The Encounter
“Miss! Miss, wait! Do stop!” — Helen turned and saw a young man in a flat cap running after her. The cap seemed oddly familiar, but where had she seen it before?
“Blimey! Finally! Are you training for the Olympics, or what? Nearly didn’t catch you! I’m Kenneth. Kenneth Reginald Whitmore, if we’re being proper about it. But Ken’s fine. Decent chap, educated, you know. I… blimey, just a tick…” He bent forward, hands on his knees, still gasping for breath. The cap slid off his head and clattered onto the pavement. Without thinking, Helen bent down to pick it up—only to knock heads with the ever-so-proper Mr. Whitmore.
“Ow! Honestly—!” She rubbed her forehead, indignant, and turned to leave, but Ken caught her wrist.
“Hold on! I do apologise, that was an accident. Good heavens, what a day! You wouldn’t be Margaret’s sister, would you? Margaret Davies?” He whispered it as though sharing a secret, shoving the cap back on. “Saw you at her place once, but you were only about this tall—” He held his fingers an inch apart.
“Have you gone round the twist?” Helen arched a brow. “When I was *that* tall, you weren’t even a glimmer in your father’s eye! What do you want? You’re holding me up!”
“So you’re *not* Margaret Davies?” He looked crestfallen, measuring imaginary heights again. “Could’ve sworn…”
“No. I’m Helen Thorne. Goodbye.” She marched toward the Underground, but Ken trotted after her, persistent as a terrier.
“Well, now we’ve been introduced! You’re Helen, I’m Ken—splendid, isn’t it? Why so glum? And that bag looks heavier than a sack of spuds. Here, let me—” He reached for her woven shopping bag, but Helen flinched as though he’d brandished a knife.
“Hop it! Ah—I see now!” She smirked. “This is how you chat up girls, is it? Fascinating. But—”
“Ah, now you’re intrigued! Hand over the groceries, I won’t bolt. We’ve plenty of turnips and leeks at home, no need to pinch yours.” He nodded at the veg poking out of the bag. “And I know all sorts of things! Why planes stay up, how lightning works, the science behind perpetual motion, how to remove cherry jam stains—”
He was mid-monologue when Helen burst out laughing, thrust the bag at him, and told him to walk ahead.
“Read a children’s encyclopaedia, did you?” she asked, finally catching her breath.
“Among other things. Raised by my gran, you see. Evelyn Matilda Whitmore—strict as a headmistress when it came to learning. Poured all sorts of knowledge into me.” Ken mimed an invisible force stuffing his brain. It didn’t translate well.
“What’s with the hand-waving? Sending smoke signals? Am I about to be robbed?” Helen narrowed her eyes.
“Rubbish! Just illustrating how Gran crammed facts into me. Books, documentaries, lectures at the town hall, radio programmes—she was mad for education. Could tell you how to hatch a chick at home, propagate a rubber plant, fix a leaky tap—”
“Boring. Fancy an ice cream?” Helen found herself warming to this peculiar chap and his straying cap.
“No, ta. Lactose intolerant. Oxygen’s better for the brain.” He waved at the vendor. “One vanilla cone, please.”
“How’d you know I fancied vanilla?” She caught his wrist before he could pay. “My treat.”
“What’s this? I’m the one doing the asking!” Ken looked appalled.
“Raised by my gran too. Strict rules, you know! ‘Never owe a man a thing, Helen. Independence is everything!’ That’s what she drummed into me. So you’re already in my debt, carrying my shopping.”
“Ah. Women must do everything alone. Understood.” Ken sniffed. “But you and your gran have got it all backwards!”
“Excuse me?” Helen nearly choked.
“My gran always said, ‘A man without work is like an ant without its stick—withers away.’ Sorry, but Gran Evelyn’s outdone yours. And fighting for independence? Overrated. Which way now?”
“That way.” Helen jerked her thumb right, scowling. “My gran’s a respected woman! She built the Underground. Medals and all.”
“Underground’s grand,” Ken allowed, swiftly changing tack. “But d’you know why the wind blows? Seems simple, but the answer’ll knock your socks off!”
“Don’t be daft!” Helen snorted. “It’s air masses moving due to—”
“No, no, you’re thinking too modern! Gran always said winds happen because trees sway. Unarguable fact. Can’t prove which came first. Missed a lecture on it at the science fair—had tonsillitis. And snow! Under a microscope, it’s— Helen! Where’d you go?” Ken spun, realising he’d been talking to air. Helen had veered onto a side street. “Helen, wait! I’ve got your turnips! And leeks! Blimey, which way—?”
He sprinted back, cap askew, coins jangling in his pockets.
“Where’s the walking textbook got to now?” Helen called, waving.
“Not a textbook—a *repository of knowledge*,” Ken huffed. “Gran’s words. Her gardening club badgers me nonstop—tomato blight, dahlia rivalry, gladiolus storage. And none of ’em even have gardens! Just collecting trivia to one-up their neighbours. It’s bedlam.”
“So don’t tell them! Clam up. This way.” Helen steered him through a maze of alleyways.
“Can’t! That’s the horror of it.” Ken jostled the bag. The wind snatched his cap; Helen dusted it off and plopped it back on his head. “Gran’s reputation’s at stake. If she says I know gardening, I *must*. Aphids, mildew, manure ratios—I’ve recited phosphate grades like the Lord’s Prayer.”
Helen grinned. Letting this Kenneth Reginald Whitmore—gran-polished intellectual—haul her shopping was turning out grand.
“Managed to shake them off?” She paused to shake pebbles from her sandals.
“Well, y’see… heard of the theory of relativity?” Ken sighed. “Oi—mind the kerb!” They dodged traffic. “Every gran’s got grandkids. And *their* kids now. With pets. Hamsters, parrots, spiders, snakes. Suddenly I’m a vet. ‘How d’you house-train a ferret?’ ‘Do goldfish *like* music?’”
“Lucky you!” Helen said.
“How’s that?”
“Your childhood was *interesting*. Mine was poring over Tennyson and Dickens, copying out Austen. Gran loathes crowds—museums were weekday affairs, pre-arranged with her curator chums. Ken, where’d you holiday? And where are your parents? Or is that too forward?”
“*Forward*?” Ken laughed. “Geologists. Always off surveying. When home, they hosted raucous suppers. Gran says they ‘got me on a whim, like a spaniel.’ She’d already knitted booties, bless her.”
Helen chuckled. “We’ve just moved here. Still trek to the old market out of habit. Silly, but—”
“Not silly. Feet remember. We lived near Camden before this. Still visit. Your folks?”
“Oh, they’re here. Making vinaigrette tonight.” She smiled. “Ever sent to holiday camps? ‘PGL’? ‘Outward Bound’?”
“Gran shipped me to Granddad’s farm. They’ve not spoken since the Great Custard Shortage of ‘68. Summers were chopping wood, wrestling sheep, forgetting table manners. Gran would ‘re-civilise’ me after. Granddad let me try pipe tobacco once. Revolting.”
Helen listened, eyeing him sidelong.
“I did Girl Guides. Hated it at first. Gran seldom visited—too far. But then I made pals. Still can’t ride a bike, though. No space to learn.” She sighed, then spotted hopscotch squares and hopped along them before plonking onto a bench.
“That’s our block.” She nodded at a cream-coloured high-rise. “Gran’s watching from the balcony.”
“Where?” Ken squinted skyward. The cap toppled again.
“Tenth floor, blue dress—there!” She turned his head.
Ken bowed. A distant figure seemed to nod back.
“See you to your door?”
“Best not. Her interrogation’s guaranteed. Kenneth Whitmore, thank you.” She offered her hand. “Where’re you off to now?”
Ken hesitated, then pointed left.
“ThatAs they parted ways, both their grandmothers—peering through lace curtains and clutching their teacups—knew this wouldn’t be the last they’d see of each other.
