“Of course, he remembered everything perfectly well.
‘I dont remember because it never happened!’ declared Gingerly, looking at her with the honest eyes of an old man.
The conversation fizzled out awkwardly, and everyone went their separate ways.
‘Why did he lie?’ thought Gretchen. ‘It was obvious from his eyes!’
‘Do you want me to be your Hans?’ offered eleven-year-old Peter Gingerly to his crush, classmate Gretchen Holloway.
‘What kind of Hans?’ she asked, baffled.
‘You know, like in the story? Havent you read it? The Snow Queen enchanted him, and Gretchen saved him!’
‘Gretchen? It was Gerda who saved him!’ scoffed Holloway. ‘Honestly, Gingerlyeven Andersen would cringe!’
‘Whats the difference? Gretchen, Gerda?’ Gingerly brushed it off, never one to fuss over details. ‘Im askingdo you want me to be your Hans?’
She didnt. Peter was scrawny, with ears like jug handles and at least two inches shorter than her. Though, she supposed, rescuing someone that small would be easier.
But Gretchen was sturdy, half a head tallerhow would they even walk side by side after the heroic rescue? The shame of it!
No, thank you. Besides, her heart already belonged to someone else: the class dunce, Mike Pudding.
Speaking of whom, he was loitering nearby, eavesdropping with great interest.
So Gretchen, adjusting her ribbon, delivered her verdict loud enough for Mike to hear:
‘Oh please, Hans? You wouldnt even make a decent reindeer! So, Hans, toddle off and stop embarrassing yourself!’
Mike burst into laughter. Peter shot him a terrified glance and bolted. The next day, in front of the whole class, he retaliated by dubbing Holloway ‘Gretchen-the-Messchen”Ill have my revenge, and itll be terrible!’
Well, what did you expect, Holloway? Not every man can take rejection gracefully. And he *had* been rejected.
Scrawny Peter was sharp as a tack, his intellect more than making up for his lack of brawn.
But yesterday, blindsided by his crushs brutal dismissal, hed frozen. Anyone would have.
Soon, it wasnt just Pudding laughingthe whole class joined in. The nickname stuck. It was funny, after all. Even if the word ‘funny’ hadnt been in fashion yet.
Naturally, when Gretchen complained at home about the cruel nickname, she was comforted and coddled.
But one day, her father was helping with algebrahis daughter stubbornly refusing to grasp the simplest concepts. Finally, exasperated, he snapped:
‘Honestly, your Peters rightyour heads nothing but a mess!’
Then added:
‘Send him my regards!’
So now Peter was to blame for that too. Her father had never said anything like it before
By graduation, tempers had cooledall the childhood drama forgotten: crushes, grudges, petty grievances. Who had time for that now?
They even danced together a couple of times. Peter, by then, had shot up past Gretchen and filled out nicelythanks to his new gym habit.
Mike got booted to trade school after year eightstrict times, thoseand long-distance love was hard. Sorry, Mikey
After school, their paths diverged: Gretchen went into teaching, while Peter, the brainbox, headed off to Imperial College.
Occasionally, they bumped into each otherthey still lived nearbyand exchanged a few words.
Then life scattered them further: marriages, moves. Meetings at the old neighbourhood bench grew rare, reserved for parental visits.
Sometimes they crossed paths at reunions. But soon, it was clear those were best avoidedtoo depressing.
Years passed. The boys balded and grew beer bellies; the girls plumped into formidable aunties with opinions. Gretchen was no exception.
Never slim, shed grown positively statuesquelike a living tribute to Britannia herself. ‘Step too close and Ill flatten you,’ her posture seemed to say. All she lacked was a trident and a lion.
Gretchen followed the script. Peter didnthe stayed lean, almost eerily unchanged since graduation.
By forty-five, Gretchen Holloway had clawed her way up to deputy headmistress. Peter Gingerly worked as an engineerjust your average Thatcher-era life.
Then came the nineties. For Gretchen-the-Messchen, this coincided with her daughter Zoe bringing home a ‘horseless’ fiancé’Were having a baby!’
As if the world outside wasnt mad enough, now madness had invaded her home.
The factory where her future son-in-law weldedearning decent wages and perkswas promptly converted into a ‘self-actualisation seminar space.’ Because apparently, personalities couldnt grow without guidance.
Outside the factory? Nothing to weld. The trade was suddenly obsolete.
‘Go sell coats and jeans at the market,’ they told him. ‘Those *are* in demand.’
Young Jerry refused’Im a grade-six welder! What do coats have to do with it?’
Pregnant Zoe stayed home. Now they were both unemployed.
Gretchen and her husband, also an engineer, scrambled like eels in a frying pan. She started importing coats from Spaingoodbye, education! (Extra knowledge just meant extra grief.)
Her husband became a courierengineers werent respected anymore. Capitalism, eh? You get what you voted for.
By the late nineties, things stabilised. Then the crash hit.
By then, shrewd Gretchen had squirrelled away a tidy sum in dollars. That fateful August day, it became enough to buy not a one-bed, but a two-bed flat!
Theyd gone to sleep paupers and woken up practically bourgeois. Only in Britain. How many more financial miracles awaited?
At last, they could offload Zoe, her growing granddaughter, and Jerrystill scraping by on odd jobs. The country wouldnt need welders for a long while
There was even enough left for a decent refurb. Soon, Zoe moved out, and Gretchen returned to school. Tough old bats like her were always in demand. Welcome back, deputy!
They even nudged aside the current, ‘too soft’ deputy. ‘We need a firm hand, love. Off you pop with your kindness.’
She hardly saw Peter anymore.
At sixty, Gretchens husband Mike left her. His parting shot? ‘You crushed me with your *authority*. Im a person too!’
Ah, the golden age of self-help gurus.
The new century declared sixty-five the ‘new active age’oops, our bad! But *now* weve got it right!
The real insult? Mike didnt leave for another womanthat she couldve understood. No, he left for *nowhere*: a mates spare room in a dodgy flatshare. Not even proper plumbing could deter him.
Zoe had long since flown the nest. Gretchen was alone.
Work didnt fill the voidcolleagues werent friends, just subordinates. Pouring her heart out to strangers? No thanks. People were vicious these days.
Between eclipses, Mercury retrograde, and the ozone layer thinning, was it any wonder tempers frayed? And dont get her started on prices.
Occasionally, her grown granddaughter visiteda Gen-Z ghost, forever plugged into headphones and phone. Conversations went nowhere. No one listened anyway.
By seventy, the school ‘gently encouraged’ Gretchens retirement. She didnt resist. Schoolyard ruffians couldve flattened her without breaking a sweat.
Her world shrank to the size of her two-bed flat.
Sometimes, she ran into an ageing Peter in the neighbourhoodboth back in their childhood homes after their parents passed. They met more often now.
Peter was alone toohis wife long gone. He enjoyed chatting with the now-voluminous Holloway, reminiscing about school.
Like today, bumping into each other outside the shops.
Their conversation meanderedback and forth like a pendulumdredging up simple, happy memories.
Everything had seemed brighter then. The future stretched ahead, endless and sunlit.
‘Remember when you wanted to be my Hans?’ Gretchen asked suddenly.
Theyd never spoken of it before.
‘When did I ever want to be your Hans?’ Peter frowned.
‘Year five, I think!’
‘Me? Your Hans?’ He scoffed. ‘Have you gone barmy, Holloway? Never happened. Look at these earssince when was I Hans material? And you were no Gerdacouldnt even climb a rope! Maybe a bandit, but Gerda? Dream on.’
‘So you remember the rope but not Hans?’ Gretchens deputy-headmistress voice emerged, sharp and sly. ‘Selective memory, eh? Sit down, Gingerlyyou get a D for denial.’
‘I dont remember because it never happened,’ Peter said firmly, his old-man eyes utterly sincere.
Maybe his brain had purged the embarrassing memoryage did that. Things that mortified
