The Encounter
“Miss! Miss, wait! Do stop!” — Emily turned and saw a young man in a flat cap hurrying after her. The cap looked oddly familiar—where had she seen it before? “Blimey! Finally! You must be a sprinter—I could hardly keep up!” He grinned. “Benedict. Ben for short. Full name’s Benedict Leopold Whitmore. Distinguished, respectable, respectable indeed. I… phew, just a moment…” He bent forward, hands on his knees, catching his breath. The cap slipped off his head and landed on the pavement. Without thinking, Emily reached down to pick it up just as he straightened—their heads collided with a thud.
“Ow! Really!” she huffed, rubbing her forehead and turning to leave, but Ben caught her wrist.
“Hang on! Sorry, that was an accident. Good heavens, what a day! You’re not… Michael’s sister, are you? James Michael? You must be Lucy?” he whispered, shoving the cap back on. “I think I’ve seen you at his place—only you were about this tall back then…” He pinched his fingers to demonstrate a tiny Emily.
“Have you been out in the sun too long?” She gave him a withering look. “If I was ever that small, you weren’t even born yet! What do you want? You’re holding me up!”
“So you’re not Lucy Michael? Not Lucy?” He looked crestfallen, measuring the air again as if estimating her childhood height.
“No. I’m Emily Carter. Goodbye!” She marched toward the Tube, but Ben kept pace, annoyingly persistent for a so-called respectable fellow.
“Well, now we’re properly introduced! You’re Emily, I’m Ben—brilliant, isn’t it? Why so gloomy? And that bag looks fit to burst. Here, let me!” He reached for the woven basket, but Emily dodged as if he’d tried to snatch her purse.
“Go your own way! Wait—ah!” She smirked. “Is this how you chat up girls? Fascinating. But—”
“See, now you’re fascinated! Hand it over, I won’t bolt. We’ve plenty of beetroot and onions at home—no need for yours,” he nodded at the vegetables poking out. “And I happen to know loads! Why planes don’t fall, how lightning works, what perpetual motion is, how to remove cherry jam stains at home—”
He might’ve prattled on, but Emily burst out laughing and thrust the basket at him, nudging him forward.
“Did you read a children’s encyclopedia cover to cover?” she asked, still giggling.
“Well, that too. See, I live with my gran. Margaret Whitmore—my dad’s mother, Leopold’s mum—very particular about education! She ‘invested’ in me.” Ben mimed knowledge being poured into his head with one hand, which only confused matters.
“Why are you waving your hands? Signaling for a mugger?” Emily eyed him warily.
“Blast it, no! That’s just how Gran stuffed facts into me. Books, documentaries, lectures at the summer pavilion, radio plays. She’s in charge of public enlightenment, so naturally, enlightening me was her top priority. I could tell you how to hatch a chick at home, propagate a ficus, fix a sink trap—”
“Boring. Fancy an ice cream?” Emily was starting to like this odd, cap-wearing encyclopedia.
“No, ta. Lactose doesn’t agree with me. Oxygen enriches the brain,” he waved it off. “But I’ll get you one. Miss,” he called to the vendor, “a vanilla cone, please.”
“How’d you guess my favorite?” She caught his hand as he reached for his wallet and paid herself.
“What’s this? My treat!” Ben spluttered.
“My gran raised me too. Strict rules, you see! ‘Do everything yourself, Emily! Independence—that’s what women fought for!’ And so on. Quotes and all. Point taken. I’m already in your debt with the basket. And—”
“And women must fend for themselves, got it,” Ben nodded, then frowned. “But you’ve got it all wrong, you and your gran!”
“Excuse me?” Emily coughed.
“My gran always said a man without work is like an ant without a stick—withers away. No offence, but Gran Margie and I have you beat. And you women fought for independence for nothing. Which way now?”
“That way!” She jabbed a finger right, scowling. “My gran’s a respected woman! She built the Underground. She’s got medals.”
“The Underground’s grand,” Ben conceded, keen to steer clear of gran debates. “But d’you know why the wind blows? Simple question, but the answer’ll shock you!”
“Oh, come off it!” Emily snorted. “Temperature differences move air masses—”
“No, no! You’re thinking backwards! As Gran Margie told me when I was three—wind happens because trees sway. Unarguable fact. You can’t prove otherwise. Gran couldn’t either. Missed the lecture at the town hall because I had tonsillitis. Now, snow! Under a microscope, a snowflake’s breathtaking! And fragile! And—Emily! Where’d you go?” Ben realized he’d been walking alone for thirty seconds. She’d veered onto another street. “Emily, wait! I’ve got your beetroot! And onions! I’m walking you home! Blimey, where’re you off to now?”
He scrambled back, cap bouncing, coins jingling in his pockets.
“Where’s the walking encyclopedia?” Emily called, waving.
“Not an encyclopedia! Gran calls me a ‘fount of knowledge.’ Her gardening club ladies bombard me with questions—tomato seedlings, dahlias, gladiolus storage. Half don’t even have gardens! They just show off to those who do. Unbearable!”
“So don’t answer! Stay mum. This way.” Emily redirected him through alleys.
“I can’t! That’s the horror!” Ben shook the basket. The wind stole his cap; Emily caught it, dusted it off, and plopped it back on his head. “Thanks! See, I can’t let Gran down. Her reputation’s at stake. If she says her grandson knows gardening, then by Jove, I must. Aphids, mildew, horse manure—I had to learn it all. Spotting good superphosphate? Recited it like the Lord’s Prayer.”
Emily grinned. Letting Benedict Leopold Whitmore—Gran’s polished prodigy—carry her groceries wasn’t so bad.
“Did you escape eventually?” She stopped to shake pebbles from her sandals.
“Well… ever heard of relativity? Blast—mind the crossing!” They dashed across as cars glared. “Every gran’s friend has grandkids. And grandkids have pets! Hamsters, guinea pigs, parrots, spiders, snakes. Nobody reads manuals—why bother when Gran’s got a ‘fount of knowledge’ at home? I became an impromptu vet. Taught them all.”
“Lucky you!”
“How?”
“Your childhood was fun. Mine was… cultured. Gran kept me indoors. Pushkin, Tolstoy, manners. Rare outings—museums on weekdays, by appointment. Did you holiday? Where are your parents? Or is that too forward?”
“Not at all. They’re geologists—always on expeditions. Gran Margie says they ‘got a pup too young.’ She had my cotton bonnet and booties ready long before. Typical.”
“We just moved here. Still buy veggies near our old place. Silly, but—”
“Not silly. Feet remember. We lived near Camden before. Five years here now. Your parents?”
“At home. Making salad later. Did you go to camp? Scout jamborees?”
“I was packed off to Grandpa’s cottage. He and Gran rowed years ago—can’t even recall why. Every summer, she’d take a spa trip, and I’d go wild with Grandpa Joe—chopping wood, rowing on the Thames. Gran ‘re-civilized’ me afterward. He once let me try pipe tobacco. Vile stuff.”
Emily listened, stealing glances at this chatty oddball.
“I went to the same camp every summer. Parents insisted. Awful at first—Gran rarely visited. Then I made friends. Very ‘proper’ holidays. Never learned to ride a bike… no space.” She sighed, hopping sidewalk hopscotch before plonking onto a bench. “That’s our block. Gran watches from the balcony.”
“Where?” Ben craned his neck. The cap toppled again.
“Tenth floor. Blue dress—there!” She turned his head.
Ben bowed. The figure seemed to nod back.
“See you to the door?”
“Best not. She’s seen you—questions all evening. Benedict Whitmore, thanks for walking me.” She offered her hand. “Where to now?”
He hesitated, then pointed left. “That way. My gran’s on her balcony, binoculars and all. Saw everything. Time for my ‘confession’: where IAs the years passed, Emily often teased Ben about that first encounter, while their grandmothers—now the best of friends—still watched from their balconies, secretly scheming to spoil their future grandchildren rotten.
