“No, I’m not going to tell you.”
She looked away, not at anything in particular, but not at Ronald.
Her hair, curled at the ends, lifted in a breeze.
The wind rose, and rustled through the leaves of trees that surrounded the field.
It bent the blades of grass around them, first one way – showing silver in the late sun appearing from behind a cloud – and then another, showing green.
The wind dropped.
Amalie stared out into the air, past the white-painted goal post – beyond where Ronald stood.
But then Ronald leapt right into her line of vision, and she couldn’t pretend any more – her eyes fell upon him.
“All right,” she said.
She trusted Ronald – she did trust Ronald.
“It’s Geraldine,” she said.
[This seems so simple, but I found it very difficult to write. It was written as a response to a course – again – the online one. The tutor didn’t like the way the grass was blown one way and then another – she said it seemed ‘funny’ – which wasn’t a very constructive criticism in any case. I’ve seen grass blowing one way, catching the colour of silver in the light, and then blowing the other, and appearing green. In a further edit – once I’d got through the course entirely – I took that out altogether. But it’s important. I know what I mean by it – I know what I want to convey – and I may still not have got that right. But it has to be there for some reason that I’m not sure about at the moment.
Amalie is me – a version of me. I didn’t realise that until way afterwards – once I’d struggled with this. But the hair being curled at the ends – that is the give-away. I have a sister, and our mother used to put these curlers in the bottom of our hair – when we were very young. But that is another story.
I can’t remember standing in a field with Ronald – I realise that he potentially stands in for two people in my life – maybe my father, but definitely a boy I used to play with when I was young. What a mischief-maker he was!
But – I could have been standing in a field at some time with Ronald. And the story – based on characters that I now recognise – not true in any particular autobiographical way.
I’ve had trouble with this story again – I call it a fragment because I know very well that it isn’t a story in itself – it is meant to – bloom – there – I might have given myself another clue.]