Early spring drifted over the narrow lane behind the terraced houses on the outskirts of Manchester, where little Blythe, a fouryearold with a tumbledryer’s mop of curls, stood peering at the new figure that had appeared in the garden like a misplaced statue. He was a silverhaired pensioner perched on a bench, his cane clutched in one hand as if it were a wand from a fairy tale.
Grandpa, are you a wizard? she asked, eyes wide.
He shook his head, and Blythes smile faltered.
Then why do you have a staff? she pressed on.
It helps me walk, makes the steps lighter, the old man replied, introducing himself as George Whitaker.
So youre very old, then? Blythe pressed, curiosity bubbling.
In your eyes perhaps, but to me Im just not quite ancient. My leg is sore after a clumsy tumble, so Im leaning on this stick for now, George said, his voice a soft rustle.
At that moment Margaret Clarke, Blythes grandmother, appeared, took the girls hand, and led her toward the park. Margaret greeted the newcomer with a warm smile; the man returned it, but the real connection seemed to sprout between George and Blythe. Each morning, before the neighbours kettle sang, Blythe slipped out of the house a little early, the courtyard still hazy, and reported every morsel of news to her senior companion: the weathers mood, what Margaret had simmered for lunch, and the little ache her playmate had suffered the week before.
George never failed to slip a chocolate sweet into Blythes tiny palm. She would thank him, unwrap the treat, bite exactly half, then fold the other half back into its foil and tuck it into the pocket of her knitted coat.
Why not eat the whole thing? Not to your liking? George asked, eyebrows raised.
Its delicious, but I must share it with my grandmother, Blythe replied.
Touched, George offered two sweets the next day. Blythe still took just a half, hiding the rest.
And now who will you save it for? George wondered, marveling at her thrift.
Maybe Mum and Dad. They can buy their own treats, but they love a surprise, she explained, her eyes bright.
Ah, a tightknit family then, George mused. Youre lucky, little one, and you have a kind heart.
And my grandmother too, because she loves everyone, Blythe began, but Margaret was already stepping out of the hallway, hand outstretched for her granddaughter.
Thank you for the sweets, George, but we shouldnt have too much sugar, Margaret said gently. Please, excuse us.
What else can I bring you? George asked, a note of concern in his voice.
Everything we need at home, dear. No need, really, Margaret smiled.
No, I must. I want to treat you. Im trying to be a good neighbour, after all, George replied, his eyes twinkling.
Then lets switch to nuts. Well eat them only at home, with clean hands. Agreed? Margaret suggested, turning to both.
Blythe and George nodded, and the next time Margaret rummaged through her granddaughters coat, she found a handful of walnuts and hazelnuts.
Oh, my little squirrel, carrying nuts, she chuckled. You know, nuts are a precious treat these days, and old George needs his medicine, you see, hes a bit lurchy.
Hes not really old or lurchy. His leg is getting better, Blythe defended, and he wants to ski again by winter.
Skiing? At his age? Margaret raised an eyebrow, then softened. Well, good on him.
Can we get me some skis, please? Blythe begged, eyes sparkling. Ill ski with George, and hell teach me.
Margaret, strolling through the park with Blythe, soon saw George strolling down the lane, cane abandoned, steps steadier than before.
Grandpa, Ill run with you! Blythe called, matching his pace with an energetic trot.
Wait for us, then, Margaret hurried after them.
The three began to walk together, and Margaret found the rhythm delightful; for Blythe it became a game. She could dash, twirl, and dance on the path, hop onto a bench to greet Margaret and George, then resume her march, shouting:
One, two, three, four! Stronger steps, look ahead!
After their walk, Margaret and George settled on the garden bench while Blythe played with friends, always receiving a few more nuts from George before they said goodbye.
Youre spoiling her, Margaret whispered. Lets keep the tradition for holidays only, please.
George confided that he had been a widower for five years and had recently swapped his threebedroom flat for a onebedroom and a twobedroom for his sons family.
Im not much for crowds, but neighbours are a comfort, especially when the garden fences need mending, he said.
Two days later, there was a knock at Georges door. Blythe and Margaret stood there with a tray of steaming apple pies.
Wed like to treat you, Margaret announced.
Do you have a teapot? Blythe asked.
Of course, dearheres the joy! George flung open the door.
The kettle whistled, the tea warmed everyone, and Blythe examined Georges modest library and his collection of landscape prints, while Margaret watched her granddaughters eyes sparkle at each picture George explained with patient reverence.
My grandkids are off at university now, George sighed. I miss them.
And your grandmother is still spry! Margaret replied, nudging Blythes chin toward a sketchpad and pencil shed handed her.
Ive only been retired two years, and theres no time for boredom, Margaret said, glancing at her own daughter who was expecting another baby. Lucky we live in adjoining flats. Its like one big family.
All summer the three neighbours kept company; by winter Margaret, true to her word, bought a pair of junior skis for Blythe. The trio practiced on the parks freshly groomed trail, its snow a soft blanket under their boots.
George and Margaret grew so close they walked together every day, and Blythe, who never attended nursery, spent most of her hours with Margaret. Their routine was unbroken until George received a call to visit relatives in London.
Blythe missed him terribly, pestering Margaret for news of his return.
Hes gone for a while, said hed be away a month, Margaret explained. Were looking after his flat while hes away, as friends do. Margaret and Blythe both missed his cheerful presence. He used to tighten a socket here, replace a blown bulb there, small acts of neighbourly love.
A week passed and the empty bench where George usually waited seemed a silent invitation. On the eighth day, Margaret hurried out of the building, expecting her granddaughter, and there was George, standing exactly where he had always been.
Hello, dear neighbour, Margaret exclaimed, surprised. I thought youd be staying longer.
Oh, the citys clamor got me, George shrugged. Everyones busy. Why wait alone till evening? I missed you both, felt like you were family now.
What did you give your grandchildren? Sweets? Blythe asked.
Not sweets, dear. Theyre grown now, need money for their studies, George admitted. A little cash helps their brains grow.
Glad youre back, as fresh as a spring breeze, Margaret smiled.
Blythe threw her arms around George, a tender squeeze that seemed to melt the lingering chill.
We have plenty of pancakes today, with all sorts of fillings. Not worse than pies, soft and light. Come have tea, and tell us about London, Margaret invited.
London? A splendid city, all bright. Ive brought you gifts, youll see George said, taking Margarets arm and Blythes hand as the first spring rain began to patter, an early thaw breaking the nights frost.
Why is it so warm today? George wondered, looking at Margaret.
Because spring is near! Blythe chirped. Soon will be Mothers Day, and Grandma will set a feast and invite guests, you too, Granddad.
Oh, how I love you, my dear neighbours, George replied, climbing the stairs.
After pancakes, presents were exchanged: Blythe received a bright wooden nesting doll, and Margaret a silver brooch. The trio stepped back onto the familiar winding path through the park, now dusted with grey snow that soaked like a sponge, leaving the tracks bare. Blythe leapt across the drying tiles, delighted by the gentle warmth.
Grandma, Granddad, catch me! One, two, three, four! Stronger steps, look ahead!
