“She won’t fall, you daft ‘un,” my grandma always answered him and would allow me to carry the empty bucket down the moss-lined garden path.
But at the well she always took that bucket from me and did something with it inside the cover.
“Right you go, now,” she’d say, “wind her down.” And I would turn the handle, standing on tiptoes when it reached the top and putting my weight on it to bring it back down.
There’d be a splash as the bucket hit water. And that’s when grandma took over. Winding her up would be too hard a task for me.
The year I was seven – in the May – that task proved too much for her too. Rest In Peace, Grandma.