Im eight years old, and my favourite place in the world is St. Jamess Park. Not for the rusty swings or the sandpit full of dry leaves, but for old Mr. Whitmore.
“Hello, champ!” he always calls out from his bench when he spots me running over after school.
Mr. Whitmore has snow-white hair, always wears a brown tweed flat cap, and his hands are the wrinkliest Ive ever seen. But theyre clever handsones that fold paper boats and taught me how to whistle through my fingers.
“Mum, can I go to the park?” I ask every afternoon.
“One hour, Oliver. No longer,” she replies, barely looking up from her paperwork.
Mums always working. Says shes had to keep the house running by herself since Dad left. She never asks what I do at the park or who I play with.
Mr. Whitmore tells the most brilliant stories. He says he travelled the world when he was young, met pirates in the Caribbean, and once dined with a king in Europe.
“Really? You met a king?” I ask, munching on the digestives he always brings.
“As real as you sitting here with me,” he says, winking. “But the greatest treasure I ever found wasnt gold or silver.”
“What was it?”
“A family. A lovely wife and a son who looked just like you at your age.”
When he says that, his bright blue eyesusually sparkling when he sees meturn cloudy, like the sky before rain.
“Where are they now?”
“My wife is in heaven,” he sighs. “And my son… well, sometimes families break, champ. Like a plate that shatters when it falls.”
“But broken plates can be glued back together.”
“Plates, yes,” he smiles sadly. “Families are trickier.”
Weve been mates for three months when Mr. Whitmore surprises me.
“Here, this is for you,” he says, pulling a wooden box from his coat pocket.
Inside is an old, heavy golden pocket watch.
“It belonged to my father, then to me,” he explains. “One day, itll be yourswhen youre grown.”
“Why give it to me?”
“Because youre special, Oliver. More special than you know.”
That night, I show the watch to Mum. Ive never seen her go so pale.
“Where did you get this?” she snaps, snatching it from me.
“Mr. Whitmore gave it to me. My friend from the park.”
“Mr. Whitmore? What does he look like?”
I describe himtall, white hair, blue eyes, always in a brown flat cap.
Mum sinks into a kitchen chair and stares at the watch like its a poisonous snake.
“Oliver, youre never going back to that park. Understood?”
“Why not?”
“Because I say so. And give me that watch.”
“No! Its mine! Mr. Whitmore gave it to me!”
She yanks it from my hands and locks it in a drawer.
“That man is dangerous. I dont want you near him again.”
For a week, Mum walks me to and from school. I feel like a prisoner.
“Why cant I see Mr. Whitmore?” I ask every day.
“Because hes a liar,” she says. “And liars hurt children.”
But I know he isnt. His eyes are kind, and he taught me liars never look you in the eye.
On Friday, I sneak away. I tell Mum Im going to the loo at break and bolt for the park.
Mr. Whitmore isnt on his bench. The flower seller gives me a sad look.
“Oh, love,” she says. “Mr. Whitmore fell ill. They took him to hospital three days ago.”
“Which hospital?”
“St. Marys, but”
I dont let her finish. I sprint all the way.
St. Marys is six streets away. I arrive sweaty and breathless. The nurse at reception says hes in Room 204.
I find him in a white bed, hooked up to beeping machines. He looks tiny without his cap.
“Mr. Whitmore!” I shout.
He opens his eyes and smiles weakly.
“Champ… knew youd come.”
“Are you really poorly?”
“A bit,” he says, trying to sit up. “Come here. Something important to tell you.”
I lean in, and he takes my handhis fingers cold.
“Oliver, do you know your full name?”
“Oliver Bennett Thompson.”
“And did you know Thompson was your dads name?”
“Yeah, Mum told me.”
“Did you know my name is also Thompson? Edward Thompson.”
My brain takes a second to catch up.
“Youre… youre my family?”
Tears roll down his wrinkled cheeks.
“Im your grandad, champ. Your dad was my son.”
The world tilts. Suddenly, it all makes sensewhy he gave me the watch, why he called me special, why he got sad about family.
“Why didnt Mum tell me?”
Grandad sighs.
“When your dad died, your mum and I had a terrible row. Over money, the house… grown-up nonsense. She was so angry, she cut me off. Moved house, changed neighbourhoodsso I couldnt find you.”
“So Dad *did* have family?”
“He had a dad who adored him. And now adores you, even if weve had so little time.”
“Is that why you gave me the watch?”
“It was your great-grandads, then mine, then your dads. Now its yours by right.”
Just then, Mum bursts in, furious and frantic.
“Oliver! Ive been searching everywhere!”
She freezes when she sees Grandad. They stare at each other, silent.
“Emily,” he says softly.
“Edward,” she whispers, voice shaky.
“Mum,” I say, “why didnt you tell me Mr. Whitmore is my grandad?”
She sinks into the chair by the bed, covering her face.
“Because I was angry,” she admits. “So angry.”
“Why?”
“When your dad died, your grandad and I fought over everything. The house, the business, the insurance money. I thought he just wanted to take things, not… not to know you.”
“I never wanted to take anything, Emily,” Grandad says. “Just to know my grandson.”
“I see that now,” Mum cries. “And Im so ashamed. All these years, hes been alone, and you grew up without family.”
“I wasnt alone these last months,” Grandad smiles. “I had the worlds finest grandson playing with me in the park.”
“Did you know who I was?” I ask.
“From the first day. You looked just like your dadsame eyes, same cheeky grin.”
Mum takes Grandads hand.
“Edward, Im so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive, love,” he says. “Just lost time we cant get back.”
“But we can make the most of whats left,” Mum says.
Grandad smiles properly for the first time in days.
“Does that mean I can visit every day?” I ask.
“Every day you like, champ.”
Grandad stayed in hospital another fortnight. Mum and I visited every afternoon. She packed up his things from his tiny flat and set up the spare room for him.
When he was finally discharged, Mum had the guest room ready.
“This was always your home, Edward,” she said. “Im sorry I made you feel otherwise.”
Now Grandad lives with us. He helps with my maths homework, tells more stories of his travels, and every evening, we walk to the park where we met.
The golden watch sits on my nightstand, but its not just my treasure anymore. Its our familys storyproof that sometimes, broken things *can* be mended.
And that grandads who appear out of nowhere in parks? Sometimes theyve been waiting for you all along.
