I was eight years old, and my favourite place in all the world was St. Jamess Square. Not for the creaky old swings or the sandpit filled with dry leaves, but for old Mr. Whitmore.
Hullo, lad! hed call out whenever he spotted me running over after school.
Mr. Whitmore had hair as white as snow, always wore a brown felt hat, and his hands were the most wrinkled Id ever seen. But they were kind handshands that folded paper boats and taught me how to whistle through my fingers.
Mum, may I go to the square? Id ask every afternoon.
One hour, Oliver. No longer, shed reply without looking up from her papers.
Mum was always working. She said she had to keep the house running ever since Dad left. She never asked what I did in the square or who I played with.
Mr. Whitmore told the most marvellous stories. He claimed hed travelled the world in his youthmet pirates in the Caribbean and once dined with a king in Europe.
Did you really meet a king? I asked as we shared the biscuits he always brought.
As true as youre sitting here with me, he said with a wink. But the greatest treasure I ever found wasnt gold or silver.
What was it?
A family. A beautiful wife and a son who looked just like you at your age.
When he said that, his bright blue eyes, usually so lively when he saw me, turned dull like the sky before rain.
Where are they now?
My wife is in heaven, he sighed. And my son well, sometimes families break, lad. Like a plate that slips and shatters.
But broken plates can be glued back together.
Plates, yes, he said with a sad smile. Families are trickier.
Wed been friends for three months when Mr. Whitmore surprised me.
Here, this is for you, he said, pulling a wooden box from his coat pocket.
Inside was a golden pocket watch, old and heavy.
It belonged to my father, and his father before him, he explained. One day, itll be yours, when youre older.
Why give it to me?
Because youre special, Oliver. More special than you know.
That evening, I showed the watch to Mum. Id never seen her go so pale.
Where did you get this? she snapped, snatching it from me.
Mr. Whitmore gave it to memy friend from the square.
Mr. Whitmore? What does he look like?
I described himtall, white hair, blue eyes, always in a brown hat.
Mum sat at the kitchen table, staring at the watch as if it were a venomous snake.
Oliver, youre not to go to that square again. Do you hear me?
Why not?
Because I say so. And give me that watch.
No! Its mine! Mr. Whitmore gave it to me!
Mum snatched it away and locked it in a drawer.
That man is dangerous. I wont have you near him again.
For a week, Mum escorted me to and from school. She wouldnt let me go anywhere alone. I felt like a prisoner.
Why cant I see Mr. Whitmore? I asked every day.
Because hes a liar, she said. And liars hurt children.
But I knew Mr. Whitmore wasnt a liar. His eyes were kind, and hed taught me that liars never look you in the eye.
On Friday, I slipped away. I told Mum I was going to the loo during break and ran straight to the square.
Mr. Whitmore wasnt on his bench. I asked the flower seller if shed seen him.
Oh, love, she said sadly. Mr. Whitmore fell ill. They took him to hospital three days ago.
Which hospital?
Saint Thomass, but
I didnt let her finish. I ran.
Saint Thomass was six streets away. I arrived breathless and sweating. At reception, a nurse told me Mr. Whitmore was in Room 204.
I found him in a white bed, hooked to beeping machines. He looked small without his hat.
Mr. Whitmore! I cried.
He opened his eyes and smiled weakly.
Lad knew youd come.
Are you very ill?
A bit, he said, trying to sit up. Come hereIve something important to tell you.
I leaned in, and his cold fingers grasped my hand.
Oliver, do you know your full name?
Oliver Bennett Thompson.
And did you know Thompson was your fathers name?
Yes, Mum told me.
Did you know my name is also Thompson? William Thompson.
It took a moment to sink in.
Are you my family?
The tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks.
Im your grandfather, lad. Your father was my son.
The world turned upside down. Suddenly it all made sensewhy hed given me the watch, why he said I was special, why he grew sad speaking of family.
Why didnt Mum tell me?
My grandfather sighed deeply.
When your father died, your mum and I had a terrible row. Over money, the house grown-up nonsense. She was so angry, she forbade me from seeing you. Moved houses, changed neighbourhoods so I couldnt find you.
So Dad did have family?
A father who adored him. And who adores you now, even if weve had so little time.
Is that why you gave me the watch?
It was your great-grandfathers, then mine, then your fathers. Now its yours by right.
Just then, Mum burst in, frantic.
Oliver! Ive been searching everywhere!
She froze when she saw my grandfather. They stared at each other in silence.
Eleanor, he said softly.
William, Mum whispered, her voice breaking.
Mum, I said, why didnt you tell me Mr. Whitmore was my grandfather?
She sank into the chair by the bed and covered her face.
Because I was angry, she murmured. So very angry.
Why?
When your father died, your grandfather and I fought over everythingthe house, the business, the insurance. I thought he only wanted to take, not to know you.
I never wanted to take anything, Eleanor, my grandfather said. Only to know my grandson.
I know, Mum wept. And Im so ashamed. Hes been alone these three years, and Oliver grew up never knowing his own flesh and blood.
I wasnt alone these last months, my grandfather smiled. I had the finest grandson in the world playing with me in the square.
Did you know who I was? I asked.
From the first day. Youre the spitting image of your father at your age. Same eyes, same grin.
Mum reached for his hand.
William, forgive me. Please.
Nothing to forgive, love. Just lost time we cant get back.
But we can make the most of whats left, Mum said.
My grandfather smiledproperly, for the first time in days.
Does that mean I can visit every day? I asked.
Every day you like, lad.
He stayed in hospital another fortnight. Mum and I visited each evening. She packed his things from the boarding house where hed lived and set them in my room for when he came home.
When he was finally discharged, Mum had prepared the old guest room for him.
This was always your home, William, she said. Forgive me for making you feel otherwise.
Now my grandfather lives with us. He helps with my schoolwork, tells me more stories of his travels, and every afternoon we walk together to the square where we met.
The golden watch sits on my bedside table, but its no longer just my treasure. Its my familys storyproof that sometimes, broken things can be mended after all.
And that grandfathers who appear out of nowhere in squares are sometimes the real ones whove been waiting for you all along.
