**Grandfather’s Duties**
Edward Whitmore had been a widower for six months. The first sharp sting of grief had faded, burying itself somewhere beneath his ribs and settling like a shard of ice, thawing only at the most inconvenient moments. Whenever a neighbour asked, *”How are you managing on your own now, Edward?”* his eyes would glisten with pain.
*”I’ve grown weak—never used to be like this,”* he’d think, then immediately correct himself: *”But then, I’d never known loss like this before.”*
He’d lived in the village since his youth. Retirement was supposed to bring free time, but after losing his wife, time seemed to stand still. Nothing held meaning anymore—except, perhaps, his quiet prayers in the chapel.
His daughter, Eleanor, had married and moved to the city, and now her son, little Oliver, was due to start school. At the beginning of summer, Eleanor, her husband Simon, and Oliver came to visit.
“Dad, we’ve brought you something to keep you busy,” Eleanor said, nudging Oliver forward. “Before, he was just a baby—Mum doted on him. Now it’s your turn to make a proper man of him.”
“Why can’t his father do it?” Edward asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Simon’s never so much as held a hammer. You know he’s a musician—the accordion’s his life. We’re enrolling Oliver in music school this winter, probably under Simon’s tuition. But a boy needs balance, so—help me out. I want him to be just like you: a proper craftsman, hardworking.”
Edward smirked and looked at Oliver.
“Right you are, Ellie. Fine. I’ll teach him everything I know. While I’m still here—”
“Stop that,” Eleanor cut him off. “We’re all going to live long and happy lives. Just help with Oliver, that’s all.”
That same day, Edward took Oliver to his workshop. They surveyed the workbench, the shelves of tools, and began setting up Oliver’s own little corner.
Edward repurposed an old writing desk for his grandson, trimming the legs and covering the top with a sheet of galvanised steel. Oliver needed his own miniature tools—tiny hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, a small saw, and a pair of pincers. Nails of various sizes were stored in rusty old metal sweet tins, relics from Edward’s own youth.
Oliver was overjoyed, trailing after his grandfather, asking endless questions. Eleanor had to drag them both in for lunch before they returned to their “men’s work.”
“Well then, that’s a start,” Edward said as evening fell. “We’ll knock off for today. Tomorrow, we go fishing, so let’s sort the gear and turn in early.”
The summer passed in happy days. Eleanor and Simon noticed how Edward had brightened—his posture straighter, his eyes alight again.
“Ellie,” Simon whispered to her one night, “I may be just a music teacher, but this was clever. Not just good for Oliver—it’s brought your father back to life.”
“Everyone needs attention—old or young,” Eleanor murmured. “I couldn’t let him fade away. We’ll visit more often. Thank God Oliver’s good for him. Some men would just turn to drink, but Ollie’s like sunshine.”
She sighed and went to tend the garden, just as her mother had. The vegetables and flowers had to be kept neat, so Edward wouldn’t feel everything had crumbled with her passing.
When the holidays ended, Eleanor returned to the city, but Simon and Oliver stayed on, helping Edward with his projects.
Autumn came, and Oliver was due to start primary school. Edward was invited to the city for the occasion. Dressed in a suit and tie he hadn’t worn in a decade, he proudly held Oliver’s hand at the school gates. As the national anthem played, he straightened his back and squeezed the boy’s fingers.
In that moment, Edward vowed never to wallow in sorrow again. He would pour his remaining strength into raising Oliver, into helping Eleanor.
Back home, he sat at the kitchen table one evening with a blank sheet of paper. Like a schoolboy, he carefully wrote out a list of things to do before next summer—projects to prepare for Oliver’s return.
The list grew longer each day: a play area, a swing, a climbing frame, benches, a sandpit. He decided to hang a rope swing from the old oak by the road, just like the one he’d played on as a boy. The footbridge by the stream needed mending too.
A second sheet appeared—his “accounts.” He noted down the costs: timber, fixings, rope, paint, a delivery of sand. There was so much to do! If only he could get the materials before winter, then spend the cold months preparing the workshop. By spring, he could start building.
Now Edward was busy, rising early, scribbling daily tasks on scraps of paper, determined to tick them off.
Oliver visited often—holidays, weekends, every break. Eleanor scrubbed floors, baked pies, washed curtains. Edward, Simon, and Oliver built things, worked on the play area, fired up the sauna, and went cross-country skiing.
On Father’s Day, Eleanor gave the three of them matching camouflage jackets. The joy was boundless. Then came Mother’s Day.
“What would you like, love?” Edward asked.
“Don’t hold back—we’ll get you anything,” Simon chimed in. “You’re the only one we’ve got.”
“The only one?” Eleanor grinned. “Well, here’s a surprise—there’ll soon be another. Don’t know who yet, but… it might be a girl.”
A stunned silence broke into cheers. They hugged and kissed her. Simon spun Eleanor around the room while Oliver bounced beside Edward, who wiped his eyes.
“Thank the Lord—what happiness. Your mother always wanted a granddaughter. Though another grandson wouldn’t be bad either.”
The excitement took a while to settle. Over tea, Edward declared that, given the news, he’d no time for moping—he had twice the grandchildren to raise now.
“What if it’s another boy?” he laughed. “Where will I get enough tools?”
Oliver piped up: “Then I’ll share mine, Grandad. There’ll be enough for both of us. Brothers do that.”
