Every Tuesday for the last thirty four years, since Eileen lost her Johnny, they had lunched together at the brasserie on the first floor of the RSL in Spring Street. Regular as clockwork they were. Eileen would hop the 352 over from Enmore and Pat would hail the 380 as it chugged up the hill from the beach. It was only a few blocks, but even that was more than she could bear nowadays.
Being widowed so young was a great shock for Eileen, and having two littlies to feed and clothe was a tough road to hoe. It was alright for Pat, her Harry was still pottering around down the back shed doing God knows what. And no matter how long Pat moaned, he had been a good provider. Doing lunch was the glue in their friendship. Yes, they were sisters, but what they had was more than that.