Mobility

Bernadette, menu open in front of her, watched Sarah.  The women in the restaurant were all ruddy, laughing, self-contained.  She felt like a stretched cardigan.

“It’s been so long,” said Sarah.  Pearls, striped blouse, blonde hair.  Vowels different now. Once they passed secrets in lessons on folded squares of paper, palm to sweating palm.  

The bus out of town had taken hours.

"So, are you still living in the same place?" Sarah asked.  

“My Mam wasn’t well,” said Bernadette.  “I couldn’t move.”  Bernadette remembered Sarah, age uncertain under dark foundation, moving from pub to pub, not a penny between them, older boys with jobs seeing them all right.  “How’s your Mam?”    

“Oh, Mummy is fine. We moved her out to a place near us years ago. She loves the village.”

“And Peter?” She remembered Peter, too. With his car and rich parents. Before Peter it was always Sarah who had to get the bus home alone at closing time.  Bernadette swallowed, mouth dry. “I’ll just have a water.”

Sarah smiled. “I’m sure I can sort you out. You know, you haven’t changed a bit.”

The smell of Barbour wax and eau de toilette suddenly stifled Bernadette like an unwanted kiss.