Geraldine
by
Kate Williams MacKenzie ©

Sweet Geraldine was my inseparable friend; we tagged around school together for one whole year, aged five.  She was quiet and gentle, and I enjoyed being in her aura of softness.  Her skin was pale and her short curly hair a deep misty brown.

Geraldine's Dad was the school caretaker, and she lived with her family in a small Victorian cottage beyond the toilet block.  We would watch silently as he hauled the milk crates to the cloakroom entrance, where we would collect our little bottles at break time.  Drinking the milk gave us little round, white moustaches on our upper lips.  In winter the milk would be frozen, and make an entertaining diversion as we attempted to thaw it enough to swallow the icy liquid with its creamy shards which melted as we held them in our mouths.

Together, Geraldine and I passed our playtimes peacefully, companionably wandering around the territory available to us; watching with interest when the school gates were opened for her father to drive his car through, or for the milk float to make its delivery.

Dear Geraldine.  How I enjoyed being with her.  One day she wasn't there, nor the next.  I missed my Geraldine, but pragmatically occupied myself and mingled with my other friends.  At assembly a while later, we were told that Geraldine had leukaemia.  Apparently, this was an illness; she was in bed and we prayed for her recovery.  Still she didn't come  back to school.

After lessons one afternoon, I ventured to the little house and knocked upon the door.  I asked if I could see Geraldine.  The answer was no, she was in bed and couldn't come out to play.  The manner of the response was tense and discouraging.  I didn't know how to say I wanted to come inside and be with my friend as she lay in her bed.  I wanted to calmly sit with her and rest my spirit near her.  In my fantasy now, I see her wanly resting in crisp white sheets in a cool, bright room.  Who knows how she struggled against the passing of her day.  In any event, I was not to share it.

Another while later, on a sunny morning, we were told at assembly that Geraldine had died.  I didn't know what this meant and put this interesting piece of information to one side of my mind.

I remember it was a Friday, and we finished school at lunchtime that day.  I hopped and bounced my way home, enlivened by the warmth of the sun and the brilliant blue of the sky.  I came in through the door and announced chirpily "Mum, Geraldine's died."

"I don't know how you can be so cheerful about it," she reprimanded me.  As soon as I heard this, I knew I had done something wrong, but did not understand what.  I felt silenced.  No further discussion took place, but I recall how dark our house suddenly seemed.