I was eight years old, and my favourite place in all the world was St. Jamess Squarenot for the rusty swings or the sandpit littered with dry leaves, but for old Mr. Edwards.
“Hello, lad!” hed call out whenever he spotted me running over after school. He always sat on the same bench, wearing his brown felt hat, his white hair combed neatly back. His hands were the most wrinkled Id ever seen, yet they were clever handshands that folded paper boats and taught me how to whistle between 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 on her own since Dad left. She never asked what I did at the square or who I played with.
Mr. Edwards told the most wonderful stories. He claimed hed travelled the world as a young manmet pirates in the West Indies and even dined with a king in Europe.
“Truly, you met a king?” I asked as we shared the biscuits he always brought.
“As true as you standing here with me now,” hed say 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.”
His bright blue eyes, usually so lively, turned dull as overcast skies when he said this.
“Where are they now?”
“My wife is in heaven,” he sighed. “And my son well, sometimes families break, lad. Like a dropped plateshattered to pieces.”
“But broken plates can be mended with glue.”
“Plates, yes,” he said with a sad smile. “Families are trickier.”
Wed been friends for three months when Mr. Edwards surprised me.
“Here, this is for you,” he said, pulling a wooden box from his coat pocket. Inside was an old, heavy golden pocket watch.
“It belonged to my father, and his father before him,” he explained. “One day, itll be yourswhen youre grown.”
“Why give it to me?”
“Because youre special, Oliver. More than you know.”
That evening, I showed the watch to Mum. Id never seen her turn so pale.
“Where did you get this?” she snapped, snatching it from my hands.
“Mr. Edwards gave it to memy friend from the square.”
“Mr. Edwards? What does he look like?”
I described him: tall, white hair, blue eyes, always wearing his brown hat.
Mum sat at the kitchen table, staring at the watch as if it were a venomous snake.
“Oliver, youre never to go back to that square. Do you hear me?”
“Why not?”
“Because I say so. And give me that watch.”
“No! Its mine! Mr. Edwards gave it to me!”
She locked it away in a drawer.
“That man is dangerous. Stay away from him.”
For a week, Mum escorted me to and from school. I felt like a prisoner.
“Why cant I see Mr. Edwards?” I pleaded daily.
“Because hes a liar,” she said. “And liars hurt children.”
But I knew he wasnt a liar. His eyes were kind, and hed taught me that liars never meet your gaze when they speak.
On Friday, I slipped awaytelling Mum I needed the loo at break, then bolting for the square.
Mr. Edwards wasnt there. The flower-seller nearby gave me a sorrowful look.
“Oh, love Mr. Edwards took ill. They took him to St. Thomass three days ago.”
I ran all the way, my heart hammering.
At the hospital, a nurse directed me to Room 204.
He lay in a white bed, hooked to machines, looking small without his hat.
“Mr. Edwards!”
His eyes fluttered open. “Lad knew youd come.”
“Are you very ill?”
“A bit,” he rasped. “Come closer. Something important to tell you.”
His fingers were cold as they closed around mine.
“Oliver, do you know your full name?”
“Oliver Bennett Thompson.”
“And you know Thompson was your fathers name?”
Mum had told me that.
“Did you know my name is also Thompson? Arthur Thompson.”
It took a moment to sink in.
“Youre youre my family?”
Tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks.
“Im your grandfather, lad. Your father was my son.”
The world tilted. Suddenly, it all made sensewhy hed given me the watch, why he said I was special.
“Why didnt Mum tell me?”
He sighed deeply. “When your father died, your mother and I quarrelled. Over money, the house grown-up nonsense. She was so angry, she forbade me from seeing you. Moved houses, changed neighbourhoods.”
“So Dad did have family?”
“He had a father who adored him. And who adores you, though 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, silent.
“Eleanor,” he said softly.
“Arthur,” she whispered, voice breaking.
“Mum,” I asked, “why didnt you tell me Mr. Edwards was my grandfather?”
She sank into a chair, covering her face.
“Because I was angry,” she admitted. “So very angry.”
“At what?”
“After your father died, your grandfather and I fought over everythingthe house, the business, the insurance. I thought he wanted to take things from me, not not know you.”
“I never wanted to take anything, Eleanor,” he said. “Only to know my grandson.”
She wept. “I know. And Im ashamed. These years hes been alone, and you grew up without family.”
“I havent been alone these past months,” my grandfather smiled. “Ive had the finest grandson in England playing with me in the square.”
“Did you know who I was?” I asked.
“From the first day. Youre the spit of your father at your agesame eyes, same mischievous grin.”
Mum took his hand.
“Arthur, forgive me. Please.”
“Nothing to forgive, love. Only lost time we cant get back.”
“But we can make the most of whats left,” she said.
His smile was whole again 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 daily. She cleared out the spare room for him, filling it with his things.
When he was discharged, she said, “This was always your home, Arthur. Forgive me for making you think otherwise.”
Now he lives with ushelps with my schoolwork, tells me more stories, and every afternoon, we return to the square where we met.
The golden watch sits on my bedside table. Its no longer just a treasureits my familys story, proof that sometimes broken things can be mended.
And that grandfathers who appear out of nowhere in squares are sometimes real grandfathers whove been waiting for you all along.
