The Treasure in the Garden: A Family Drama in Greenborough
Evelyn Hawthorne had just finished tidying the house. It was time to set the table. Yesterday, she’d made a hearty vegetable soup—good enough to make your mouth water! Suddenly, a loud shout came from outside. Her heart skipped a beat, and she nearly dropped the ladle.
“Gran! Grandad! Come quick, I found something!” called their grandson, Oliver.
Evelyn and Arthur hurried into the garden.
“Look, Grandad!” Oliver was beaming, clutching something in his hand.
But Evelyn was struck by something else entirely.
“Oliver, love—when did you dig up the vegetable patch?” she gasped, staring at the neatly turned soil.
“Wanted to help,” he said proudly. “But look what I found!”
Arthur glanced at the object in the boy’s hand and froze, disbelief washing over him.
—
Earlier that morning, Evelyn had been on the phone with her daughter. Hanging up, she called out to her husband:
“Arthur, Oliver’s coming to stay!”
Arthur looked up from his laptop, where he’d been playing solitaire, and frowned.
“Which Oliver?”
They had three grandchildren. The eldest, William, was twenty and had just finished college. Their granddaughter, Sophie, had graduated secondary school and was preparing to study psychology. Her parents couldn’t stop praising her—determined, always buried in books. She wouldn’t be the one visiting.
“How dense can you be?” Evelyn huffed. “Who’s the lazy one? The one who barely scraped through Year 6 with three Cs? Shameful! And here you are, playing cards—what kind of grandfather are you?”
“Every man’s the architect of his own fortune!” Arthur muttered, repeating his favourite saying.
“That may be, but we’ll see what kind of fortune Oliver makes when he gets here,” Evelyn declared.
“You shouldn’t have agreed,” Arthur grumbled. “The boy’s spoiled, always glued to his phone. What’s he going to do here? Stare at the ceiling while you wait on him? Kids his age eat like horses!”
With a sigh, Arthur shut his laptop.
“Might as well dig your vegetable patch, then.”
“Oh, don’t fuss over that! Few rows for herbs and carrots—hardly a farm. And he’s your grandson too, or have you forgotten?”
“Haven’t forgotten a thing,” Arthur grunted. “Just remember what you were like at his age. His own parents can’t handle him—what chance do we have?”
“They took his phone, by the way,” Evelyn added.
“Oh, brilliant,” Arthur muttered, stomping outside.
Evelyn set about making lunch when the front door flew open—Arthur was back.
“You’re early?” She startled, scraping chopped vegetables into the simmering chicken broth.
“Bucketing down out there, Evelyn! Look for yourself!” Arthur was far too pleased about his aching back being a convenient excuse not to dig in the rain. “Got everything from the shops anyway.”
“Like your mother used to say: ‘Rain’s a lazy man’s blessing,'” Evelyn chuckled.
“Who’s calling who lazy?” Arthur bristled.
“Honestly, Arthur, stop sulking. Fetch a blanket and pillow from the cupboard—Oliver’ll be here soon!”
—
“Could’ve just stayed home,” Arthur groused all evening. “Peace and quiet gone, dumped on us in our old age. We’ve done our time!”
The next morning, a car pulled up outside their cottage in Greenborough. Out stepped Oliver—glowering, arms crossed. He looked up, mustering a half-smile for his grandparents before scowling again.
“What am I even supposed to do here?”
“Exactly my thoughts,” Arthur muttered under his breath.
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You not happy to see me, Grandad?”
“Happy? Look at you, face like a wet weekend. Nothing but trouble!”
“Mum, you hearing this?” Oliver turned, but his mother, Charlotte, cut in:
“Mum, Dad, don’t mind him—he just grumbles, it’s his age. Right, I’m off. Fetch Oliver later, we’ll catch up then. Mum—here’s his phone, give it if he’s unbearable. Don’t stress—everything’s like pulling teeth with this lot.” With a quick kiss, she was gone.
“Not wanted, are we?” Arthur spat. “Dumped the boy and bolted.”
“Always in a rush, never got time,” Oliver sighed, tossing his backpack over his shoulder as they trudged inside.
“Arthur, any chance you’ll dig that patch today?” Evelyn pressed. “Or I’ll never get anything planted.”
“Evelyn, for pity’s sake—my back’s killing me! Want me bedridden? Not finding another treasure out there. Get the boy to do it—he’s young, got energy to burn!”
“Treasure, Grandad?” Oliver’s head popped around the door.
“Thought you never listened?” Evelyn teased. “Oh, years ago—your grandad found an old box digging the garden.”
“What was in it?”
“Curious, are you? I’ll show you later.”
“Gran, where’s the patch? Nowhere to go anyway—might as well help,” Oliver offered.
“Spade’s in the shed, three rows behind the house. Any’ll do.”
Oliver vanished in a flash.
“Off treasure-hunting,” Evelyn mused. “Should we plant something for him to find?”
“Get real. Two digs, he’ll quit. Laziest boy alive!”
“Coming from you!”
—
Oliver toiled over the garden for over an hour. Determined to prove he wasn’t lazy, he worked in stubborn silence. Arthur, nursing his pride, busied himself organizing the shed. Evelyn tidied up, then started lunch—the leftover soup’s rich scent filled the house.
Then Charlotte called.
“Mum, forgot to warn you—Oliver’s gone off proper meals. Lives on pizza and crisps. Brought groceries so you’re not stuck cooking for him.”
“Don’t fret, love. If he’s hungry, he’ll eat,” Evelyn reassured.
No sooner had she hung up than a shout rang outside:
“Gran! Grandad! Come see—I found something!”
Evelyn exchanged a glance with Arthur—had he planted something after all? But his baffled expression said otherwise. They rushed out.
“Grandad, spilled beer dregs.”
She gasped. “Oliver—you dug the whole patch?”
“Wanted to help,” he grinned, glowing under her praise. “But look! It’s sort of treasure!”
Arthur squinted. “Blimey—that’s my wallet! Lost it last year!” He clapped Oliver’s shoulder. “What a lad! Dug the garden and found my missing pension! Celebration tonight, son!”
At lunch, to everyone’s shock, Oliver devoured two bowls of soup. Hard work built appetites. Afterward, he followed Arthur to the shed.
“This box—this was our treasure,” Arthur said, revealing old coins and letters.
“Wow, Grandad!” Oliver’s eyes widened.
Together, they tidied the shed, even unearthed William’s old bicycle—needed air in the tyres, but otherwise fine. When the neighbour’s grandson, Henry—Oliver’s childhood friend—came by, the place buzzed with life. Now, Oliver barely came inside unless called.
Turns out, the boy thrived on being useful—praise spurred him on.
“Mum and Dad are always busy—they brush me off,” he admitted when it was time to leave. “But here—it’s brilliant. Can I stay longer?”
“Course you can!” Arthur boomed. “With this lad around, my back’s cured! Who called him lazy?”
Charlotte stared when she returned.
“Mum—he’s different. What’d you do?”
“Nothing special,” Evelyn smiled. “Just treated him like family. Oh—and he barely touched his phone. It’s on the sideboard. You were too hard on him.
Now, Oliver visits every chance he gets. Here, he’s not an afterthought—he’s needed. Even Arthur admits nothing worries him with such a helper. Because everyone wants to matter—even a twelve-year-old boy.
