Grandfather’s Concerns
Edward Whitmore had been a widower for half a year. The first sharp sting of grief had faded, retreating somewhere beneath his heart and lodging there like a shard of ice, thawing only at the most inconvenient moments. If a neighbour asked in passing, “How are you managing alone, Edward?” the old man’s eyes would glisten with unshed tears.
“I’ve grown weak—never used to be like this,” he’d think to himself, then answer silently, “But then, I never had such sorrow before…”
He had lived in the village since his youth. Retirement had promised free time in abundance, but after losing his wife, time seemed to stand still, and Edward found himself at a loss. Nothing held meaning anymore… except perhaps the quiet prayers in the church.
His daughter, Eleanor, had married and moved to the city, while his grandson, Oliver, was nearing school age. At the start of summer, Eleanor and her husband, Thomas, brought the boy to the countryside.
“Dad, we’ve brought you a project,” Eleanor began, nodding at Oliver. “He was just a little one when Mum looked after him, but now it’s your turn—time to make a proper lad of him.”
“Can’t his father manage that?” Edward asked.
“Thomas wouldn’t know one end of a hammer from the other. You know how he is—music’s his trade. The accordion’s his life. We’ll have Oliver in music classes by winter, maybe even studying under his father.” She sighed. “But a boy needs balance. So, do your part. I want my son to take after you—practical, hardworking.”
Edward chuckled and studied the boy.
“Right you are, Ellie. Very well. I’ll teach him all I know. While I still can…”
“None of that,” Eleanor cut in. “We’ll have many long years together. Just help with Oliver, that’s all.”
That same day, Edward led the boy to his workshop. Together, they surveyed the workbench, the shelves of tools, and set about arranging Oliver’s own corner.
For his grandson, Edward repurposed an old writing desk, sawing down the legs and covering the top with galvanised sheet metal. The boy needed tools of his own—small ones, sized for a child’s hands.
Hanging a shelf above Oliver’s bench, Edward arranged tiny hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, a miniature saw, and a pair of pincers. In round metal tins—relics from his own youth, once filled with barley sugars—he sorted nails of every size.
Oliver was enchanted, sticking close to his grandfather, asking endless questions. Eleanor could barely drag them in for lunch before they returned to their “men’s work.”
“There—a good start,” Edward said by evening. “Enough for today. Tomorrow, we’ll go fishing, so let’s ready the gear and turn in early.”
The summer passed in happy toil. Eleanor and Thomas noticed Edward standing taller, his eyes bright again.
“Who’d have thought, Ellie?” Thomas murmured privately. “You, a schoolteacher, have given your father new life—and your son a fine example.”
“Everyone needs tending—young and old alike,” Eleanor replied softly. “We can’t let him waste away. We’ll visit often. Thank heaven Oliver’s been such a light for him. Some men only turn to the bottle for comfort, but this—this is medicine. My father’s a wise man. I’ve always known it.”
She sighed and went to tend the garden, just as her mother had. The rows must be kept straight, the hedges trimmed—so Edward would never feel all had been lost with her passing.
Soon, Eleanor’s holiday ended, and she returned to the city, leaving Thomas and Oliver with Edward a while longer.
But autumn came, and Oliver was due to start school. For the occasion, Edward was invited to town to see him off. Dressed in a suit and tie he hadn’t worn in a decade, Edward stood proudly at the boy’s side during the assembly, gripping his hand as the national anthem played.
In that moment, Edward vowed never to falter—to pour all his remaining years into raising the boy, supporting his daughter…
Back home that evening, he sat at the table with a blank sheet before him. Like a schoolboy himself, he took up a pen and began listing plans for the next summer’s visit.
The tasks multiplied: building a play area, swings, a climbing bar, benches, a sandpit. He resolved to hang a rope swing from the old oak by the lane, as in his own childhood. The footbridge by the stream needed mending, too.
Each day, the list grew longer. A second sheet appeared—his “accounts”—tracking the cost of timber, fittings, rope, paint, and sand. So much to do! He must fetch materials before winter’s snows, and by spring, the work would begin in earnest.
Now Edward rose early, jotting daily plans on scraps of paper, determined to see them through.
Oliver visited often—holidays, weekends, every break. The house came alive again: Eleanor scrubbed floors, baked pies, hung fresh curtains, while Edward, Thomas, and Oliver hammered away at new projects, stoked the sauna, or skied through the woods.
On Father’s Day, Eleanor presented all three with matching camouflage gear—such laughter! Then came Mother’s Day.
“What would you like, love?” Edward asked.
“Don’t hold back—we’ll manage anything,” Thomas added. “You’re our only—and favourite.”
“Only?” Eleanor smiled. “Well then, a surprise… There’ll be another Whitmore soon. Don’t know who yet—but quite possibly a girl.”
A stunned silence gave way to cheers. They kissed her, hugged her. Thomas spun his wife about, while Oliver hopped around his tearful grandfather.
“Lord be praised,” Edward whispered. “Such joy… Your mother always wished for a granddaughter. Though another lad would be grand, too…”
It took some time to settle down. Over tea, Edward announced that, for this, he’d no longer mope or ail—with two grandchildren to raise, he’d work twice as hard.
“What if it’s another boy?” he jested. “Where’ll I find tools enough?”
Oliver piped up: “I’ll share mine, Grandad. There’s plenty for two. Brothers do that.”
