Mrs. Rattigan who lived at 14 November Street was one of Ed the Postman’s favourites. He had tea with her on Fridays.
Mrs. Rattigan was in her early eighties and lived alone in a classic, but ramshackle Victorian terraced house.
What broke Ed’s heart was the garden which was completely overgrown.
“I can’t do it any more, dearie,” she would say cheerfully. “My back’s gone and, anyway, the lawnmower doesn’t work.”
As often happens, the answer presented itself.
“My son’s coming to stay this weekend,” she proudly told Ed one Friday.
“Your son? I didn’t know you had a son.”
“I haven’t seen him for years,” she confided.
That Friday night, after the pub, Ed and his girlfriend Sam walked past the house.
The guest bedroom window was open.
“That’s the lovely Mrs. Rattigan that lives there!” announced Ed to the world at large.
“All on her own?” chimed in Sam.
“Yes, it’s so sad because she has the most beautiful garden.”
“Why is that sad?” said Sam, trying hard not to laugh.
“Because she can’t look after it anymore and it is all overgrown.”
“That’s such a pity!”
“It is because I know she loves it. If only there was someone who could help her.”
The next week, Ed called round for tea.
“You’ll never believe what happened, dearie,” Mrs. Rattigan exclaimed. “Come and look!”
The garden was now immaculate.
“My wonderful son,” she said, “he’s coming back next weekend to put in some more plants.”
*
“Mrs. Rattigan is just like my granny.”
“I can’t even contemplate what it must be like to grow old. I get crotchety even when I have a cold. Imagine how grumpy I’m going to be when I am older.”
“It would be nice to have someone to look after you when you get old.”
“Well, I’m going to look after you when you get old.”
“We’ll go off on cruises every year and chase after rich old grandpas.”
“They don’t have to be rich, just as long as we don’t kill them.”