The Photograph

Every afternoon at four, the old woman came into the restaurant by the sea and sat at the same table by the window. She ordered tea and toast. She never spoke to anyone. Nadia, who worked there, was curious about her, but she was careful too, and she did not ask.

When the tea came, the woman took a photograph out of her bag and put it on the table in front of her. She looked at it while she ate. Then she put it away, paid, and walked out into the wind. She did this for three weeks. Nadia said nothing.

One wet afternoon there was a storm, and the sea turned the colour of the sky. The old woman stood up in the middle of her meal, put on her coat and hurried out. The photograph was still on the table.

Nadia picked it up. Two young women stood on the beach with their arms around each other, laughing, their hair everywhere in the wind. It was an old photograph, soft at the edges, and there was dust in the corners. On the back someone had written, in careful letters: "Us, before we were wise."

Nadia ran out into the rain. The woman was at the corner, holding her coat closed. When she saw the photograph in Nadia's hand, something in her face opened. She was so grateful that for a moment she could not speak properly. Then she came back inside, and for the first time she talked.

Her name was Ruth. The other girl was Ellen. They had been friends since they were children: same street, same school, same everything. Then one summer they had a fight. Ruth could not even remember what it was about. Money, perhaps, or a boy, or nothing at all. "It was pride," she said. "Mostly it was pride. We were both waiting for the other one to speak first."

"Did you ever say sorry?" Nadia asked.

Ruth opened her bag and took out a letter. The paper had gone yellow and it was breaking at the edges. "I wrote this the week after," she said. "I have carried it ever since. I never posted it. An apology gets heavier the longer you carry it. I always told myself someday."

Nadia looked at the letter for a long time. Then she said, "Post it."

"She may be dead."

"She may not be."

The restaurant was silent. Outside, the rain fell on the sea. Ruth put the letter back in her bag, and Nadia thought she had said too much.

The next afternoon the woman did not come. She did not come the day after that either. After two weeks Nadia stopped watching the door.

Then, on a bright cold morning, the door opened and Ruth came in with another old woman on her arm. This one was smaller and slower, and she had to be helped into her chair. They ordered two teas and two plates of toast, and they sat at the table by the window and talked for three hours. They laughed. They argued about who had been right all those years ago. Neither of them gave in.

When they left, Ruth stopped at the door and put the photograph into Nadia's hand.

"Keep it," she said.

"I cannot."

"You can. It has done its work."

Nadia put it on the wall by the window, where the light was good. People ask about it sometimes. She tells them it is two friends by the sea, which is true. It is simply not the whole of it.