The Encounter
“Miss! Miss, wait! Do stop!” — Margaret turned and saw a young man in a flat cap chasing after her. The cap looked oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place where she might have seen it before.
“Blimey! At last! You’re quite the sprinter, aren’t you? Took me ages to catch up! I’m Harold—Harry for short. Properly, Harold William Whitcombe. Dignified, respectable, thoroughly educated. I… *whoo*… just a tick…” The lad bent over, fists on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. His cap slipped off and clattered onto the pavement. On instinct, Margaret stooped to pick it up, only to collide heads with the so-called dignified Harold.
“Ow! Really now!” she huffed, rubbing her forehead before turning to leave. But Harry caught her wrist.
“Hold on! Sorry, that was an accident. Good heavens, what a day! You wouldn’t happen to be Emma’s sister? Emma Thompson?” he whispered, shoving the cap back on. “I saw you at her place years ago, only you were about *this* tall…” He pinched his fingers to demonstrate a child’s height.
“Have you gone dotty from the sun?” Margaret arched a brow. “When I was *that* small, you likely weren’t even born! What do you want? I’ve places to be!”
“So you’re *not* Emma Thompson?” He seemed genuinely disappointed, resuming his measuring gesture.
“No. I’m Margaret Abbott. Good day!” She marched toward the Tube, but Harry dogged her steps—persistent for an “educated” fellow.
“Well, now we’re acquainted! You’re Maggie, I’m Harry—grand, isn’t it? Why so glum? And that bag looks fit to burst. Here, let me!” He reached for the woven tote, but Margaret recoiled as if he’d offered poison.
“Keep to your own path! Ah—*aha*!” She smirked. “This is how you chat up girls, is it? How original. But—”
“See? Now you’re curious! Hand over the groceries; I shan’t bolt. We’ve carrots and onions aplenty at home,” he said, nodding at the produce poking out. “I know all sorts of things! Why planes stay aloft, how lightning forms, perpetual motion machines, removing cherry jam stains—”
He’d have prattled on, but Margaret burst out laughing, shoved the bag at him, and ordered him forward.
“Did you swallow a children’s encyclopedia?” she asked once her giggles subsided.
“That, too. I live with my nan, you see. Grandma Edith—my father’s mother—is *particular* about education. She *invested* in me.” Harry mimed knowledge being poured into his head with comical inelegance.
“What’s all that arm-waving? Signaling a mugger?” Margaret eyed him warily.
“Blast it, no! That’s just how Grandma Edith stuffed facts into me. Books, documentaries, lectures at the summer pavilion, radio plays. She’s in charge of *public enlightenment*, so naturally, enlightening *me* was priority one. I can tell you how to hatch chicks at home, propagate a rubber plant, fix a sink trap—”
“Boring. Fancy an ice cream?” Margaret was growing fond of this bumbling encyclopedia in his cap.
“No, ta. Lactose intolerant. Oxygen enriches the brain,” he said airily, then flagged the vendor. “One vanilla cone, please.”
“How’d you know my favorite?” She caught his wrist as he reached for his wallet and paid herself.
“Here now! *I’m* treating!” Harry spluttered.
“My nan raised me with strict rules too,” Margaret said. “‘Never rely on a man, Maggie. Independence is what we fought for!’ Or some such. Point taken. I’m already in your debt for carrying this. And—”
“—women must do everything alone. Right.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “But you and your nan have it all backwards!”
“I beg your pardon?” She nearly choked.
“Grandma Edith says a man with no work is like an ant without a twig—withers away. Sorry, but she’s outsmarted yours. And your lot fought independence for naught. Which way now?”
“That way!” Margaret jabbed a finger right, scowling. “My nan’s a respected woman! She built the Underground. Medals and all.”
“The Underground’s splendid,” Harry conceded, veering sharply—grandmother debates were treacherous. “But do you know why the wind blows? Seems simple, but the answer’s a riot!”
“Oh, you’re *impossible*!” Margaret snorted. “It’s air masses of differing temperatures—”
“No, no, you’re off entirely! Let me explain: as Grandma Edith told toddler-me, wind happens because trees sway. Irrefutable. You’ll never prove what’s *truly* first. Nor could she, though we missed a lecture at the community hall because I had tonsillitis. Snowflakes, though! Maggie, you’ve no *idea* how stunning they are under a microscope! And fragile! And— Maggie! Where’d you go?!” He realized he’d been walking alone for thirty seconds while Margaret veered onto a side street. “Wait! I’ve your carrots! And onions! Blast it, this’ll be quicker!”
Harold scampered back, cap bouncing, coins jingling in his pockets.
“Where’s the walking encyclopedia?” Margaret called, waving.
“I’m a *repository of knowledge*, not an encyclopedia!” he huffed. “Grandma Edith introduces me to her gardening club as ‘my grandson Harold, a repository of knowledge.’ The old dears cluck and pelt me with questions—insufferable! Tomato blight, dahlia rivalry, storing gladiolus bulbs… Half don’t even *have* gardens! They just collect tips to boast! It’s maddening.”
“So don’t answer! Clam up! This way.” Margaret steered him through an alley.
“I *can’t*. That’s the horror of it!” Harry jostled the tote as wind whisked his cap off. Margaret caught it, dusted it, and plopped it back on his head. “Ta! But betraying Grandma Edith’s unthinkable. If she says her grandson knows gardening, then by Jove, he *must*. Aphids, mildew, horse manure—I recited it like the Lord’s Prayer. And don’t get me started on pets…”
Margaret grinned. Letting this Harold William Whitcombe—grandma’s polished prodigy—haul her groceries was paying off.
“How’d you escape?” She paused to shake pebbles from her sandals.
“Well… heard of relativity theory?” Harry sighed. “Mind the crossing! Now, step lively.” They dodged traffic. “Every grandma’s friend has grandchildren. And *their* grandchildren have pets. Hamsters, guinea pigs, parrots, spiders, *worms*—all needing care. But why read a book when Edith’s got a living encyclopedia? So I became an impromptu vet. Fed them, housed them, lectured…”
“Lucky you!” Margaret nodded.
“Why?”
“You had fun. I was kept indoors, copying Dickens, rehearsing manners. My nan loathes crowds, so we rarely saw plays or museums—just telly and quiet weekday visits. Harry, where’d you holiday? And your parents? Or is that rude?”
“Not at all! They’re geologists—always off surveying. When home, they’d host raucous dinners. I’m not resentful, but as Grandma Edith says, they ‘got me like a puppy’—no forethought. *She* had my crib, booties, and bonnet ready. You grasp the pattern.”
“I do… We’ve just moved here, really. Still trek to my old greengrocer out of habit. Silly, but—”
“Not silly. Feet remember. We lived near Chelsea years back—I still visit.” Harry adjusted the tote. “Your folks?”
“Here with me. Making salad tonight.” Margaret smiled. “Summer camps?”
“Grandad’s farm. He and Grandma Edith rowed so fiercely they forgot why. Each summer, she’d spa-hop while I stayed with him—chopping wood, tending crops, wilding by the Thames. Forgot all about polished nails and ‘mumbling like a drain.’ He even let me try his pipe. Revolting!”
Margaret listened, side-eyeing his animated face.
“I went to the same camp every summer. Parents insisted. At first, I wept for home—Nan seldom visited, hated the trip. But I made friends. Very *civilized* holidays. Never learned to bike… nowhere to practice.” She sighed, then hopped sidewalk hopscotch squares before plopping onto a bench. “That’s our block. Nan’s watching from the tenth-floor balcony.”
“Where?” Harry squinted skyward. The cap toppled.
“There—blue dress! *Wave.*” She turned his head.
Harry bowed. A distant figure inclined its head.
“See you to your doorShe laughed and nudged him toward his own waiting grandmother, already plotting how they’d sneak past both balconies tomorrow for their first proper date.
