**Grandfather’s Concerns**
John Whitaker had been a widower for six months. The sharp, burning grief had faded, tucked itself beneath his heart like a shard of ice that only melted at the most inconvenient times. Whenever a neighbour asked, “How are you managing on your own now, John?” his eyes would glisten with pain.
“I’ve grown weak—never used to be like this,” he’d think to himself, then answer inwardly: “But then, I never had such sorrow before.”
He’d lived in the village since his youth. After retiring, he’d imagined he’d finally have time to spare. Yet since losing his wife, time seemed to stand still, and John didn’t know what to do with himself. Nothing held meaning—except perhaps the quiet prayers in the chapel.
His daughter, Margaret, had married and moved to London. Her son, little Tommy, was due to start school soon. At the beginning of summer, Margaret, her husband Edward, and Tommy came to visit.
“Dad,” Margaret began, nodding toward Tommy, “we’ve brought you your new charge. He was just a baby when Mum looked after him, but now it’s your turn—time to make a proper man of him.”
“And Edward won’t do it?” John asked.
“Edward’s never held a hammer in his life. You know—he’s all about music. The accordion’s his world. We’re enrolling Tommy in music school this winter—might even get into his father’s class,” Margaret explained. “But upbringing should be well-rounded. So, help us out. I want my boy to take after you—a craftsman, a hard worker.”
John chuckled and looked at his grandson.
“Right you are, Maggie. Fine then. I’ll teach him all I know. While I still can…”
“Stop that, Dad,” Margaret cut in. “We’ll live long and happy. But with Tommy—just lend a hand.”
That very day, grandfather took grandson to his workshop. Inside, they surveyed the workbench, the shelves of tools, and began setting up Tommy’s own little corner.
John repurposed an old desk for the boy, sawing the legs shorter and covering the top with a sheet of galvanised iron. A child-sized workbench needed child-sized tools—small hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, a tiny saw, and pincers. In round metal tins from peppermints saved since John’s own youth, he stored nails of various sizes.
Tommy was spellbound, trailing his grandfather, asking endless questions. Margaret barely got them in for supper before they disappeared again into their “men’s work.”
“There we are. A good start,” John said by evening. “Enough for today—tomorrow we’ll go fishing. Best sort the tackle now and get an early night.”
Summer passed in happy days. Margaret and Edward noticed the change in John—his posture straightened, his eyes brightened.
“Well, Maggie,” Edward murmured privately, “for a schoolteacher, you’ve managed it. Good for the boy—and good for your father too.”
“Everyone needs attention—young or old,” Margaret replied softly. “We can’t let him fade. We’ll visit more often. Thank goodness Tommy’s here. Another man might just turn to the bottle—but this? A grandson like sunshine. I always knew my father was wise…”
She sighed and went to tend the garden, just as her mother had. It had to be kept neat, just as before, so John wouldn’t feel everything had crumbled with her passing.
Soon, Margaret’s holiday ended. She returned to London, but Edward and Tommy stayed on, helping John with everything.
Then autumn came, and Tommy was to start Year One. For the occasion, John was invited to the city—to see his grandson off to school. Proudly, in a suit and tie he hadn’t worn in ten years, John held Tommy’s hand at the school gates, standing tall during the anthem, gripping the boy’s fingers tightly.
In that moment, John vowed not to falter—to devote himself to raising Tommy, to supporting Margaret.
Back in his cottage that evening, he sat at the table and laid out a blank sheet of paper. Like a schoolboy himself, he picked up a pen and began listing plans for next summer—Tommy’s return.
The list grew daily: building a play area, swings, a pull-up bar, benches, a sandpit. By the old oak near the lane, he’d hang a rope swing, remembering his own childhood. The riverbank footbridge needed mending too.
A second sheet appeared—accounts. Timber, fixings, rope, paint, sand deliveries. So much to do! He had to gather supplies before winter, make templates in the workshop, ready for spring.
Now John rose early, scribbling daily tasks on scraps of paper, determined to finish them.
Tommy visited often—holidays, weekends, school breaks. The house came alive. Margaret scrubbed floors, baked pies, washed curtains. Meanwhile, John, Edward, and Tommy tinkered—fixing things, building, firing up the sauna, skiing through the woods.
On Father’s Day, Margaret gave all three men camouflage jackets. What joy! Then came Mother’s Day.
“What would you like, love?” John pressed.
“Don’t hold back—we’ll get you anything,” Edward added. “Our one and only.”
“One and only?” Margaret smiled. “Well, here’s your surprise. Our family’s growing, my dears. Don’t know who yet—but quite possibly a girl.”
A stunned silence; then cheers. Kisses, hugs. Edward spun Margaret around. Tommy bounced beside his grandfather, who wiped his eyes.
“Thank the Lord,” John murmured. “What happiness… My wife always wanted a granddaughter. Another grandson would be grand too…”
It took ages for the excitement to settle. Over tea, John declared he’d no time for moping—soon he’d have twice the work, with two grandchildren to raise.
“What if it’s another lad?” he laughed. “Where’ll I find tools enough?”
Tommy piped up: “I’ll share mine, Grandad. Enough for two. Brothers do that.”
