Grandad’s Duties
Arthur Whitcombe had been a widower for half a year. The first sharp pain of loss had faded, retreating somewhere beneath his heart where it lodged like a stubborn shard of ice, thawing only at the most inconvenient moments. If a neighbour asked, “How are you holding up, Arthur?” his eyes would glisten before he could stop them.
“Used to be tougher,” he’d think to himself. “But then again, I never had to face a loss like this before.”
He’d lived in the same village since he was a lad. Retirement was supposed to mean time to spare, but after his wife passed, time seemed to grind to a halt, leaving Arthur at a loss. Nothing felt worthwhile anymore—except, perhaps, Sunday service at the chapel.
His daughter, Emily, had married and moved to the city, and his grandson, Oliver, was due to start school soon. That summer, Emily, her husband, Simon, and young Oliver came for a visit.
“Dad, we’ve brought you a project,” Emily announced, nudging Oliver forward. “He used to be a handful for Mum, but now it’s your turn—turn him into a proper little man, won’t you?”
Arthur arched an eyebrow. “And what’s his father doing, then?”
“Simon wouldn’t know a spanner if it hit him,” Emily laughed. “He’s more at home with an accordion than a hammer. We’re enrolling Oliver in music lessons this winter—might even land him in Simon’s class. But a boy needs balance. So, do your bit. I want him to take after you—practical, hardworking.”
Arthur cracked a grin and studied his grandson. “Right you are, Em. Fine, then. I’ll teach him everything I know. While I’ve still got the chance…”
“Stop that,” Emily cut in. “You’re sticking around for a good long while. But yes—help with Oliver.”
That very afternoon, Arthur took Oliver to his workshop. There, they surveyed the workbench, the tool-lined shelves, and set aside a corner just for the boy.
Arthur repurposed an old desk for Oliver, shortening the legs and topping it with a sheet of galvanised steel. The lad needed tools of his own—small hammers, child-sized screwdrivers, miniature pliers, a tiny saw. Arthur arranged them neatly on a shelf above Oliver’s bench, alongside tins of assorted nails, salvaged from the days when peppermints still came in metal boxes.
Oliver was captivated, trailing after his grandfather, pestering him with questions. Emily practically had to drag them in for lunch before they vanished back to their “man’s work.”
“There. Foundation’s laid,” Arthur declared by evening. “Knock off for today. Tomorrow, we’re up at dawn for fishing—so sort the gear out and early to bed.”
The summer days rolled by, bright and busy. Emily and Simon noticed Arthur standing taller, his eyes lively again.
“Honestly, Em,” Simon admitted when Arthur was out of earshot, “for a schoolteacher, you’ve played a blinder. Good for Oliver, and just what your dad needed.”
“Gets worse when they mope,” Emily murmured. “We’ll visit more often. Thank heavens Oliver’s taken to him. Some men only have the bottle for company—that’s no cure. But a grandson? Like sunshine.” She sighed and headed for the garden, just as her mother had done. The flowerbeds had to be kept right—no letting things fall apart.
Soon, Emily’s holiday ended, and she returned to the city, leaving Simon and Oliver with Arthur a while longer. But autumn came, and Oliver had to start Year One. For the occasion, Arthur was invited to town to see him off.
Proud as punch, Arthur—in a suit and tie he hadn’t worn in a decade—stood at the school gates, squeezing Oliver’s hand during assembly. As the national anthem played, Arthur straightened up, resolve steeling in his chest.
He vowed then not to let grief drag him under. He’d pour whatever time he had left into Oliver, into helping Emily…
Back home that evening, Arthur sat at the kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper. Like a schoolboy himself, he began jotting down plans for next summer’s visit: a play area, swing set, climbing frame, picnic table, sandpit. By the old oak, he’d rig up a rope swing, like the one he’d had as a lad. Oh, and the footbridge by the brook needed mending…
The list grew daily—longer, brighter. A second sheet appeared: “Accounts.” Timber, fixings, rope, paint, a lorry-load of sand—it all added up. So much to do! Get supplies in before winter, make the pieces in the workshop, then assemble everything when spring came…
Now Arthur rose early, scribbling daily to-do lists like the old days, ticking each task off with satisfaction.
Oliver visited often—half-terms, weekends, holidays. The house buzzed again: Emily mopped floors, baked pies, washed curtains, while Arthur, Simon, and Oliver tinkered, built, fired up the sauna, or trekked through snowy woods.
For Father’s Day, Emily kitted all three out in matching camouflage gear. The delight was boundless. Then, as Mother’s Day approached, Arthur prodded, “What’ll it be, love? Don’t hold back—we’ll sort you right.”
Simon nodded. “Only the best for our favourite girl.”
Emily smiled. “Only girl? Well… about that. There’ll be another Whitcombe soon. Don’t know which yet—but there’s a chance it’s a girl.”
Silence, then uproar. Embraces, laughter, Oliver bouncing as Arthur wiped his eyes. “Thank the Lord,” he rasped. “Your mum always wanted a granddaughter—though another lad’d be grand too…”
It took ages to calm down. Over tea, Arthur declared, “Right. No more moping. Double the grandchildren, double the work!”
“What if it’s another boy?” he teased. “Where’ll I get enough tools?”
Oliver piped up, “I’ll share mine, Grandad. Brothers do that.”
