**The Grey Girl**
I was already dozing off when Mum came back from the neighbour’s. She was telling Dad all the village gossip. There wasn’t much, but one piece caught my attention—Old Nan had a granddaughter staying with her. I knew Nan’s daughter lived somewhere in the city, but I’d never seen her, and I’d certainly never heard of a granddaughter. Nan wasn’t one for chatter. Often, I’d see her sitting on the bench outside her cottage, head bowed, dabbing her face with the edge of her shawl. She’d been crying, that much was clear, but whenever I asked Mum why, she’d just brush me off. Tomorrow, I’d go and meet this mystery girl.
With that thought, I drifted off.
In the morning, I got ready and headed to Nan’s. The first visit was a bust—the granddaughter was still asleep, and Nan wouldn’t dream of waking her. I wandered the lanes for a while before circling back. This time, the girl was up, eating breakfast. She was painfully thin, wearing a faded cotton dress that had clearly seen better days, and a pale blue shawl tied over her head. She glanced at me but kept eating, tearing tiny bites from a crust of bread and washing it down with milk. That was all she had. Even I didn’t often see meals that meagre.
At home, we usually had potatoes with sauerkraut—sometimes Mum would pickle cucumbers as a treat, but those mostly went to market. Milk was scarce for our big family, and the bread had bits of whatever Mum could stretch it with—wild greens, potatoes.
I sat on the bench, waiting for her to finish.
There was nothing remarkable about her. City girls usually wore ribbons in their hair or pretty dresses, but she looked nothing like them. Up close, I could see how frail she was—her skin nearly transparent, blue veins showing through. I wasn’t exactly plump myself, but her thinness shocked me.
Finally, she finished, sweeping the last crumbs into her palm and swallowing them—just like Nan did. When she stood, I saw she was short, one foot turned awkwardly inward, shoulders hunched. Her nose was too big for her face, and her eyes, half-hidden under her brow, were an unreadable colour. She walked to the window, looked out, then came over.
“My name’s Kate,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Sarah,” I answered. “I live here. I’m starting school soon—I’m seven. How old are you? Where are you from? Will you leave when term starts?”
“No,” she said softly. “I’m staying with Nan. I’ll go to your school. I’m twelve.”
That didn’t make sense. Twelve meant fifth year, but she looked nothing like a fifth-year—my brother Colin was that age, strong enough to scythe hay and chop firewood. Kate could barely lift a spoon.
“You’re really going into fifth year?” I frowned. “The boys there are huge—some are fifteen. You won’t stand a chance.”
“No,” she murmured. “First year. I’ve never been to school.”
“Why not?”
“I was ill. For years. Even after I got better, the doctors wouldn’t let me go.” Her voice cracked, and suddenly she was crying. I turned and left, confused.
Was the war why she hadn’t gone? Plenty of older kids had missed years because of it, but Kate? The war had ended long before she was born. She must’ve been born—oh, I was terrible with numbers.
The first of September came. I marched off in my new dress and sandals, and there was Kate—also in a new dress, shawl now white with tiny roses. She’d filled out a little but still hunched, still glancing warily from under her brow.
School life settled. The boys tried snatching her shawl, but the teacher scolded them—Kate’s hair had fallen out from illness, she said, and the shawl kept her warm. But Kate was strange in other ways. She rarely left the classroom, flinched at loud noises—tractors, thunder. Once, she fainted during a storm.
Then came the doctor’s inspection. When he yanked off Kate’s shawl, the class gasped. Two neat braids, but her hair was completely grey.
“Granny Weatherwax!” Pete Wheeler jealed. “Look at you—no costume needed for the play!”
The doctor just stared. Kate’s lips trembled.
Something snapped in me. I launched myself at Pete, punching him square in the face. Blood gushed from his nose as he howled.
The teacher dragged me to the headmaster’s office. They threatened expulsion. I ran outside, sobbing—until Kate found me.
“I was born during the war,” she whispered. “In London. Dad was at the front. We were trapped when the bombing started. My brother starved. Mum—I don’t know how she fed me. When they finally got us out, our train was attacked. I saw her die. That’s when my hair turned.” She touched her braids. “I spent years in hospital. Tuberculosis. Nan’s all I have now.”
Dad went to school the next day. They didn’t expel me.
Kate stayed. By ninth year, Mum’s herbal rinses had worked—her hair grew back dark. At graduation, she wore it in a ponytail, not a single grey strand in sight.