“Wait! Miss! Miss, stop! Do stop!”—Olive turned and saw a young man in a flat cap chasing after her. The cap looked oddly familiar—but where had she seen it before?
“Blimey! Finally! You training for the Olympics or what? Nearly lost you there! Name’s Kenneth. Kenneth Arthur Whitmore, if we’re being formal. Presentable, respectable, and well-read, that’s me. I—oof, hang on—” He doubled over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. His cap slipped off, clattering onto the pavement. Olive instinctively bent to pick it up—just as he straightened, and—crack!—their foreheads collided.
“Ow! For heaven’s sake!” she huffed, rubbing her temple. She spun on her heel, ready to march off, but Kenneth caught her wrist.
“Hold on! Sorry, that was an accident. Bloody hell, what a day! You—you’re not Michael’s sister? Nicholas Michael’s?” He jammed the cap back on. “I saw you at his place years ago—you were this big—” He pinched his fingers together, miming a tiny Olive.
“Have you gone spare in the sun?” She gave him a withering look. “If I was *that* little, you weren’t even born yet! What d’you want? I’m in a hurry!”
“So you’re not Sarah? Sarah Michael?” He seemed genuinely crestfallen, measuring imaginary heights again.
“No. Olive Garfield. Good day!” She strode toward the Tube, but Kenneth—persistent, this one—kept pace.
“Well, now we’ve been introduced! You’re Olive, I’m Ken—smashing, isn’t it? Why so glum? And that bag looks like it weighs a ton. Let me help!” He reached for her woven tote, but Lolly—her childhood nickname—dodged as if he’d brandished a knife.
“Sod off! Ah—wait.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is this how you chat up girls, then? Clever. But—”
“See? You’re curious already! Hand over the groceries—I won’t leg it. We’ve got beetroot and onions coming out our ears at home.” He nodded at the veg poking out of the bag. “And I know loads! Why planes stay up, how lightning works, perpetual motion machines, how to get cherry jam stains out of linen—”
He’d have prattled on, but Olive burst out laughing, thrust the bag at him, and ordered him to lead the way.
“Read too many children’s encyclopedias, have you?” she asked, still giggling.
“Among other things. Lived with my gran, see. Gladys—Gladys Margaret Whitmore, my father’s mum—was *very* particular about education. Poured it all into me.”
Kenneth flapped a hand vaguely, as if knowledge were a liquid she’d funneled into his skull.
“What’s with the waving? Signaling a mugger?” Olive eyed him.
“Blast it, no! Just how Gran stuffed facts into me. Books, documentaries, lectures at the town hall, radio plays, science talks. She was big on ‘public enlightenment’—starting with yours truly. I can tell you how to hatch a chick at home, propagate a rubber plant, fix a leaky U-bend—”
“Boring. Fancy an ice cream?” Olive was warming to this bookish Ken and his cap-and-plumbing rambles.
“Ta, but lactose disagrees with me. Oxygen’s better for the brain.” He waved at the vendor. “Vanilla cone, please.”
“How’d you know my favorite?” She caught his wrist as he reached for his wallet and paid herself.
“Here now! My treat!” Ken spluttered.
“Raised by my gran too. *Very* strict about independence. ‘Never rely on a man, Olive. Independence is what we fought for!’ Et cetera.” She shrugged. “So I’m already in your debt with the bag. And—”
“—women must do everything alone, got it.” He sniffed. “But you and your gran have it all backwards!”
“Excuse me?” She choked on her ice cream.
“Well, my Gladys used to say, ‘A man without work is like an ant without a stick—withers away.’ So there. And your ‘independence’ fight? Overrated. Which way now?”
“That way.” She jabbed right, scowling. “My gran’s a respected woman, I’ll have you know! Built the Underground. Medals and all.”
“Tube’s brilliant,” Ken conceded, wisely veering away from gran-warfare. “But d’you know why the wind blows? Seems simple, but—”
“Oh, don’t start! Warm and cold air masses moving—”
“No, no! You’re thinking backwards! Gran said wind happens ’cause trees sway. Fact. You can’t prove otherwise. And snowflakes—under a microscope, they’re—Olive! Where’d you go?” He’d been monologuing to empty air for thirty seconds before realizing she’d turned down a side street. “Olive! I’ve got your beetroot! And onions! And—blimey, this is shorter—!”
He pelted after her, coins jingling in his pockets, cap bouncing.
“Where’ve you got to, walking Wikipedia?” she called, waving.
“I’m not a Wikipedia, I’m a *repository*,” he huffed. “Gladys introduces me to her gardening club as ‘my grandson Kenneth, a repository of knowledge.’ Then the old dears swarm me—tomato blight, dahlia rivals, storing gladioli bulbs… Half don’t even *have* gardens! They just hoard tips to lord over neighbors!”
“So don’t tell them! Play dumb. This way.” She redirected him through an alley.
“Can’t! That’s the horror of it.” He shook the tote for emphasis. The wind whisked his cap off; Olive caught it, dusted it, and plonked it back on his head. “Cheers! Point is, I can’t let Gran down. If she says I know gardening, I *must*. Aphids, mildew, horse muck—I’ve recited fertilizer grades like the Lord’s Prayer!”
Olive grinned. Worth letting this Kenneth Arthur Whitmore—Gladys-forged intellectual—haul her shopping.
“Any escape?” She stopped to shake pebbles from her sandals.
“Well… heard of relativity?” He sighed. “Mind the crosswalk! Right, so—every gran’s mate has grandkids. Or *great*-grandkids now. And *they’ve* got pets. Hamsters, guinea pigs, parrots, spiders, snakes… And suddenly I’m vet, zookeeper, and bug-house architect!”
“Lucky you,” she said.
“Why?”
“Interesting childhood. I was kept indoors—Pope quotes, reciting Wordsworth, copying out Dickens. Gran loathes crowds, so museums were midweek, pre-arranged. Ken, where’d you holiday? And your parents—or is that rude?”
“Not at all. They’re geologists. Always off mapping cliffs or something. When home, they hosted raucous suppers. Gran says they ‘got me like a puppy—*then* thought it through.’ She’d pre-knit my booties. You get the picture.”
“I do… We’ve just moved here, actually. Still trek to my old greengrocer. Silly, but—”
“Not silly. Feet follow habit. We used to live near Brixton—still visit. Your parents?”
“With me. Making salad tonight. What about summers? Camp? Scouts?”
“Gran’s cottage. Grandad lives there full-time.”
“Always? Why?”
“Fell out with Gran decades ago—forgot why. Every summer, she’d spa in Brighton; I’d be shoved off to Grandad Arthur. ‘Character-building’—chopping wood, rowing on the Thames. Came back feral, nails chewed, manners vanished. Gran would ‘re-civilize’ me.” He leaned in. “Grandad let me try pipe tobacco once. Revolting.”
Olive listened, eyeing his animated face.
“I got packed off to the same seaside camp each year. Dreaded it at first—Gran seldom visited—but made pals. Very ‘proper’ holidays. Never learned to ride a bike…” She sighed, then hopped a hopscotch grid and flopped onto a bench. “That’s our flat.” She nodded at a cream-colored high-rise. “Gran’s watching from the balcony.”
“Where?” Ken squinted skyward. His cap slipped again.
“Tenth floor. Blue dress—there!” She guided his head.
Ken bowed. A distant figure inclined its head.
“See you to the door?”
“Best not. She’s seen you—interrogation inbound. Ta for walking me.” She offered her hand. “Off home?”
Ken hesitated, then pointed left. “Mine’s that way. Gran’s on her balcony too—binoculars glGladys Margaret Whitmore adjusted her binoculars with a sniff, muttered something about petunias needing better pruning, and resolved to invite that sharp-eyed Elena Garfield for tea—after all, they’d need to discuss the wedding arrangements soon enough.
