real friends

Chapter five//Bertie

She was wrong. Lots of people were stopping us, or, more accurately, her. My arm tucked in hers, she half-dragged me to the door of this peculiar little room, and with all of her atrophied strength, she slammed a weak hand against the door, nudging it open. She hobbles, I notice. The door creaks open, jolting a quiet alarm, and we step out onto a long corridor, plain and dull.

"Where are we, did you say?" I ask her, afraid for her answer. "Liza, why are you here?"

She looks confused, and her plump face crumples and dissolves into millions more lines as she frowns in confusion. "I- I don't know Bertie. I don't know at all. Why am I here, Bertie?" Her voice raises plaintively.

"Mrs Oliver?" A voice shouts, and a young man, dressed head to toe in blue comes hammering down the hallway. His footsteps are heavy and hurried, creating tiny earthquakes as he jogs. "Mrs Oliver, are you okay?" His hand is on her arm, and she flinches away.

"Don't touch me." She spits, her voice like daggers. "I don't know you, and Bertie and I are leaving now. I am Miss Oliver. I am young. I am not my mother." She gives a shout of laughter, a derisive snort, but the man doesn't look offended. He stands patiently, barely rolling his eyes, and I know he sees an elderly, frail lady as well.

"Mrs Oliver, I think you ought to go back to your room." He suggests.

"No! Bertie and I are leaving- aren't we, Bertie?" She turns to me. I was always a head taller than her, but age seems to have crushed her, and she cranes her head upwards to look into my eyes. I had forgotten the witty, sparkling green of her eyes. They, at least, haven't changed.

"Mrs Oliver. Please." The man's patience is wearing thin.

"You cannot lecture me, Mr..."

"Ahmed." He supplies grudgingly.

"Ahmed. This is 1946. Women were crucial to the war effort, and I don't believe you have any right to dictate what I do. Bertie here served, but I doubt you did."

"Bertie?" he questions.

"who's Bertie, you ridiculous man?" she snaps suddenly.