“Encounters”
“Oi! Miss! Miss, stop! Blimey, hold up, will you?”—Emily turned to find a bloke in a flat cap sprinting toward her. The cap nagged at her memory—had she seen it before? Where? “Christ, you move quick! You an Olympic sprinter or what? Bloody tough catchin’ you! Name’s Archie. Archie Linton. Proper title’s Archibald Reginald Linton—posh, innit? Respectable, refined, all that…” He bent double, fists on knees, gasping. The cap tumbled off, clattering onto the pavement. Without thinking, Emily stooped to grab it—bam!—their skulls cracked together.
“Ow! Sodding hell!” She rubbed her forehead, scowled, spun on her heel—but Archie caught her wrist.
“Hang on! Sorry, that were an accident. Bloody hell, what a day! You’re Nick’s sister, ain’t ya? Nick Thompson?” He jammed the cap back on, whispering like it were a secret. “Saw you at his place once, but you were wee tiny—” He pinched thumb and finger to show a minuscule Emily.
“You gone daft in the sun?” She eyed him down her nose. “If I were *that* small, you weren’t even a twinkle in your dad’s eye! What d’you want, then? I’ve places to be!”
“So… you’re *not* Lucy? Lucy Thompson?” He measured imaginary heights again, squinting as if recalculating childhood years.
“No. I’m Emily Whitaker. Cheers.” She marched off toward the Tube, but Archie—stubborn as a terrier—kept pace.
“Now we’ve met proper! You’re Em, I’m Archie—grand, yeah? Why the long face? And that bag’s heavier than a sack o’ bricks. Here, lemme—” He reached for her woven tote, but Emily skittered sideways like he’d brandished a knife.
“Piss off down your own road! Ah-ha!” She jabbed a finger. “This your usual bird-chatting tactic, eh? Right original. But—”
“See! Now you’re curious! Hand the bag over, I ain’t nickin’ your carrots.” He nodded at the veg poking out. “I know loads, me. Why planes don’t fall, how lightning bolts, perpetual motion machines, gettin’ jam stains outta linen—proper useful stuff—”
Emily snorted, thrust the bag at him, and told him to lead on. “You swallowed a children’s encyclopedia?”
“Among other things. Raised by me nan, see? Gladys Agatha Linton. Proper stickler for ‘brain enrichment.’” He mimed force-feeding knowledge with his hands.
“You wafflin’ or semaphorin’? Am I about to get mugged?”
“Bugger off! Just— Nan crammed it all in. Books, documentaries, lectures at the community hall… She ran the local WI meetings. Reckon educatin’ *me* were her life’s work. Could tell you how to hatch chicks in a shoebox, prop’gate geraniums, fix a leaky U-bend—”
“Dead borin’. Fancy a 99?” The cap, the rambling—Archie was growing on her, like ivy on a shed.
“Nah, lactose intolerant. Oxygen’s better for the brain.” He waved at the ice cream van. “But you have one.—Vanilla cone, mate.”
“How’d you guess?” She batted his hand away, paid herself.
“Oi! My treat!” Archie puffed up like a ruffled pigeon.
“Nan raised me same. Strict as a headmistress. ‘Do for yourself, Emily! Independence is what we marched for!’—all that suffragette palaver. Point is, I owe you nowt. You’re carryin’ me bag, and—”
“—And women do everythin’ themselves, got it.” He sniffed. “But your nan’s dead wrong.”
“The *hell* she is!” Emily choked on her ice cream.
“Swear down! Dunno what yours quoted, but *me* nan said, ‘A man without work’s like an ant without a stick—withers away.’ Me and Gladys Agatha trump you lot. And this ‘independence’ malarkey? Overrated. Where next?”
“There!” She jabbed right, glowering. “Me nan’s *decorated*, mate. Built Tube lines. Got medals.”
“Tubes are brilliant,” Archie conceded, veering sharply off familial debates. “But d’you know *why* wind blows? Seems simple, but the answer’ll knock your socks off.”
“Oh, piss off with your know-it-all—”
“Wrong! Gladys Agatha told me when I were three: wind happens ‘cause trees wave their branches. Fact. Can’t prove otherwise.” He wobbled the bag. “Snowflakes—gorgeous under microscopes! Fragile as—*Emily!* Where’d you go?!” He’d been monologuing to air for thirty seconds. She’d veered into an alley. “Em! I’ve got your *carrots*! Blimey, wait up!”
He pelted after her, cap askew, coins jangling.
“Oi, you walkin’ Wikipedia!” she called, waving.
“I’m a *repository*,” he huffed. “Gladys Agatha’s words. Her WI cronies grill me like I’m bleedin’ *Gardener’s Question Time*. ‘How’s your marrows, Archie?’ ‘Best compost for begonias?’ Mental—half ‘em don’t even *have* gardens!”
“Just *don’t* answer!” She herded him through a maze of backstreets.
“Can’t! Nan’s pride’s at stake. If Gladys says I know summat, I *know* it. Aphids, blight, horse manure—Christ, the *manure* lectures—I recited phosphate grades like the Lord’s Prayer.”
Emily grinned. Letting this posh oddball haul her shopping was worth it.
“So? Shook ‘em off?”
“Ever heard of… relativity?” He sighed. “Every nan’s mate’s got grandkids. Then *great*-grandkids. With *pets*. Hamsters, parrots, spiders, *worms*—and suddenly I’m bleedin’ *Pet Rescue*.”
“Lucky.”
“How’s that?”
“You had fun. Me? Stuck indoors learnin’ Tennyson by heart. Nan hates crowds. Museums on weekdays, telly plays. Ever been to Butlin’s?”
“Nah. Summers at Grandad Bert’s farm. Nan took spa trips; I got shoved into wellies. Chopped wood, dug spuds, swam the Severn—went feral. Came back chewin’ nails, forgettin’ cutlery. Nan *hated* it.” He grinned. “Bert let me try pipe tobacco once. Rubbish.”
Emily studied him sidelong.
“I got packed off to Girl Guides every summer. Hated it first year—missed home. Then made mates. Never learned to ride a bike, though.” She sighed, spotting hopscotch squares, and flopped onto a bench. “That’s ours.” She nodded at a cream-coloured block of flats. “Nan’s watchin’ from the balcony.”
“Where?” Archie tilted his head. Cap flopped off.
“Tenth floor. Blue dress.” She swiveled his head.
He bowed. The figure above mimicked it.
“See you up?”
“Nah. She’s clocked you—that’s enough interrogation.” Emily offered her hand. “Ta, Archibald Reginald. Where you headed?”
He hesitated, then jerked his chin left. “Mine’s balcony’s that way. Binoculars glintin’—see? Gladys Agatha’s seen all. Gettin’ the third degree later.” He sighed. “Nice meetin’ you.”
The sudden *“you”* fit him, warm as the cap’s shadow on his brow.
“Wait!” Emily grabbed his sleeve. “*Now* I remember your cap! You’re the bloke from the park! No wonder you spun that ‘Nick’s sister’ bollocks.”
“Caught out.” Archie pinked. “Too nervous to talk proper. Today I just… went for it. Em, your *carrots*—”
They lingered, saying everything and nothing. Above, their nans assessed each other through glass.
Gladys Agatha tweaked her binoculars, scrutinized the petunias on Emily’s nan’s balcony, and *hmphed*.
“Archie!” she bellowed the second he stepped in. “Who’s *that* girl? Mixin’ with dubious sorts—”
“How’s she dubious?” He waved at Emily’s shrinking figure.
“Her nan looked down her nose at me! Unforgivable. Now, Mrs. Higginbottom’sTheir nans eventually bonded over shared disdain for Archie’s grandad, Bert, who still lived on his farm with two geese and a rooster named Clive, while the young couple, laughing and oblivious, began their own story under the watchful eyes of two women who, despite themselves, had already started planning the wedding.
