A Grandson’s Request: An English Family Story “Gran, I’ve got a big favour to ask—I really need some money.” A lot of money. It was evening when Paul came to see her, and it was clear he was nervous. Normally, he’d pop round to see Mrs. Lily Thompson twice a week. If she needed anything from the shops or wanted help with the bins, he was always there. He’d fixed her old sofa once, too—good as new. He was always so calm and reliable. But now, he was on edge. Lily Thompson always worried—you never know what’s going on these days! “Paul, may I ask what you need the money for? And how much is ‘a lot’?” Lily tensed inwardly. Paul was her eldest grandson. A good and kind lad. He’d finished school last year, working now and studying part-time. His parents had never mentioned anything worrying about him. So why did he need so much money? “I can’t say right now, Gran, but I promise I’ll pay you back—in instalments, if that’s alright,” Paul hesitated. “You know I only have my pension to get by… How much do you need?” “Two thousand pounds.” “Why not ask your parents?” Lily asked, already knowing what Paul would say. Her son-in-law was strict and believed Paul should handle his own affairs for his age, and not get involved in things he shouldn’t. “They won’t help.” Was he in some kind of trouble? Would things get worse if she lent him the money? But if she refused, would Paul suffer more? Lily looked at him anxiously. “Gran, it’s nothing bad, honestly,” Paul picked up on her worry. “I promise to pay you back in three months. Don’t you trust me?” Maybe she should give him the money. Even if he couldn’t pay it back. There had to be someone he could rely on in the world. She did have emergency savings. Perhaps this was the emergency. Paul had come to her. No need to think about her funeral just yet—if it came to that, they’d take care of it. The living mattered most. She needed to trust her family. They say if you lend money, you should be prepared not to see it again. Young people are such a mystery these days. But Paul had never let her down. “Alright, I’ll lend you the money for three months as you asked. But would it be better for your parents to know?” “Gran, you know how much I love you. I always keep my promises. But if you can’t, I’ll try for a loan from the bank—I do have a job.” The next morning, Lily went to the bank, withdrew the money, and handed it to Paul. He beamed, kissed her, and said, “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best. I’ll pay you back—I promise.” And with that, he was off. Lily made herself a cup of tea and reflected. How many times in her life had she been desperate for money and found someone to help? Now everyone was out for themselves. Tough times, indeed. A week later, Paul came by in high spirits. “Gran, here’s the first payment—I got some money upfront. Could I bring someone with me when I visit tomorrow?” “Of course, pop in. I’ll bake your favourite poppy seed cake,” Lily smiled. Maybe she’d finally get to the bottom of this. She wanted to be sure Paul was alright. The next evening, Paul arrived with a slim, shy girl. “Gran, this is Ellie—my girlfriend. Ellie, this is my wonderful Gran, Mrs. Lily Thompson.” Ellie smiled sweetly. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you ever so much!” “Come in, dear, it’s lovely to meet you,” Lily breathed a sigh of relief—she liked her straight away. They all sat down for tea and cake. “Gran,” Paul began, “I couldn’t say before. Ellie was terribly worried—her mum had a sudden health crisis, and they had no one to help. Ellie’s quite superstitious and made me promise not to say anything. But it’s okay now—her mum had the operation and the prognosis is good,” he said, squeezing Ellie’s hand. “Thank you so much. You’re so kind. I’m ever so grateful,” Ellie said, dabbing at her eyes. “There now, it’s all over, Ellie,” Paul stood up. “Gran, we’d best be off—getting late.” “Goodnight, dears—look after one another,” Lily called, giving them her blessing as they left. Her grandson was growing up—a good lad. She’d been right to trust him. It wasn’t just about the money. It brought them closer. Two months later, Paul repaid every penny and told her, “You won’t believe it, Gran—the doctor said we’d made it just in time. If you hadn’t helped, things could have turned out badly. Thank you, Gran. I didn’t know what to do for Ellie, and now I know—there’ll always be someone to help in tough moments. I’d do anything for you. You’re simply the best!” Lily mussed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “Off you go, and bring Ellie to visit—I’ll be delighted.” “Of course,” Paul hugged her. As Lily closed the door behind them, she recalled something her own gran used to say: “Always help your own—here in England, that’s how it’s done. If you’re there for your family, they’ll stand by you, too. Never forget it.”

Author Walton MerrittReading 6 minViews 2

Grandsons Favour. A Diary Entry

It was late in the evening when my grandson knocked on the door. I could see right away he was unsettled, pacing nervously in the hallway. Normally, hed pop round a couple of times a week, help me with errands, carry out the rubbish, or patch up the old settee. Always dependable and calm, never asking for much. But tonight he looked anxious, biting his nails.

He sat down heavily, and after a moment, blurted, Gran, Ive got a favour to ask. I really need some money. Quite a bit, actually.

My mind raced. With the world being as unpredictable as it is these days, Ive always worried about my grandchildren falling in with the wrong crowd.

Edward, love, may I ask what exactly you need the money for? And how much is this quite a bit? I tried to keep my voice steady, but inside, I was uneasy.

Edward is my eldest. A good ladjust finished school last year, now working and studying part-time. His parents have never had cause to suspect him of anything untoward, so this request made me worry all the more.

I cant really tell you just yet, Gran, he said, a bit sheepish. But I promise Ill pay you back. Only, not all at once I can do it in instalments over a few months.

You know I live off my pension, I replied, torn, But how much are you talking about?

One thousand pounds.

I asked, mostly out of habit, Why not ask Mum and Dad? But I already knew the answer. My son-in-law, Edwards father, always insisted the boy learn to handle things himself, said it was character-building and wouldnt tolerate unnecessary handouts.

Theyd never give it to me, Edward answered, just as Id expected.

What if hed gotten himself into some trouble? If I gave him the money, could I be making things worse? On the other hand, if I didnt help, what would happen to him? I met his gaze, searching for a hint of mischief, but his eyes were sincere.

Gran, its nothing bad, honestly, he assured me, picking up on my concern. I swear Ill have it all paid back in three months. You trust me, dont you?

Perhaps I should help, I thought, even if it meant never seeing the money again. Everyone needs someone they can lean on; trust is important. And whats money for, if not for moments like this? Its not as though Ive got one foot in the grave, and even if I did, life is about caring for the living, not worrying about funerals. Young people these days can be hard to understand, but Edward has never let me down before.

All right, I said at last, Ill lend you the money. Three months, as you asked. But wouldnt it be better if your parents knew?

He shook his head, earnest as ever, Gran, I love you, and I always keep my word. But if you cant, Ill try to get a bank loanIve got a job, after all.

The next morning, I went to the bank, withdrew a thousand quid, and handed it to him that evening.

Edwards face lit up, and he kissed my cheek. Thank you, Gran. Youre the only one I can really count on. I promise, Ill pay it back. With that, he dashed off.

I sat with my tea afterward, thinking about all the times I could have done with a helping hand and someone had stepped up. Things have changed now, everyone seems to be out for themselves. Strange times, indeed.

A week later, Edward came by in high spirits, handing back the first payment. Gran, heres some of the moneyI got an advance at work. Mind if I bring someone with me tomorrow when I come round?

Of course not. Ill bake your favourite poppy seed cake, I smiled, a bit relieved. Maybe Id get to the bottom of all this.

Edward arrived the next evening, not alone. Beside him stood a slender young woman.

Gran, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is my lovely grandma, Lillian Thomas.

Sophie smiled nervously. Its lovely to meet you, Mrs Thomas. Thank you so much.

Come in, both of you, I said with a little sigh of relief. I liked her straight away.

We sat together with cake and tea. Edward finally opened up: Gran, I couldnt say before. Sophies mother became very ill quite suddenly and they had no one to turn to. Sophies a bit superstitious, didnt want me to say anything about it until things were certain. But now her mums had the operationshes going to be okay. He glanced tenderly at Sophie and squeezed her hand.

Thank you, Sophie said, tearing up. Youre so kind. I cant tell you how grateful we are.

Edward stood and fetched their coatsit was late, and time for Sophie to head home. No tears, Soph, its all over now. Gran, were off. Ill walk Sophie home.

Take care, dears. Goodnightand I hope everything continues to get better. I patted their shoulders as they left.

My grandson had grown into a fine man. I was right to trust him. It wasnt just about the money; its about being there for family. We felt closer than ever.

Edward kept his promise and paid me back in full within two months. Then, over tea one afternoon, he said, Gran, you know, the doctor said they caught the illness just in time. If you hadnt helped, it could have turned out terribly. Thank you, truly. I didnt know how to help Sophie, but you made me believe someone will always be there when it matters. Id do anything for you, youre the best!

I ruffled his hair as I used to when he was a lad. Go on, then. And do bring Sophie round, Id like that.

We will, Gran, Edward said, giving me a big hug.

As I closed the door behind them, I was reminded of my own grandma. She used to say, Always help your ownits the English way. If you face the world with an open heart, your family will never turn their backs on you. Dont forget that.

And as I wrote these words tonight, I realised she was right. No matter the times, kindness and trust keep a family strong. Thats a lesson worth remembering.

Key in Hand Rain drummed against the flat’s window in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down the time. Michael perched on the edge of a battered single bed, hunched over, as if trying to shrink himself from fate’s notice. His large, once-strong hands—hands that once managed heavy equipment—now lay powerless on his knees. His fingers would clench every so often, as if trying desperately to grasp something intangible. He did not simply stare at the wall; he studied the faded wallpaper as though it were a map of lost hope, tracing routes from the NHS GP to the private diagnostics clinic. His eyes were washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on a single frame. Yet another doctor. Yet another condescending, “Well, at your age, what do you expect, Mr Harris?” He wasn’t angry; anger took energy, which he lacked. Only exhaustion remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it had become his landscape, the background to every move and every thought, the white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He followed all the advice: took the tablets, applied the creams, endured physio on a cold NHS couch, feeling like a broken part on the scrapyard of life. And all the while, he waited. Passively, almost with religious faith, he waited for some life-raft—a government scheme, a miracle physician, a brilliant professor—to finally throw him that rescue rope, save him from this quicksand. He looked out at the horizon of his life and saw only grey rain through the pane. Where once his will had been sharp—solving any problem at the factory or at home—it had dissolved down to one daily task: endure, and hope for rescue. Family… once present, had faded away. Time slipped by too quickly. First his daughter—clever Katie—left for London and a brighter future. He couldn’t fault her; he wanted the best for her. “Dad, I’ll help, when I’m settled,” she promised by phone. Although, that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel was taken quickly—merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left not only with a ruined back, but with the silent reproach of still being here, half-walking, half-lying, while she, his rock, his spark, his Rachel, faded to nothing in three months. He nursed her as best he could, until her cough turned to a rattling, and the shine in her eye quietly vanished. The last words she spoke, gripping his hand: “Stay strong, Mike…” But he wasn’t strong. He broke, finally. Katie rang, suggesting he move in with her, try her startup life in her rented flat. But why would she need him underfoot, a burden in an unfamiliar home? She wasn’t coming back, either. Now it was only Rachel’s younger sister—Valerie—who visited, once a week, regular as clockwork. She brought soup in Tupperware, pasta, mince, and a new box of paracetamol. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, shaking off her coat. He’d nod: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as she tidied his bedsit, as if order in things might restore order to his life. Then she’d leave, trailing the scent of perfume and the quiet, physical feeling of someone repaying a debt. He was grateful. And so painfully alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell, built of helplessness, grief and a simmering anger at the unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his gaze drifted across the threadbare carpet and landed on his front-door key. He must have dropped it, struggling in from the clinic last time. Just a key—nothing special. A piece of metal. But he found himself staring, really seeing it, as if for the first time. It waited. He remembered his granddad—vividly, as though someone flicked a light on in a dark memory. Granddad Peter John, with his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and manage to tie his laces with one hand and a broken fork. Not rushing, carefully, with quiet triumph when he managed it. “Watch and learn, Mikey!” he’d say, eyes shining with victory over circumstance. “Tools are always at hand, lad. Sometimes they look like junk to everyone else. You just have to spot your ally in a pile of rubbish.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just an old man putting a brave face on things. Granddad was a hero—heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero; fighting bad luck and back pain left no room for clever tricks with cutlery. Yet now, looking at the key, the memory felt less like a fairy tale and more like a quiet rebuke. Granddad didn’t wait for help; he grabbed what was there. A broken fork—and won, not over pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, at the doorstep of other people’s goodwill. The thought made his heart race. Now, the key—this chunk of metal ringing with echoes of granddad’s words—was a wordless command. He stood, groaning, ashamed even though the room was empty. He shuffled over, pushed himself up, joints crackling. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten—his back screamed in protest. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the wave to pass. But instead of giving up, he tottered to the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key to the wallpaper at the point of pain in his back, applying slow pressure, body weight behind it. Not to fix it—but just to meet pain with pain, reality brushing up against reality. He found a spot where this rough negotiation brought a touch of dull relief, as if something inside finally eased open a fraction. He tried again, moving the key a little each time. Each motion slow, attentive, exploratory—a negotiation, not a cure. His tool was not a fancy medical gadget, but this battered key. He felt foolish. A key’s no miracle. But the next night he tried again. And the next. He mapped the spots where pressure brought not more pain, but odd relief, as though spreading apart the old, tight vise grip. Soon, he used the door-frame to gently stretch. A glass of water by the bed reminded him to drink—just drink. Free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a door-frame, the living-room floor for feather-light stretches, his own will. He started a notebook—not about pain, but “key victories.” “Stood at the stove five minutes longer today.” Three empty baked bean tins on the sill became his mini-allotment. Filled with soil from the communal garden, each sprouting a few onion sets. Not a real garden—just three tins of life, and a new responsibility. A month on, seeing new scans, the GP raised her eyebrows. “Some change, Mr Harris. Have you been doing anything?” “Yes,” Michael said, simply. “Making use of what’s to hand.” He didn’t mention his key. The doc wouldn’t get it. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t arrived on a rescue boat. It had lain on the floor, unremarkable, while he stared at the wall, still waiting for a light to be switched on. One Wednesday, Valerie paused on the doorstep. On the windowsill, in those tins, lush spring onions thrived. The flat smelled not of damp and medicated creams but something altogether fresher, hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him, upright by the window. “Garden,” he replied, simply. After a moment: “Fancy some for your soup? Homegrown.” That evening, she stayed for tea, and he—without complaints of his health—talked about the stairs in the block, how he now tackled one flight extra each day. No Dr. Dolittle arrived bearing a magic potion. Rescue hid itself in a key, a door-frame, an old tin, an ordinary flight of stairs. It couldn’t undo pain, loss, age. But it put tools back in his hands—not to win the whole war, just for small battles, each day. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden ladder from the sky and spot the ordinary concrete steps under your feet, you find that climbing—slowly, carefully, one step at a time—is life itself. And on the sill, in three battered tins, grew the greenest, proudest onions—his own, extraordinary, English garden.