Granny Sour
MODERN LIFE SHORT STORY BY ROS MCKENNA
What had I done to make my granddaughter think so badly of me?
I am no-one’s idea of a cosy, apple-cheeked granny.
I admit that freely.
While I do have a big kitchen drawer crammed with an impressive array of confectionery and no particular rules about keeping the house tidy, I also have a low tolerance for soft-play areas and a deep mistrust of “PAW Patrol”.
But glad as I usually am to wave my granddaughter off at the end of the day, I am always glad to see her in the morning, too.
And she’s always glad to come here. Or so I thought.
The other evening, I was boiling the kettle and savouring the descending peace as I watched my daughter Nadia and four-year-old Freya make their way down the garden path.
Freya was chattering nineteen to the dozen, telling her mum all about her day.
I reached for the teabags then froze as the high, clear voice floated through the open window.
“Who’s looking after me tomorrow, Mummy?” she asked. “Granny Sweet or Granny Sour?”
Nadia snorted with laughter.
“Granny Sour, and I’ve told you, you’d better not let her hear you calling her that!”
“But why not, Mummy?” Freya asked.
“Just don’t, that’s all. Jump in the car.”
As the car pulled off, I realised my hand was still grasping the ceramic jar of teabags.
Slowly I lifted it down and went through the motions of making my cuppa, but my heart was beating most uncomfortably.
It was my day tomorrow.
I felt thoroughly discombobulated.
Unsteadily, my mind raced through the day’s events.
Nursery drop-off, pick up, lunch, a little bit of shopping, some colouring in, tea and some TV.
A fair bit of laughter. No cross words that I could think of.
What on earth had I done that made Freya cast me as the wicked witch?
Her other gran, Alison, looked after her two days a week.
Alison was sweet, absolutely lovely, though a bit – what would you say – namby-pamby for my taste.
Even as I thought it, my hand flew to my mouth.
Could remarks like that be the reason Freya thought I was sour?
Normally I would just have asked Nadia straight out.
I’m a pretty direct, non-nonsense type of person who normally doesn’t believe in pussyfooting around, but I suddenly felt unsure.
My whole idea of myself had been turned on its head.
I would have to make my own observations.
The next day, Freya came charging up to the door with not the slightest sign of reluctance, and flung herself at me.
“Granny!”
“Morning, pesky child,” I greeted her. “Your breakfast’s on the table.”
As she danced off into the kitchen, I turned to my daughter.
“Nadia…” I hesitated. “Freya is happy enough coming here while you and Kev are at work, isn’t she?”
“Of course, she is,” Nadia replied indistinctly through the sleeve of Freya’s jacket, which she was holding between her teeth while she fished her keys out of her backpack.
“Right, I’m off. See you tonight!” she said.
Everything seemed so normal that I was somewhat reassured, but my new label hovered uneasily at the back of my mind.
I dropped Freya at nursery, did a few errands, then collected her in the car at lunchtime.
I had a few things to pick up at the supermarket, then I had promised her we could go to the café.
As we cruised along – observing the speed limit, I might add – the driver behind decided that the extra five seconds it would take to get to his turn off were five seconds he absolutely could not afford to waste.
He flew past us, revving aggressively, and screamed round the next corner practically on two wheels.
A little voice sang out from the back seat.
“Look at that idiot. Where are the police when you need them, eh, Granny?”
I had just opened my mouth to utter the self-same words, and I caught sight of my startled face in the mirror.
Did that sound like the wise pronouncement of a sweet granny?
It did not. I drove on, deep in thought.
Over the next couple of days, I began to pay close attention to what I said and how I acted.
A lot of my questionable behaviour seemed to manifest while driving.
As I waited about half an hour for some old boy in a Skoda to make a right turn off the main road, I caught sight of my face in the rear-view mirror.
My brow was furrowed, nose wrinkled, lips pursed.
Sour. Definitely sour.
What was I so grumpy about, anyway?
I was in no hurry – what did a couple of minutes matter?
And, my better self chastised me, maybe it’s a new car and he’s just getting used to it.
When did you stop giving people the benefit of the doubt?
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that I had become far too ready to judge and criticise.
Whether it was the woman in front of me in the supermarket who waited until she had packed her shopping into bags before taking her purse out, or the young waitress in the café who had to be told a simple order three times.
And she still brought orange juice for Freya instead of apple.
But really, what was wrong with people?
“I don’t mind, Granny,” Freya said to me as I endeavoured to catch the girl’s attention. “I like orange, too.”
My sour side was screaming, “But that’s not what we ordered!”, but my better self took a deep breath and told her to have a seat.
“That’s fine, then, Freya,” I said with forced calmness. “The waitress is maybe just having a busy day.”
“Yes,” Freya replied equably, “or maybe she’s just learning.”
I broke into a smile then.
This was the attitude I should be fostering in this little person I had care of three times a week.
I should be teaching her to look for the best in people, not the worst; to be kind, not harsh and impatient.
I would rise to the challenge and make sure I was a better role model.
Freya put her glass down and regarded me curiously, unaware of her new orange moustache.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Granny?”
I leaned over and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
“Because you’re a nice girl, Freya. And that’s a very good thing to be.”
She nodded.
“That’s good. Can I have ice-cream now?”
It was a funny thing.
During the days that followed, I made an effort to check uncharitable thoughts and unworthy outbursts
Not just when I was with Freya, but all the time.
Gradually, I noticed that the ratty, sour reactions were being replaced by gentler ones.
My first response was to give people the benefit of the doubt.
You never know what’s going on in people’s lives, after all. What does it hurt to cut them a bit of slack?
And as this slowly became my default, I realised I was calmer, less tense, less impatient.
It was very wearing to be outraged all the time.
I was happier.
As far as my interactions with Freya went, I had to say I had noticed no appreciable difference.
She skipped in every morning, happy as Larry, and danced out with a smile on her face at night.
Nothing in her behaviour gave me to understand that she was happier with her other granny than with me, so I tried to forget what I’d heard, though that was easier said than done.
A couple of months later, it was time for Freya to go home and she was rummaging in the drawer for a treat, as it was Friday.
“These are my favourite!” she exclaimed, clutching a little bag of jelly sweets.
“I love your big drawer, Granny!”
“Does Granny Alison not give you sweeties?” some unworthy part of me couldn’t help asking.
“Oh, yes, all the time. She gave me some jelly sweeties yesterday.”
Freya opened her eyes very wide.
“But honestly, Granny, they’re not as good as these, because…” she lowered her voice confidentially “… I like the sour ones best.”
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