The Treasure in the Garden: A Family Tale from Oakenshire
Margaret Whitmore had just finished tidying the house. It was time to set the table. Yesterday, she’d prepared a hearty vegetable soup—absolutely delicious! Suddenly, a loud shout echoed from outside. The woman nearly dropped her ladle, her heart skipping a beat from the surprise.
“Gran! Grandad! Come quick, I’ve found something!” called their grandson, Oliver, beckoning them both into the garden.
Margaret and Henry Whitmore hurried outside. “Look, Grandad!” Oliver held something in his hand, beaming with excitement. But what caught Margaret’s attention was something else entirely.
“Oliver, when did you manage to dig up the vegetable patch?” she gasped, staring at the neatly turned soil.
“I worked hard,” the boy replied proudly. “But look what I found!”
Henry glanced at the object in his grandson’s hand and froze, hardly believing his eyes.
Earlier that morning, Margaret had been on the phone with her daughter. Hanging up, she called out to her husband, “Henry, they’re bringing the boy to stay with us!”
Henry looked up from his laptop, where he’d been playing solitaire, and frowned. “Which one?”
They had three grandchildren. The eldest, William, was already twenty and had just graduated from college. Their granddaughter, Eleanor, had finished school and was preparing to study psychology at university. Her parents couldn’t stop praising her—driven, always buried in her books. She certainly wouldn’t be visiting.
“Which one do you think, Henry? Who’s the lazy one?” Margaret huffed. “We raised the older ones right when we had the energy for it. But young Oliver—he’s hopeless! Finished Year 6 with three Cs! And here you are playing cards—what sort of grandad are you?”
“What can I do? Every man’s the architect of his own fortune,” Henry grumbled, quoting his favourite saying.
“True, but not entirely. We’ll see what sort of architect he is when he gets here,” Margaret declared.
“You shouldn’t have agreed,” Henry muttered. “Spoilt, that one. Always glued to his phone. What’s he going to do here? Stare at the walls while you slave away in the kitchen? Boys his age eat like horses!”
With a sigh, Henry closed his laptop. “Might as well go dig your vegetable patch, then.”
“Oh, that vegetable patch!” Margaret laughed. “Three little rows for herbs and carrots. And why is it *my* patch? He’s *our* grandson, and the work should be shared!”
“I haven’t forgotten!” Henry scowled. “But you’ve forgotten what *you* were like at his age. His parents can’t manage him, and we’ve even less chance!”
“They’ve taken his phone, by the way,” Margaret added.
“Well, that’s just brilliant!” Henry grumbled, stomping out to the garden.
Margaret busied herself with lunch. Suddenly, the front door banged open—Henry had returned.
“Back so soon?” She startled, sweeping chopped vegetables into the simmering chicken broth.
“It’s pouring out there, Margaret! Look out the window!” Henry was clearly relieved to have an excuse not to dig in the rain. “We’ll buy what we need at the shop.”
“Like your mother used to say, ‘A little rain’s a lazy man’s blessing,’” Margaret smiled.
“Who’s lazy?” Henry bristled. “Calling *me* lazy now, are you?”
“Stop grumbling and fetch the spare blanket and pillow. Oliver will be here soon!”
“Better he stayed home with his parents,” Henry muttered all evening. “So much for peace in our old age. They’ve landed us with a right handful!”
The next morning, a car pulled up to their cottage in Oakenshire. Out stepped Oliver—sulky, arms crossed. He did force a smile when greeting his grandparents, but it vanished quickly. “What am I even supposed to do here?”
“Exactly! Nothing to do here—my thoughts precisely,” Henry muttered under his breath.
Oliver heard. “You’re not happy to see me, Grandad?”
“What’s to be happy about? You’ve a face like a wet weekend, and you’ll be nothing but trouble!”
“Mum, did you hear what Grandad said?” Oliver turned, but his mother, Elizabeth, cut him off.
“Dad, Mum, ignore him—he’s always grumbling. Age, you know. Right, I’m off. I’ll fetch Oliver later, and we’ll catch up. Mum, here’s his phone—give it if he gets unbearable. And don’t fret, he needs everything repeated a hundred times. Kids these days are odd,” she whispered before driving off.
“No one cares about us!” Henry grumbled. “Dumped the lad and dashed off.”
“They’re always like that, never have time,” Oliver sighed, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and trudging inside.
“Henry, maybe you could dig the patch today?” Margaret asked. “Or I’ll have nothing to plant.”
“Margaret, enough about that patch! My back’s killing me—you want me laid up? There’s no treasure buried there. Ask the boy—he’s young, full of energy!” Henry snapped.
“What treasure, Grandad?” Oliver popped his head out of the room.
“Thought you never listened?” Margaret teased. “Well, once, your grandad dug up an old box.”
“What was inside?”
“Curious, are you? I’ll show you later.”
“Gran, where should I dig? Might as well—nothing else to do,” Oliver offered suddenly.
“Go on, then. Spade’s in the shed. Three rows behind the house—take your pick,” Margaret nodded.
Oliver vanished like the wind.
“Off to hunt for treasure,” Margaret chuckled. “Should we plant something for him to find?”
“Got nothing better to do! He’ll dig twice and give up. Lazy, that one!” Henry waved her off.
“Oh, listen to you,” Margaret rolled her eyes.
Oliver toiled in the garden for over an hour. Insulted at being called lazy, Henry retreated to the shed to sort tools. Margaret finished cleaning and started lunch. Yesterday’s soup smelled divine.
Then Elizabeth called: “Mum, forgot to mention—Oliver’s turned fussy. Won’t touch soup, lives on pizza and sandwiches. I’ve brought supplies—don’t wear yourself out!”
“Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll manage,” Margaret reassured her.
No sooner had she hung up than a shout came from outside:
“Gran! Grandad! I’ve found something—come quick!”
“Did Henry actually plant something?” Margaret wondered. But seeing Henry’s baffled face, she doubted it. They rushed out.
“Grandad, look!” Oliver held something up, eyes shining.
But Margaret gasped at something else: “Oliver, you’ve dug up the whole patch! Henry, look how strong our grandson is—not everyone could do that!”
Oliver glowed under the praise. “I tried, Gran. Grandad’s back hurts. But look what I found! It’s practically treasure!”
Henry rubbed his eyes. “Wait—that’s my wallet! Went missing last year! Blimey, Oliver, what a lad! Dug the patch *and* found my loss! All because of your gran—‘Go to the shop, dig the garden.’ Next thing I know, my wallet’s gone—half my pension in there! Good on you, son!”
At lunch, to everyone’s surprise, Oliver devoured the soup and even asked for seconds. Hard work builds an appetite! Afterward, he joined Henry in the shed to sort tools.
“This box here—that’s what your gran and I found,” Henry showed him. “Old coins and letters inside.”
“Wow, Grandad!” Oliver stared in awe.
They tidied the shed together, even uncovering William’s old bicycle—rusty but salvageable. And when the neighbours’ grandson, Thomas—Oliver’s childhood friend—arrived, life became a whirlwind. Now, it was hard to drag Oliver indoors unless there was work to be done.
Turns out, Oliver *loved* helping—and praise spurred him on. “Mum and Dad never have time—they just shoo me away. But it’s brilliant here! Can I stay longer?” he asked when it was time to leave.
“Of course!” Henry boomed. “With a grandson like you, my back doesn’t hurt at all! Who called you lazy? You’re a fine lad—reminds me of myself!”
When Elizabeth returned, she marvelled, “Mum, he’s grown up so much! What on earth did you do?”
“Nothing special,” Margaret smiled. “Just treated him right. Shared the work. And—oddly—he barely touched his phone. There it is on the sideboard. You’ve been unfair to him.”
Now, Oliver visits at every chance. With his grandparents, he’s *needed*—no brushed-off questions, no empty nods. Even Henry admits, with a helper like Oliver, nothing troubles him. After all, everyone wants to feelAnd so, beneath the summer sun of Oakenshire, Oliver’s laughter mingled with the rustling leaves, a quiet promise that the greatest treasures are not buried in the earth but found in the shared moments of an ordinary day.
