It was a crisp autumn morning at the village of Brambleton when a curious parcel was left on the steps of St.Marys Maternity Hospital. The first eyes on it belonged to the nightwatchman, Uncle Joe, who, after retiring from a long career as a clerk, took up the humble work of sweeping the hospital grounds. He never took the job for a penny; he simply could not bear an idle day.
When Uncle Joe lifted the battered wooden box, he instantly sensed that a child lay within, though not a sound escaped its lid. He pried it open, confirmed his hunch, and hurried to the maternity ward, praying that the tiny infant would be healthy. The silence was unnerving, yet, to the relief of both the nurse and Uncle Joe, the baby was breathing and, by all signs, vigorous.
Brambleton was the sort of place where everyone knew each others name, so the search for the mother was swift. Suspicion fell on Ethel Lesley, a local who bore a child almost every year and, as far as anyone could tell, never registered them or sought medical help during her pregnancies. After a thorough inquiry, however, it became clear that Ethel had no part in this particular abandonment.
The child was taken to the Little Angels Home, a cottage for infants not far from the town. As the staff unfolded the bundle, one nurse exclaimed, Look at this little watermelon! The nickname stuck, and the boy was affectionately called Watermelon while he lay in his cot, healthy as a rose.
Uncle Joe, who had often suggested the name George for the little one, saw the nickname linger, and the caretakers of the home continued to call him Watermelon. Before long a foster family was found, and the boynow Georgewas welcomed into a warm cottage overseen by Mrs. Allen, the matron of Little Angels.
Three years later, as fate would have it, George was returned to the home. The family that had taken him in welcomed a new baby, and George, now a slightly lanky, brighteyed boy, seemed out of place. He had grown unusually quick for his age, his mind sharp, yet his parents could not find a reason to keep him. His melancholy was palpable; he wept for a mother, a father, a grandmother who never came, and he spent long hours staring out of the window, waiting for a return that never arrived.
Summer arrived, and the children spent most of their days outdoors. George, now more withdrawn, seldom trusted adults and preferred solitary games in hidden corners. It was then that a cat named Mick appeared on the grounds of the home. Though pets were forbidden, Mick persisted. Mrs. Allen tried to send him away, first handing him to the village cook, Aunt Jane, who fled back to the home with the feline. Time and again Mick vanished and returned, tail held high, earning the nickname Mick the Dodger from Aunt Jane for his habit of slipping out and slipping back in.
Mick never meddled with the children; he perched on the roof of the gatehouse and watched from a distance. Yet, to Georges surprise, the cat chose him as a companion. Their bond softened the boys reserve, and he began to smile more often. Seeing this change, Mrs. Allen placed Mick in a carrier and took him to the local veterinary surgeon, just to be sure the cat was hale. The assurance eased her mind, though George scarcely noticed the brief absence. Mick, however, seemed to hold a silent grudge against Mrs. Allen for the ordeal.
Soon a couple, Tanya and Sergey, arrived with a hopeful heart. They already had a daughter but longed to give a home to a child without parents. Their kindness shone through, and they fell in love with George at once. When they learned of the boys double abandonment, they pledged to adopt him without hesitation. As fate would have it, Sergeys father recognized the familiar Watermelon from his own youth, recalling how Uncle Joe had once found a child on his doorstep.
Holding the boy gently, Uncle Joe laughed, Well, would you look at that! Weve met before, havent we? I even gave you your name. Its true what they sayGods ways are mysterious. Youre my dearest grandson, George, a little lost but soon to be set right!
George could not grasp the older mans words, yet he smiled and nodded. The adults were astonished at the coincidence, but their hearts swelled with joy.
As the family departed, George suddenly broke into tears. Tanya rushed to his side, bewildered by his sudden sorrow. Mrs. Allen, watching from the gate, explained that Mick, perched a short distance away, had watched the scene with a downcast gaze, his own grief mirrored in the boys.
Thus the household grew by two: a bright, resilient son and a mischievous cat who now trotted proudly beside him, occasionally presenting the odd dead mouse as a token of affection. Aunt Jane, amused by Micks antics, once swatted him with a broom, earning the cat an extra stripe of notoriety.
The years that followed saw George thrive under the love of his new parents, his oncelonely eyes now bright with confidence. And every so often, when the shadows of his early days threatened to return, Mick would curl at his feet, a silent reminder that even in the most unexpected places, companionship can be found.
