Grandad and the Wobbly Gate

The garden at the end of Mill Lane had a green gate that always said creak.

Elsie stood beside it in her red trainers. Today Grandad was coming, and Elsie wanted to be the very first to open the gate for him. She had practised all morning.

"Nearly here," said Mum from the kitchen window.

Elsie took hold of the latch. It was stuck. She pulled and pulled. The gate would not budge.

"Come on, gate," she said.

She tried pushing instead. Push, push, push. Nothing. The gate stayed shut, and the latch stayed stuck.

Then she heard a click-clack on the path outside. Click-clack, click-clack. It was Grandad's walking stick.

"Elsie?" he called through the gate. "Is anybody home?"

"I'm here, Grandad! I can't open it!"

"Ah," said Grandad. "That gate and I are old friends. It likes a little wiggle."

Elsie looked closer. A long twig from the apple tree had grown through the bars and wrapped round the latch. She tugged the twig. It bent, but it would not break free. It was too springy.

Elsie thought for a moment. Then she saw something. The twig was bent in a big loop, like a skipping rope.

"If I bend it up," she said, "maybe it will slide out."

She lifted the twig high, over the top of the latch. Boing! It sprang free and bounced up and down, and a little shower of apple leaves fell on her head.

The latch lifted. The gate swung wide.

"Creeeak," said the gate.

There stood Grandad, holding a paper bag. A pear was poking out of the top. It was her favourite kind.

"You opened it all by yourself," said Grandad.

"The twig did the wiggling," said Elsie. "I just helped."

Grandad laughed. He gave her the bag, and Elsie took his warm hand in hers. Together they walked up the path, click-clack, click-clack, while behind them the gate swung softly shut and the apple twig went boing, boing, boing, and then was still.