**The Grey Girl**
Shirley had already drifted off when Mum came home from visiting the neighbour. She was telling Dad bits of village gossip. There wasn’t much, but one thing caught Shirley’s interest—Granny Nora’s granddaughter had arrived. Shirley was certain that Granny Nora’s daughter lived somewhere in the city, but she’d never seen her. As for the granddaughter, Shirley hadn’t a clue. Granny Nora wasn’t one for talking much. Often, Shirley would see the old woman sitting on the bench by her cottage, her head bowed, wiping her face with the end of her apron. Clearly crying. Shirley had asked Mum more than once why the old woman wept, but she never answered. Tomorrow, she’d go and meet this unexpected granddaughter.
With that thought, Shirley fell asleep.
In the morning, Alexandra got ready and went to Granny Nora’s. The first visit was a letdown—the granddaughter was still asleep. Granny refused to wake her, so Shirley had to come back later. After wandering about the street, the stubborn girl tried again. This time, the granddaughter was up, eating breakfast. Shirley saw a painfully thin girl in a faded cotton dress that had seen better days. A blue floral headscarf, surely Granny’s, was tied around her head. The girl looked up at Shirley, then went back to her meal. She ate slowly, tearing tiny bits from a slice of bread and washing them down with milk. That was all there was.
Shirley’s own family mostly had potatoes and pickled cabbage, though the cabbage often turned sour by August. Sometimes Mum made lightly salted cucumbers, making the potatoes taste heavenly, but the cucumbers were usually sold, making the salted ones a rare treat. Milk was scarce for their big family, and the bread Mum baked was often stretched with weeds or extra potatoes.
Shirley sat on the bench, waiting for the visitor to finish.
There wasn’t much about the girl to interest Shirley. City visitors usually dressed smartly, with pretty ribbons in their hair or bows on their dresses, but this one looked nothing like that. Looking closer, Shirley realised how terribly gaunt she was. Her skin was almost translucent, blue veins showing through. Though hardly plump herself, Shirley was shocked by the visitor’s bony frame.
The girl finished her bread, drank the last of the milk, then carefully gathered the crumbs—sweeping them into her palm and popping them into her mouth, just like Granny did. She stood, a little unsteady, shorter than Shirley. Her foot was slightly twisted inward, and she hunched awkwardly. A big nose stood out on her face, and her downturned eyes made it hard to tell their colour. She walked to the window, glanced at the sky, then approached Shirley.
«I’m Katie. What’s your name?»
«I’m Shirley,» Alexandra introduced herself, «I live in this village and I’m starting school soon. I’m seven. How old are you? What year will you be in? Where did you come from? Will you leave when term starts?»
«No, I’m staying,» Katie said. «I’ll live with Granny and go to your school. I’m twelve.»
Shirley could count just fine. That meant Katie was five years older—should be in Year 6. But something didn’t add up. Katie didn’t look like a Year 6 pupil. Her brother, Nick, was going into Year 6, and he was tall—helped with haymaking, carried bundles, chopped wood for sheep brushes. Yet imagining Katie with an axe was impossible.
«You’re in Year 6?» Shirley asked, skeptical. «You’ll get bullied. Some lads are fifteen, built like brick walls. It’ll be hard for you,» she sighed, just like Mum did.
«No, Year 1,» Katie said, and Shirley gaped. «I haven’t been to school before.»
«Why?» Shirley demanded.
«I was sick a long time. After, the doctors wouldn’t let me go. So I’m only starting now.» Unexpectedly, Katie started crying. Shirley stared, then left.
«Strange,» she thought on the way home. «What was she sick with to keep her out of school?» She’d heard of overgrown kids—Dad said some missed years because of the war. But Katie wasn’t one of those.
She couldn’t figure out if Katie had been born before or after the war. Ages confused her. Her sister, Nina, insisted she was older though she was born in 1936, and Shirley in 1946. Yet 36 was less than 46.
Tending the garden—mostly cucumbers—kept her from visiting Katie again. She’d glimpsed her a few times in the woods with Granny Nora but hadn’t had time to play.
On the first of September, Shirley, in her new cotton dress and sandals, went to school. There she saw Katie, also in a new dress and sandals. She’d filled out slightly but still peered out from under her hair—now with a white scarf dotted with tiny roses. Among the Year 6 girls, she didn’t stand out—some were taller, sturdier.
School life began. Soon, everyone got acquainted. The boys tried snatching Katie’s scarf, but the teacher forbade it, explaining that after her illness, Katie’s hair had fallen out and hadn’t grown back properly—she needed the scarf to keep warm.
What puzzled the others, though, was how Katie avoided the corridors, never played with the girls, and shrank from the boys. Loud noises frightened her—passing cars or tractors made her pale and hide under her desk. Once, a late September storm rolled in, lightning flashing, thunder shaking the school. The class sat silent. At the first thunderclap, Katie fainted. It took ages to revive her. She missed two days, then returned.
Katie did well in lessons, helping those who lagged. As Christmas approached, preparations began. Shirley’s class was putting on *Jack the Giant Killer*. No one wanted to play the witch—everyone wanted to be princes or fairies.
Before the holidays, a doctor came for inspections—weighing, measuring, checking heads for lice, teeth, ears, nails. When it was Katie’s turn, everyone stared, eager to see her hair. The doctor, ignoring her protests, yanked off her scarf—and the class froze. Katie had two neat plaits coiled into a crown, but her hair was completely white. The strands, mussed from the scarf, framed her pale face. Her nose reddened with tears.
«Witch,» Pete Higgins blurted. «Katie, you’re a real witch! No costume needed—just mess your hair, wear Granny clothes, and you’re set. Even got the limp!» He laughed, proud of his wit. Some joined in. «You even eat crumbs off the floor. Perfect witch.»
The doctor gaped at the white hair. Shirley shot up like a spring, flew at Pete, and punched him square in the face—twice, thrice.
Blood gushed from Pete’s nose. He howled, clutched his face, and bolted. The doctor and teacher chased after him. They were gone a while. When they returned, Pete’s nose was taped, his eyes blackened.
«Shirley, your parents will come tomorrow. Yours too, Pete,» the teacher said flatly. «Unheard of—attacking someone like that. Shirley, you might be expelled.»
Shirley gasped. Expelled? For that lout? She dashed out, sobbing in the corridor.
Katie found her. «Come to the locker room. I’ll tell you everything.» They left early, though lessons weren’t over.
«I was born in the first year of the war,» Katie said. «We lived in London. Dad went to fight; Mum, my brother Vinnie, and I stayed. When the Blitz came, food ran out. Vinnie died. Mum couldn’t walk far to find food—she fed me instead. Granny says she doesn’t know how. Where would milk come from? But I lived. When the siege lifted, they evacuated us. On the way, the Germans bombed our train. Bombs fell, planes screamed. They machine-gunned children. Almost everyone died. Shirley, I remember those blasts. I remember! I was three. It still scares me. That’s why I hide from thunder, from engines. I saw Mum torn apart. That’s when my hair turned white. Someone pulled me from the wreckage. My leg was hurt—they saved it, but I’ll always limp. Still, I’m alive. The hair doesn’t matter. The jokes hurt, but what can I do? And yes, I’ll always eat crumbs. Back then, I was always hungry.»
After the war, Dad found her. But the war killed him too—tuberculosis. Soldiers died that way long after fighting ended. She had it too. Hospitals, sanatoriums, but it wouldn’t leave. Then a new medicine saved her. No orphanage would take her—too risky. Kind people helped. Granny found her. Said she must go to school—with her health, she’d never manage heavy work.
She thanked Shirley for standing up for her. «No one ever did before.»
At home, Mum and Dad scolded ShirleyYears later, under the shade of the old oak where they used to sit, Shirley and Katie laughed about those days, their grey and golden hair mingling in the breeze.