Grandad
Its a summer evening. Im walking home after training, the sun just starting to dip behind the rows of terraced houses. Suddenly I notice an elderly gentleman lying on the pavement, clearly struggling to get up. Passers-by are hurriedly giving him a wide berth, glancing down at him with a mix of suspicion and disapproval. Some mutter under their breath, thinking he must be drunk. But hes reaching out, mumbling incoherently, his arms stretched toward anyone willing to stop.
Mum always taught me, from when I was little, to help people whenever I can. So I approach him and ask, Do you need a hand? He cant reply clearlyjust mumbles and reaches for me, desperation in his eyes.
A woman walking past shoots me a stern look and says, Leave him be, love. Cant you see hes drunk? Youll catch something, hes filthy! Dont get yourself covered in mess. As I look closer, I notice his hands are covered in blood. Suddenly, fear washes over me. I ask whats happened, but he just moans again, picking up a tatty carrier bag lying nearby. Inside, theres broken glassempty beer bottles smashed to pieces. He stoops to gather more shards and drops them in the bag. Thats why his hands are bleeding.
I use my pack of wet wipes, gently cleaning his hands as best I can before I help him upIll admit, I didnt fancy getting blood all over my clothes. Once his hands are tidied, I help him to stand. I ask his address, but he just mumbles unintelligibly again. Realising Im not understanding, he gestures with his hand to show me the way. I guide him across the street, towards a block of flats at the end. He points to the intercom, then holds up two fingers, then three. I take the hintit must be his flat number.
I buzz the flat, and a womans anxious voice answers. The old man mumbles something. Within moments, a man and a woman rush out of the building. They fuss over him, checking hes alright, then the man thanks me and carries him inside. The woman turns to me, insisting on giving me something as a thank you. I try to refuse, already backing away, but she suddenly remembers something and dashes back into the entrance.
Before I know it, shes returned holding a huge punnet of fresh raspberries. Grown in our own garden! she beams, pressing them into my hands despite my protest. Please, take them! We were panic-stricken when we got home from the allotment and realised Grandad was gone.
And then she tells me their story. Years ago, during the war, he was captured and held as a prisoner. To protect sensitive informationhe held a very important rolehe injured his own tongue, so he couldnt betray anyone if tortured. The conditions were so grim his wound became infected, and they had to amputate part of his tongue. Thats why he can barely speak, only making unintelligible sounds. Lately, local teenagers have taken to drinking beer and smashing bottles in the playground after dark. The family wrote to the police about it, but nothing much changed. Her own daughter, Lucy, once cut her foot badly on the glass. Since then, Grandad has taken it upon himself to clear away the broken bottles so no other children get hurteven though his legs are weak and he really shouldnt be on his own.
Theyve pleaded with him not to go out, even hiding the house keys, but he always manages to sneak out anyway. Once, he fell and lay on the cold ground for five hours until his family returned and found himno one stopped to help. Today, just as they were about to go searching, I rang the buzzer. She thanks me, eyes brimming with emotion.
After hearing her story, Im lost for words. She presses the raspberries into my hands, and I just nod, unable to speak. On my way home, halfway down the street, I start to cry. Why is it like this in our country? Why do we care so little for each other? I want to say something to everyone: if you see someone fall and cant get up, dont just assume the worst! For all you know, they might need your help. Especially to young peoplelets never forget, were HUMANS, not animals!
