Short story, For Gemma who refused to write me a story.

In the corner of a room, in a house, in a village, deep in the green country, an old lady, as young as the autumn sunshine that spilled over the stone floor, sat down at a table opposite a

small girl who was busy arranging something tidily into the shape of something she had just thought of. The old lady made the sort of noise that old ladies everywhere make when they sit down, a kind of “ooof...” noise. The little girl looked at her with a great deal of affection, for she was her grandmother and this was appropriate.

“Granny,” she said with a tone that suggested a great deal of thought, “Was I named after you or mummy?”

“Ah!” The old lady leaned her elbows on the table and folded her hands. The breeze paused in the trees and the garden stopped to listen through the open window.

“Ah, Gemma, Gemma, Gemma. I was wondering when this would come up.” She pursed her lips and the little girl pursed backat her.

“What do you remember about your mother?”

“I remember she was very tidy, even tidier than you.” The kitchen was, indeed, immaculate.

“Yes, and do you remember what happened to her, you were very young?”

The little girl looked sad as she remembered, “She was so tidy that the doctors came and tidied her away somewhere so tidy that she would always be happy.”

“That's right, and that's why you're not named after your mother, because we don't want that happening again do we?”

“No granny. Does that mean I'm named after you?”

“Ah, no, and that's because – do you remember your father, Alan?”

“Yes. Was he named after granddaddy Alan?”

“No, but that's another story. Your father didn't want you named after me because of how I am with the drink.”

“You are a devil for the drink granny. How did I get my name then?”

“Well, to tell you that I have to tell you a story about another Gemma.”

“You mean - “

“No, not the Gemma you're thinking of, this is another Gemma.”

The little girl's eyes widened with added interest. “You mean Evil Gemma?”

“Yes, but you don't know why Evil Gemma was called Evil Gemma do you?”

“No, you've always said I was too young. Did she kill someone?”

“She didn't kill anyone, not really.”

“Was she cruel to animals?”

“Worse.”

“What can be worse than being cruel to animals?”

“She wouldn't write a story.”

“That's ridiculous, not writing a story can't make you evil, how could it?”

“Consequences.” The old lady sighed, “everything has consequences. Do you remember learning about the end of the world?”

“When Lord Cameron sacked everyone and there was no one left to stop the Earth heating up until the seas boiled and nearly everything died?”

“Yes, before the ice age that finished finished nearly everything else off. Well that didn't have to happen. There was one man, so the stories say, who could have stopped it.”

“You haven't told me about him, he sounds fascinating, who was he?”

“He was a scientist who worked with Evil Gemma.”

“On the Eighth Circle of Hell?”

“That's right, but he wasn't like someone you'd normally find there, he was a childlike innocent, pure of heart and unsoiled by the cynicism of the world.”

“Well how could he have stopped the end of the world?”

“You may well ask. The reason he was such a good man was that it was his destiny from birth to rise up and defeat Lord Cameron and stop the end of the world so that all the people and animals could live in peace with no boiling seas or ice age.”

“Everyone could have been saved? What happened? Why didn't he do it?”

“Well, when it came down to it, he couldn't be bothered.”

“But that's terrible, surely he's the evil one?”

“Ah no, it wasn't his fault, all he needed was inspiration, that's where the story would have been so important.”

“You mean it was the story that should have inspired him?”

“Yes. Evil Gemma had promised him a story and so his innocent, childlike mind was prepared for it with the eagerness of a newborn lamb first seeing its mother.”

“But the story never came?”

“No, Evil Gemma never wrote the story, no one knows why.”

“Perhaps she wanted the world to end.”

“That's what people say, but who knows. In any event, where the poor man should have been inspired to save the world by an uplifting and heartwarming tale, instead his spirit was broken and history forgets him after that.”

“He probably took up golf or something like that.”

“More than likely.” The old lady stood up and moved to the sink to fill the kettle. “At any rate, that's why you're called Gemma. That's why we're all called Gemma.”

“I think I understand. It's so we don't forget. Will I call my daughter Gemma?”

“Yes.” The old lady lit the stove and looked out of the window. “We must never forget.”

“Never,” said the girl, feeling a little older than she had when she awoke that morning.

Outside, the breeze shifted the leaves.