Millie Drew
A forty-something spinster, Millie Drew was our city suburban neighbour on the top side.
Generally, she was the dependable type; she brought in the washing when it rained; watered your garden when you went on holidays, and minded us kids if Mum had a doctor's appointment. You could tell she was a spinster straight away. She was tall, skinny, with glasses, straight hair and no make-up.
She and I developed a special relationship, although I use the wood 'special' somewhat loosely.
The day it happened, I was trudging along, dragging my satchel through the dirt.
“It's not fair! Why should I have to walk home, even if I do live so close to the stupid school.”
I was hot and I just wanted to get to the house and be on the bed. Dizzy and nauseous, walking was an effort. I got a start when a voice interrupted my thoughts.
It was Millie. "Hello young Marjorie Stubbs," she squawked. "My goodness, you look dreadful! What happened to your hair?"
‘Hair? What hair? Oh, my hair! Who cares?’
But how to answer was my immediate dilemma. I hesitated over: 'Thank you. I feel dreadful, Miss Drew,' 'Nothing is wrong with my hair, but I'm not very well thank you, Miss Drew,' or 'I'm sick. Please help me, Miss Drew…'
However, events suddenly overtook me, and I have a stark memory of that instant, a most unpleasant memory, although amusing in hindsight. I clearly remember the sky falling in, and my vomit oozing out between the straps of Millie's sandal.
She leapt backwards with surprising speed, "Gad girl! Are you ill?"
"N-No," I lied, wiping the spittle off my mouth with the hem of my uniform. "I'm all right."
"I've got to go then, lovey." She was almost running, back in the direction of her house.
Actually, I felt better. So I picked up my bag and started off again. I had fifty yards to walk, but I stood stock still. Just ahead of me, Millie Drew's foot had come adrift from her sandal, and she was bent double, trying to extricate herself from a shrub – trying to extricate her foot, that is. The straps of her sandal had wrapped themselves around the stem of the shrub. Really, it was just a freak accident. Because of the moisture, her foot had slipped out of the sandal.
I drew level, and asked her, "Are you okay, Miss Drew?"
"Oh, help me please," she whined, "I think I'm going to be sick."
With that, she sank down on the grass with her head lolling between her knees.
"I'll get Mum," I said, and without thinking, ran off to our house, just a few yards away now.
"Mum, Mum!" I yelled, "Quick, quick! Millie's sick!"
"Miss Drew, Marjorie, Miss Drew to you." As usual, Mum's first thought was for 'proper speech.'
"But Mum," I persisted, "Millie's out on the footpath, I mean Miss Drew is out on the footpath, and I think she's sick!"
"Oh, Marjorie, whatever gives you that idea?" Clearly, Mum didn't think I was qualified to make an on-the-spot diagnosis.
This called for action. I grabbed Mum's hand and dragged her out the front door. "See?"
We marched silently side-by-side towards the victim.
Mum sat down beside Millie, flinging her hand out towards the shrub, "Fix the sandal, Marjorie!"
By now, the sandal ponged. I had it almost untangled when the sky started falling again.
The sandal filled again. Well, overflowed really… Took a bath even!
My mother's attention was finally diverted from her neighbour to her daughter, and ever since then, I've had this special relationship with Miss Drew.
Although I'm an adult now, from that day to this, she has only acknowledged me with a brief smile and a limp wave.
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