**The Encounter**
“Miss! Miss, wait! Would you stop already?” Olivia turned and saw a bloke in a flat cap sprinting after her. The cap looked oddly familiar—but where had she seen it before?
“Blimey, finally! Are you training for the Olympics or what? Nearly lost you there! The name’s Archibald. Archie for short. Properly speaking, Archibald Reginald Pemberton. Distinguished, refined, a real gentleman, I— Whoa, just a tick—” He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping. The cap tumbled off his head onto the pavement. Olivia instinctively reached for it, only to crack skulls with the *distinguished and refined* Archibald.
“Ow! Honestly!” she huffed, rubbing her forehead. She turned to leave, but Archie grabbed her wrist.
“Hang on! Sorry, that was an accident. Good grief, what a day! You *are* the Michaels girl, aren’t you? Sarah’s sister?” He plopped the cap back on and whispered, “Saw you at her place once, but you were *this* big—” He pinched his fingers to show a toddler-sized Olivia.
“Have you been out in the sun too long?” She eyed him skeptically. “When I was *that* big, you probably weren’t even a twinkle in your dad’s eye! What do you want? I’ve got places to be!”
“So… you’re *not* Sarah Michaels?” Archie wilted, re-measuring imaginary childhood Olivias between his fingers.
“No. Olivia Granger. Goodbye!” She marched off toward the Tube, but Archie, persistent as a door-to-door salesman, kept pace.
“Well, now we’re properly introduced! You’re Liv, I’m Archie—brilliant, yeah? Why the long face? And that bag looks heavier than a sack of bricks. Here, let me!” He lunged for the tote, but Liv sidestepped as if he’d offered to juggle her savings.
“Move along, mate! Ah—*now* I get it.” She smirked. “This is how you chat up girls, isn’t it? Bold strategy. But—”
“See? You’re already intrigued! Hand over the groceries; I won’t leg it. Got enough beetroot and onions at home to sink a barge,” he said, nodding at the veg peeking out. “Plus, I know loads! Why planes don’t drop like stones, how lightning works, the secrets of perpetual motion machines, how to get cherry jam stains out of linen—”
Liv burst out laughing, shoved the bag at him, and ordered him to walk ahead. “Did you swallow a children’s encyclopedia?” she asked, wiping her eyes.
“Among other things. Lived with my nan, see. Agatha Prunella Pemberton—dad’s mum—strict about *education*.” He flapped a hand vaguely. “Books, documentaries, lectures at the town hall, radio plays. Self-appointed Minister of Public Enlightenment, with me as her pet project. Could tell you how to hatch a chick in a shoebox, propagate a spider plant, unclog a sink—”
“Boring. Fancy an ice cream?” Liv was warming to this oddball with his geeky cap and plumbing trivia.
“Nah, lactose and I aren’t mates. Oxygen’s better for the brain,” he said, waving at the vendor. “But I’ll get you one. Vanilla cone, please!”
“How’d you know my flavor?” Liv caught his wrist before he could pay and handed over a fiver herself.
“Oi, what’s this?” Archie spluttered. “My treat!”
“Raised by *my* nan, thanks. Strict rules: ‘Independence, Liv! That’s what we marched for!’” She mimed a suffragette. “Quotes, speeches—the works. Point is, I owe you for the bag-carrying already, so—”
“—women must DIY everything. Got it.” Archie sniffed. “But you and your nan have it *all wrong*.”
“Excuse me?” Liv coughed.
“Nan Aggie says a bloke without chores is like a hermit crab without a shell—withers away. Sorry, but we Pembertons have you beat. And this ‘independence’ lark? Overrated. Which way now?”
“*That* way.” She jabbed a finger right, scowling. “My nan, *incidentally*, built the Underground. Medals and all.”
“Underground’s grand,” Archie conceded, wisely pivoting. “But d’you know *why* the wind blows? Seems simple, but the answer’ll knock your socks off!”
“Oh, *please*.” Liv rolled her eyes. “Warm air rises, cold air rushes in—”
“Wrong direction entirely!” Archie gasped. “Nan Aggie’s theory: trees wag their branches to *make* wind. Unassailable logic. We missed the lecture (I had tonsillitis), but trust me, it’s gospel. Snowflakes, though! Under a microscope, they’re— Liv? *Liv!*” He spun, realizing she’d veered onto a side street. “Your beetroot! And onions! And I’m meant to be walking you home! Blimey, woman!”
He scrambled after her, cap bouncing, coins jingling in his pockets.
“Where’d you go, *Walking Wikipedia*?” Liv called, waving.
“Not *Wikipedia*! I’m a *repository of knowledge*,” he huffed. “Nan’s words. Her gardening club interrogates me weekly. ‘Archie, why’s my begonia sad? How do I out-dahlia Mrs. Next-Door?’ *None of them even have gardens!*”
“So don’t answer! Play dumb. This way.” She herded him through an alley.
“Can’t! Nan’s *honor* is at stake. If she says I know pesto recipes from aphid control, I *must*. Once, I memorized fertilizer brands like the Lord’s Prayer!”
Liv giggled. Worth letting this Archie haul her shopping after all.
“Did it work?” She shook pebbles from her sandals.
“Ever heard of relativity? Every nan’s got grandkids. And *they’ve* got pets. Hamsters, parrots, *snakes*—all neglected. Guess who’s the free vet?” He groaned. “Lucky you.”
“Why?”
“Your childhood sounds fun. Mine? Cooped up, reciting Keats, copying Dickens. Nan hated crowds. Museums were midweek, by appointment. Archie, where’d you *holiday*? Wait—was that rude?”
“Not at all. Parents are geologists—always in Bolivia or Bognor. Nan Aggie says they ‘got me on a whim, like a goldfish.’ *She* had my booties knitted in advance.”
Liv nodded. “We just moved here. Still trek to my old greengrocer. Silly, but—”
“Muscle memory! We lived near Whitechapel—I still wander there.” He hesitated. “Your parents…?”
“At home, waiting for this beetroot. You? Summer camps? Scouts?”
“Nan’s mate’s cottage. Granddad Bert lives there permanently. They rowed in ‘78—forgot why. Nan summers in Bournemouth; I ‘rough it’ with Bert. Chopping wood, swimming in the Thames, forgetting cutlery exists. Nan ‘re-civilized’ me each autumn. Oh, and Bert let me try his pipe tobacco. Revolting.”
Liv listened, stealing glances at this chatty encyclopedia.
“I went to the *same* camp every year. Parents insisted. Hated it at first—then made friends. All very ‘proper.’ Can’t even ride a bike. No space to learn.” She sighed, spotting hopscotch squares on the path. After a quick skip, she flopped onto a bench. “That’s us—the yellow block. Nan’s watching from the balcony.”
“Where?” Archie squinted skyward. The cap toppled again.
“Tenth floor. She ‘surveys the realm.’ Blue dress—*there*!” She swiveled his head.
Archie bowed. A faint wave flickered from above.
“See me to the door?” he asked. “Or is that a step too far?”
“Nan’s seen enough. Interrogation awaits. Archibald Reginald Pemberton, thanks for the escort.” She offered a hand. “Where to now?”
He pointed left. “See that glint? Nan’s binoculars. She’ll debrief me: ‘Where’ve you *been*, Archie?’ Lovely meeting you.” His casual *you* slid out so naturally, Liv barely noticed.
“Wait! *That’s* where I’ve seen your cap! You live near me!”
“Busted.” He grinned. “Chickened out of talking to you. Invented ‘Sarah Michaels’ as an in. Today, I… went for it. Liv, your veg—”
As they lingered, their nans studied each other.
Agatha adjusted her binocularAs Archie finally handed over the shopping bag with a dramatic bow, Liv couldn’t help but laugh—partly at him, partly at the realization that their nans, now squinting at each other through binoculars and petunia-filled balconies, were probably already plotting their next move.
