How about we meet up? When were properly on the mend. In a café, or just for a walk, if youd like.

Margaret glanced at the brochure in her hands. Then at the phone. Then back again.

Id like that. In factno need to wait two weeks. Lets do it Saturday. Havent had enough of lying about.

Saturday? Really? The doctor said

Oh, they said. But Ive spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to look after myself, I think.

Saturday, then.

They said their goodbyes. Margaret set the phone down and picked up the brochure again. French courses started in a month, registration still open.

She fetched her laptop and began to fill out the application online. Her hands shook, but she kept going. All the way to the end.

Outside the rain drummed on the glass, but behind the clouds the sun was pushing through pale, autumn feeble, but sunlight nonetheless.

And Margaret suddenly thought that perhaps, just perhaps, her life was only just beginning. She pressed send.