Grandad’s New Purpose
Albert Whitfield had been a widower for six months. The raw, jagged grief had dulled, retreating somewhere deep behind his ribs, only to resurface at the most inconvenient moments—like when a well-meaning neighbour would ask, “How’s life treating you, Albert?” and his eyes would glisten before he could stop them.
“Getting soft in my old age,” he’d grumble to himself. “Never used to be like this.” Then, just as quickly, he’d counter, “Well, never had a loss like this before, either.”
He’d lived in the village most of his life. Retirement was supposed to mean time to spare, but after losing his wife, time had stretched out, aimless and heavy. Nothing held meaning anymore… except, perhaps, the quiet solace of Sunday service.
His daughter, Emily, had married and moved to London. His grandson, little Oliver, was due to start school soon. That summer, Emily, her husband Colin, and Oliver came to stay.
“Dad,” Emily announced, thrusting Oliver forward like a surprise parcel, “consider this your new project. Mum used to spoil him rotten, but now it’s your turn—time to make a proper little man of him.”
“Colin not up to the task, then?” Albert raised an eyebrow.
“Colin? Bless him, he wouldn’t know a spanner from a spoon. He’s all about his guitar—music’s his thing. We’ll get Oliver into lessons soon enough. But a boy needs balance. So, you’re up. I want him to take after you—practical, hardworking, you know.”
Albert chuckled and eyed Oliver. “Alright, love. Suppose I’ve got a few tricks left. While I’m still kicking, anyway.”
“Stop that,” Emily scolded. “You’re sticking around for years yet. Just… help with Ollie, yeah?”
That very afternoon, Albert led Oliver to his shed. They surveyed the workbench, the neatly hung tools, and set about carving out a corner just for the boy.
Albert repurposed an old desk, sawing down the legs and covering the top with sheet metal. Oliver needed smaller tools, too—mini hammers, pint-sized pliers, a saw fit for tiny hands. In ancient sweet tins (relics from Albert’s own childhood), he sorted nails by size.
Oliver was mesmerised, dogging Albert’s every step, peppering him with questions. Emily practically had to drag them in for lunch before they hurried back to their “man’s work.”
“Right then,” Albert declared by evening. “That’s a start. Early rise tomorrow—fishing trip. So, tackle to sort, and an early night.”
Summer rolled on, golden and bright. Emily and Colin noticed the change in Albert—his posture straighter, his eyes alive again.
“Who’d have thought?” Colin murmured to Emily when Albert was out of earshot. “Our little teacher’s pet here—saving her dad with a seven-year-old and a toolbox.”
“Everyone needs purpose,” Emily said softly. “Big or small. We’ll visit more often. Thank goodness for Ollie—better than the bottle, eh? Sunshine in human form. Always knew my dad was clever, deep down.”
She sighed and headed to the garden, just like her mother used to. The flower beds had to be perfect—proof that not everything had crumbled when Mum left.
Soon, Emily’s holiday ended. Back to London she went, while Colin and Oliver stayed on, helping Albert with odd jobs.
Autumn arrived, and with it, Oliver’s first day of school. Albert was invited to the city for the occasion. Dressed in a suit and tie (dusty from a decade of neglect), he stood proudly at the school gates, squeezing Oliver’s hand during the anthem. In that moment, Albert vowed to keep going—to pour what he had left into his grandson.
Back home that evening, Albert sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand like a schoolboy himself. He began a list: a swing set, a climbing frame, a sandpit. He’d even rig up a rope swing on the old oak by the lane, just like his own childhood. The footbridge by the stream needed mending, too.
The list grew daily. A second sheet tracked expenses—timber, screws, paint, sand. So much to do! Winter would bring snow; best stock up now.
Albert woke early, scribbling daily tasks on scraps of paper, determined to tick them off. Oliver visited often—weekends, holidays, every break. The house buzzed again. Emily baked pies, aired curtains. Albert, Colin, and Oliver tinkered, built, chopped firewood, skied in the woods.
On Colin’s birthday, Emily surprised them all with matching camouflage jackets. Laughter filled the house. Then, as Mother’s Day neared:
“What’d you like, love?” Albert asked.
“Go on, treat yourself,” Colin added. “Our one and only.”
“One and only?” Emily grinned. “Well… about that. There’ll be another Whitfield soon. Not sure who yet, but… might be a girl.”
Silence. Then—chaos. Cheers, hugs, Colin spinning Emily around. Oliver bounced by Albert’s side as the old man wiped his eyes.
“Thank the Lord,” Albert breathed. “Your mum always wanted a granddaughter. Though another lad wouldn’t go amiss either…”
Over tea, Albert declared his retirement from moping. “Double the grandkids, double the work! Where am I supposed to find enough tools for two?”
Oliver piped up, “I’ll share mine, Grandad. Brothers have to share, don’t they?”
