“I dont remember because it never happened!” declared Gingerby, looking at her with the earnest eyes of an old man. The conversation fizzled out awkwardly, and they went their separate ways.
*Why did he lie?* thought Greta. *It was so obvioushis eyes gave him away!*
“Would you like me to be your Kay?” asked eleven-year-old Peter Gingerby to his classmate Greta Willows, whom he rather fancied.
“Your *what*?” Greta frowned.
“You know, like in the fairy tale! The Snow Queen enchanted him, and Gretawell, Gerdarescued him!”
“Gerda rescues him, you nitwit!” scoffed Willows. “Honestly, have you even *read* Andersen?”
“Same differenceGreta, Gerda, whatever!” Peter waved it off, never one to fuss over details. “Im asking: do you want me to be your Kay?”
She didnt. Peter was all ears and elbows, scrawny and a good inch shorter than her. Not that rescuing someone smaller wouldve been hardbut still.
She was sturdy, half a head tallerhow embarrassing would *that* look? No, thank you. Besides, her heart was already taken by the class dunce, Michael Puddington.
Speaking of whom, he was lurking nearby, eavesdropping with great amusement.
Greta straightened her hair ribbon and, making sure Puddington heard, announced:
“Oh, please! You couldnt even pass for the reindeer, let alone Kay! So, *Kay*, shooand try not to sneeze while youre at it!”
Puddington burst out laughing. Peter shot him a panicked glance and bolted. The next day, in front of the entire class, he retaliated by dubbing her *Greta-the-Salad-Chef*”I am vengeance, and my wrath is terrible!”
Well, what did she expect, Willows? Rejection stingseven for a scrawny lad.
But Peter had brains, which more than made up for his lack of brawn. Yesterday, caught off guard by his crushs ruthless put-down, hed frozenwho wouldnt?
Soon, the whole class was cackling. The nickname stuckit *was* funny, even if the word *”cool”* hadnt yet entered their vocabulary.
Naturally, when Greta complained at home about the cruel moniker, she was coddled and consoled.
Until one evening. Her father was helping with algebra, but she just *wouldnt* grasp the basics. Finally, he snapped:
“You know what? That Gingerby boy was rightyour heads full of salad!”
Then, grinning: “Give him my regards.”
So now Peter was to blame for *that* too. Before, Dad had never said such things
By graduation, the drama had fadedchildhood grudges, crushes, and embarrassments all left behind. Who had time for that now?
They even shared a dance or two. Peter, now taller and fit from sports, had outgrown his awkward phase. Puddington, meanwhile, got booted to trade schoolstrict back then. Long-distance love fizzled out. Sorry, Mikey.
After school, their paths diverged. Greta went into teaching. Peter, ever the brainbox, headed for engineering.
Occasionally, theyd bump into each otherstill living nearbyand exchange pleasantries.
Later, life scattered them further. Marriages, moves. Their courtyard meetings dwindled to rare visits to ageing parents.
Class reunions? Best avoided. Too depressing.
The boys had morphed into balding, beer-bellied blokes. The girls? Plump aunties clinging to faded dreams. Willows was no exception.
Never slim to begin with, shed grown positively *monumental*like a village milkmaid from a Soviet poster. Just add a prize cow and a churn of butter in the background.
Willows was typical. Gingerby was notstill trim, as if preserved since graduation.
By forty-five, Greta was deputy head at a school. Peter worked as an engineerjust your average socialist life.
Then came the nineties.
For Greta-the-Salad-Chef, it coincided with her daughter Zoë bringing home a horseless groom”Were having a baby!”
Chaos reigned everywhereincluding their family. The groom, a welder on decent wages, saw his factory repurposed into a self-help seminar hub. Turns out, personalities couldnt grow *without* seminars.
Outside? Nothing to weld. The trade was suddenly obsolete.
“Go sell coats and jeans at the market,” they told him. “And attend a seminar firstlearn *how* to sell!”
Yuri refused”Im a *welder*!” Meanwhile, pregnant Zoë sat idle. Now they were *both* unemployed.
Greta and her engineer husband twisted like snakes on a griddle. She started importing coats from Greeceso much for education! “For in much wisdom is much grief.”
Husband became a courierengineering had lost its prestige. Capitalism, eh? Enjoy the ride.
By the decades end, things stabilisedjust in time for the *next* crisis.
By then, shrewd Greta had tucked away savings in dollars. Come that fateful August morning, they woke up richerenough for a two-bed flat!
Yesterday: paupers. Today: property owners. Only in Russia, eh?
Enough even for a decent refurb. Zoë moved out, and Greta returned to schooliron-willed battle-axes were always in demand. They even turfed out the soft-hearted deputy to reinstate her.
“Too many carrots, missy. We need the stick now.”
Gingerby sightings were rare.
At sixty, husband Michael left, saying shed crushed him with her “authority.” *He* was a *personality* too!
Thanks for that, self-help gurus.
The new century declared sixty-five the *new* primeoops, our bad! But *definitely* prime now!
The kicker? He left for *nowhere*just a spare room in a friends flat. Not even a midlife fling.
Zoë had her own life. Greta was alone.
Work didnt fill the void. Colleagues werent friends, and oversharing with strangers? Too risky.
People were bitter these days. What with eclipses, Mercury retrograde, and Earths magnetic field thinning by 15%plus inflation! Enough to make anyone crabby.
Zoës daughter visited sometimesa Gen-Z bubble of headphones and phones. No common ground.
At seventy, Greta retired without protest. Schoolyard louts could floor her now.
Her world shrank to her two-bed flat.
Occasionally, shed cross paths with an aged Gingerbyboth back in their childhood homes after their parents passed.
Peter was alone toowidowed. He enjoyed chatting with the now-plump Willows, reminiscing about school.
Today, they met by the shop and wandered off to gossip.
Talk swung like a pendulumcarefree childhood memories. Everything was brighter then. The whole world ahead, always sunny.
“Remember when you wanted to be my Kay?” Greta asked suddenly. Theyd never mentioned it before.
“*When* did I want to be your Kay?” Peter blinked.
“Year five, I think.”
“*Me*? Your *Kay*?” He snorted. “Have you gone soft in the head, Willows? Never happened. Look at these earsdo I look like Kay? And you were no Gerdacouldnt even climb a rope! Maybe a bandit, but *Gerda*? Pull the other one.”
“So you remember the rope but not Kay?” Her deputy-head voice resurfaced. “Pick and choose, do we? Detention for you!”
“I dont remember because it *didnt happen*,” he said firmly, those old-man eyes unblinking.
Maybe his brain had purged the memorymortifying then, trivial now.
*Farted on the potty aged four? Mortifying at sixty-five, unbearable at seventy!*
If he didnt recall it, it *wasnt real*. Take that, Willows.
The conversation died. They parted ways.
*Why lie?* Greta mused. *His eyes gave him away.*
And Peter?
Of course he remembered. It was the first time a woman had rejected himyou dont forget that.
So serves you right, Greta-the-Salad-Chef.
