Late For School (Peru, 2004)

Liliana was late for school. She walked in at about 11am, her usual beaming smile replaced by a stoical demeanour that is always sorrowful to see in a child. Not happy, not sad, just normal and numb, like an adult in any metropolis on a Monday morning.

We had been teaching the class about family that day. Simple words, like Mum, Dad, sister, brother, would accompany anecdotes about mine and Will's (the guy I was teaching with)families. The kids were keen to learn about my two sisters; how old they were and what they did. I had promised my younger sister, Tasmin, who was in primary school, that her Peruvian counterparts in Pacaran would write letters. The girls in Pacaran were excited to hear about what a "chica inglesa" would be up to.

But Liliana was late. This was unlike her; she was studious, bright and enthusiastic. Jokingly, I rounded on her as she shuffled in and shouted, "Why are you late?"

There are moments in life that catapult you from adolescence into adulthood. Often you may not notice these moments occurring until years afterwards. The pace of life leaves little time for reflection. But now, six years later, I know that Liliana's response to my mocking question made me grow up a little. Maybe a lot. How do you quantify these things?
She simply looked at me, and replied "My Dad died," then went and sat down in her place and unpacked her things.

I couldn't believe what I had just heard, but I didn't pursue it. I was in shock.
Why was she here if that had just happened? The unspeakable. Will and I blundered through the rest of our lesson, and then began our walk home in the burning afternoon Sun.

Halfway home we passed Liliana's house. Elvis, her older brother, was outside, looking forlorn. He apologised for his absence from school that day. He had been working, looking after the farm. That was his future now. As we passed the door he ushered us towards the room where his father lay. My first encounter with death, the inevitable end of things. I don't know why, but I felt strange that it should be on a sunny afternoon. I always thought of cold when I thought of death. We did not linger in the house. In Britain, we shy away from the dead, we do not look at them. It is as though we feel it is a defeat.

Questions swirled in my mind as I walked home, smashing my preconceptions and putting in their place flimsy foundations of things I had never thought about. How much do we take for granted? How lucky we are, to have safety nets when the unspeakable happens? For all I know, Liliana's Dad may have been struck down by an illness we in England deem trivial. How many times are we blessed by the NHS in our lives? Even when our time is up, we have a place to go, and be at peace in the end. But Peru is a poor country, with no NHS. Liliana's father (I never knew his name) had a cold table.

We did not speak much on that walk home.

Death is normal here.