**Diary Entry 17th June**
Of course, I remember it all perfectly.
“I dont remember because it never happened!” declared Redford with an earnest look in his old-man eyes. The conversation fizzled out, and we went our separate ways.
*Why lie?* thought Emily. *His eyes gave him away.*
“Want me to be your Peter?” eleven-year-old Alfie Redford asked his crush, Emily Whitmore, in class.
“What Peter?” she frowned.
“You know, from the fairy tale? The Snow Queen enchanted him! And Emily saves him!”
“*Emily* saves him? Its *Lucy* who saves Peter!” she scoffed. “Honestly, do you even read?”
“Whats the difference? Emily, Lucy?” Alfie waved it offdetails never bothered him. “Im askingdo you want me to be your Peter?”
Emily didnt. Alfie was scrawny, with ears too big for his head, and a good inch shorter than her. Though, she supposed, rescuing someone that small would be easier.
But she was sturdy, half a head tallerhow would they ever walk side by side *after* the rescue? Embarrassing.
No chance. Besides, her heart was already takenby the class dunce, Charlie Dobbs.
Who, incidentally, was standing nearby, smirking at the whole exchange.
So Emily adjusted her hair ribbon and saidloud enough for Charlie to hear”Peter? Youre not even fit to play the *reindeer!* So, Peter, toddle off and dont bother me!”
Charlie burst out laughing. Alfie shot him a nervous glance and bolted. The next day, in front of the whole class, he retaliated by dubbing her “Emily Jelly””Ill have my revenge, and itll be *terrible!*”
Well, what did you expect, Whitmore? Men dont take rejection lightly.
Scrawny Alfie had brains, which more than made up for his lack of brawn. But yesterday, blindsided by her cruelty, hed falteredanyone wouldve.
Soon, the whole class was laughing. The nickname stuckit had a ring to it. *Emily Jelly.* Ridiculous.
Naturally, when she complained at home, her parents soothed her.
But one evening, her father lost patience helping with maths. “Honestly, that Alfies rightyour heads full of jelly!” Then, muttering, “Give him my regards.”
Alfie was to blame for that, too. Before this, Dad had never spoken to her like that.
By graduation, tempers had cooledchildhood grudges, crushes, all forgotten. They even shared a dance or two. Alfie had shot up, filled out from rugby training.
Charlie, expelled after Year 10, wound up at trade schoolback then, they didnt tolerate slackers. Long-distance love fizzled. Sorry, Charlie.
After school, they drifted. Emily went into teaching; Alfie, bright as he was, to Oxford.
Occasionally, they bumped into each otherliving nearbyexchanging polite nods. Then life scattered them further: marriages, moves. Their courtyard chats grew rare, limited to visits back home.
Reunions became depressing. The boysbalding, beer-bellied. The girlsplump, perpetually unimpressed. Emily was no exception. Never slight, shed grown *substantial*like a farmers wife from an old painting. *Step too close, and Ill flatten you.*
Alfie, though, defied timestill trim, still sharp.
By forty-five, *Mrs. Whitmore* was deputy head. Alfie worked as an engineerstandard middle-class lives.
Then the nineties hit.
Emilys daughter, Sophie, brought home a jobless fiancé”Were having a baby!” Meanwhile, the factory where hed welded, earning decent wages, was converted into a self-help seminar hall. *Because apparently, people cant grow without guidance.*
Outside, no one needed welders anymore. “Try selling coats at the market!” they told him.
“*Coats?* Im a certified welder!”
Pregnant Sophie stayed home. Now they were *both* unemployed.
Emily and her husbandan engineer turned courierscrambled. She imported coats from Spaingoodbye, teaching! *Too much knowledge brings sorrow.*
By decades end, things stabilisedthen the crash came.
Luckily, shrewd Emily had saved in pounds. Overnight, they went from broke to affording a *two-bed flat.* Yesterday, paupers; today, practically posh. *Only in Britain.*
Finally, they could move Sophie, her toddler, and the still-jobless fiancé out. There was even enough for a decent refurb. Emily returned to teaching*hard-nosed battle-axes like her were always needed.* The current deputy was “too soft.” *No room for niceties.*
She rarely saw Alfie.
At sixty, her husband left. “You *smothered* me,” he said. *Ah, the ironythank you, self-help gurus.*
The new century declared sixty-five the “*prime of life*”*oops, our mistake!* But *now* weve got it right!
Worst of all, he left for *nowhere*a friends spare room in a shared house. Not even love, just *escape.*
Sophie lived independently. Emily was alone.
Work didnt fill the void. Colleagues werent friends. And pouring her heart out to strangers? Too risky.
People were bitter now. *Eclipses, Mercury retrograde, thinning magnetic fieldsno wonder tempers frayed.*
Her granddaughter visited sometimesearphones in, phone glued to hand. Twenty, going on *oblivious.* No common ground.
At seventy, they pensioned her off. No protestsshe couldnt handle rowdy teens anymore.
Her world shrank to that two-bed flat.
Occasionally, she crossed paths with Alfie in the courtyardboth back in childhood homes, parents long gone.
He was alone toowidowed. They chatted, reminiscing.
Today, outside the shop, they fell into easy banterswinging between memories, all sunlit, all simple.
Then
“Remember when you asked to be my Peter?” Emily said.
Theyd never spoken of it.
“When did I say *that?*” Alfie blinked.
“Year Five, I think.”
“*Me?* Your Peter?” He laughed. “Are you *mad*, Whitmore? Never happened! Look at medo I *look* like Peter? And you were no Lucycouldnt even climb a rope! A *bandit*, maybe, but Lucy? Dream on.”
“You remember the rope but not Peter?” Her deputy-head tone sharpened. *Selective memory, is it?*
“I dont remember because it *didnt happen!*” Alfie met her gazesteady, unflinching.
Perhaps the mind scrubs away old humiliations. Childhood shame lingers oddly*sixty years ago, no big deal; now, it burns.*
*If I dont recall it, it wasnt real. Take that, Jelly.*
The conversation died. They parted.
*Why lie?* Emily mused. *His eyes betrayed him.*
But Alfie remembered *everything*because she was the first woman to ever reject him.
And some things, you never forget.
*Serves you right, Emily Jelly.*
