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Of Course, Everyone Remembered It Perfectly
“Of course, everyone remembers perfectly well”
“I dont remember because it never happened!” Peter Redford said seriously, looking at her with his honest, old-man eyes.
The conversation died down awkwardly, and they each went their separate ways.
*Why did he lie?* thought Emily. *It was obvious from his eyes he was lying!*
“Want me to be your Peter Pan?” offered eleven-year-old Tommy Redford to his crush, Emily Whitmore, one of his classmates.
“Whos Peter Pan?” the girl asked, surprised.
“Come on, havent you read the story? There was a fairy who enchanted him, and Wendy had to save him!”
“Wendy saves him? Its *Wendy* who saves him!” Emily said disdainfully. “Honestly, dont they teach you anything? Barrie would be rolling in his grave!”
“Whats the difference? Emily, Wendydoes it matter?” Tommy waved it off, never one to fuss over details. “Im askingdo you want me to be your Peter Pan?”
Emily didnt. Tommy was scrawny, with ears that stuck out, and noticeably shorter than her. Though, in fairness, saving him wouldve been easy.
She was sturdy, a head tallerhow would they even walk side by side after the rescue? The shame!
No chance. Besides, her heart already belonged to someone elseMike Dawson, the class troublemaker.
Speaking of, Mike was standing nearby, listening to their bickering with interest.
So Emily adjusted her hair ribbon and, loud enough for Mike to hear, said with a sniff, “Peter Pan? Please. You wouldnt even make a good Lost Boy. So, *Peter*, run along and dont trip!”
Mike burst out laughing. Tommy shot a nervous glance his way and bolted.
The next day, in front of everyone, he called Emily “Emily the Pudding” and declared, “Ill get my revenge, and itll be *terrible*!”
Well, what did you expect, Whitmore? Not every boy can take rejection gracefully.
Scrawny Tommy had brains, thoughenough to make up for what he lacked in muscle.
But yesterday, after getting slapped down by the girl he liked, hed been too flustered to think straight. Anyone wouldve been.
Now, it wasnt just Mike laughingthe whole class joined in. The nickname stuck.
Of course, when Emily complained at home about the insult, her parents comforted her.
But one day, her dad was helping her with algebra, and she just wasnt getting it. Finally, losing patience, he muttered, “Honestly, that Tommys rightyour heads full of pudding!”
Then he added, “Say hello to him for me.”
Tommy was to blame for that tooher father had never said anything like it before.
By graduation, the drama had faded. Childhood crushes, grudges, and petty insultswho had time for that now?
They even danced a couple of times. Tommy had shot up, filling out into a lean, athletic young manhed joined a sports club.
Mike flunked out after Year 11 and was packed off to a vocational college. Long-distance love was hard, so sorry, Mikey.
After school, their paths diverged. Emily went into teaching, Tommysmart as he washeaded to Imperial College London.
They still saw each other occasionally, living nearby, exchanging small talk.
Then life pulled them apartmarriages, moves, careers. Visits to their parents old neighbourhood became rare, and reunions well, those were best avoided.
Years turned boys into balding, beer-bellied men and girls into stern, middle-aged women. Emily was no exception.
Never slender, shed grown even more formidablea sturdy matron who couldve crushed you underfoot.
Tommy was the exception. He stayed lean, unchanged since his school days.
By forty-five, Emily Whitmore had risen to deputy headmistress. Peter Redford worked as an engineera steady, ordinary life.
Then the nineties hit.
Emilys daughter, Sophie, brought home a jobless fiancé*were having a baby!*
The factory where Sophies fiancé, James, had worked (decent wages, decent benefits) was now a rented-out warehouse hosting self-help seminarsapparently, people couldnt grow without guidance.
Welding jobs had vanished overnight. Turns out, nobody needed welders anymore!
“Go sell coats or jeans at the market,” they told him. “Those are *useful*.”
James refused*Im a certified welder, not a salesman!*
Pregnant Sophie stayed home. Now they were broke together.
Emily and her engineer husband scrambledshe started importing coats from Spain. *Goodbye, education!*
Her husband became a courierengineering wasnt respectable anymore. Capitalism, eh?
By the late nineties, things stabilised. Then came the recession.
Luckily, shrewd Emily and her husband had saved in pounds. On *that* August daythe one everyone would remember with dreadthey suddenly had enough for not just a one-bedroom, but a two.
Overnight, they went from broke to comfortable. Funny how money works.
Now they could move Sophie, her little girl, and Jamesstill scraping by on odd jobsinto their own place.
There was even enough left for renovations.
Soon, Sophie moved out, and Emily returned to teaching. Schools always needed tough old birds like her.
They even *moved aside* the current deputy*too soft, love. We need discipline, not coddling!*
Tommy, she hardly saw.
At sixty, Emilys husband, Mike, left her. “You smothered me,” he said. *Im my own man!*
Thanks, self-help gurus.
The new century declared sixty-five *the new active age**oops, our bad! But trust us this time!*
Worst of all, Mike hadnt left for another womanjust *nothing*. A friend lent him a spare room in a shared flat.
Sophie had long moved out. Emily was alone.
Work didnt fill the voidcolleagues werent friends. And pouring her heart out to strangers? No thanks.
People were mean these days. Plus, all these eclipses, Mercury in retrograde, thinning magnetic fieldsand dont get her started on prices!
Sometimes her grown-up granddaughter visiteda Gen-Z ghost with headphones and a phone. No real conversation.
By seventy, Emily was *gently* retired. No protestsshe was too old to handle schoolyard troublemakers.
Her world shrank to the size of her old flat.
Sometimes she bumped into Tommy in the courtyardboth back in their parents homes, now long gone.
Peter lived alone toohis wife had passed. He enjoyed chatting with Emily, reminiscing.
Today, theyd met by the shop and wandered off to talk.
The conversation meanderedchildhood memories, simple joys. Back when everything was bright.
“Remember when you wanted to be my Peter Pan?” Emily asked suddenly.
Theyd never brought it up before.
“When did I say that?” Peter frowned.
“Year Six, I think.”
“Me? *Peter Pan?*” He laughed. “Youve lost it, Whitmore! That never happened. Look at mesince when was I ever Peter Pan? And youWendy? Couldnt even climb a rope!”
“So you remember the rope but not Peter Pan?” Emilys deputy-headmistress tone returned. “Selective memory, is it? Thats a *fail*, Mr. Redford.”
“I dont remember because it never happened,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze with those steady old eyes.
Maybe his mind had buried the embarrassment. Age changes things.
But the conversation fizzled out, and they parted ways.
*Why lie?* Emily wondered. *His eyes gave him away.*
And Peter Redford? Of course he remembered. That was the first time a girl had ever rejected hima thing like that sticks.
So, serves you right, *Emily the Pudding.*
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