Life in the West (49 page)

‘Well, Deirdre, I am basically pretty happy. I’m puzzled why that’s regarded as such a strange statement these days. Don’t drink any more; take me down to the pub and let me chat with Tess — if she’s still there. We can drive up to Hartisham this evening, if she feels so inclined. She has to behave not too impossibly with me, and recognize herself as a native of Milos, in the capitulating position.’

Deirdre stood up and smoothed down her dress. She made a wry face at Kaye. ‘Life goes on. That’s the silly thing about it.’

‘I’ll put on a sweater,’ Squire said. ‘It’s cooler here than it was in Ermalpa.’

Exotic Iranian odours greeted them as they made their way down the dim stairs. Kaye paused on the landing and looked back at Squire.

‘Tom, I want you to know I respect what you’re doing.’

‘Marsh — don’t go all American on me. Having let my enemy off the hook, I can hardly do less for my wife…’

‘I know it’s not going to be easy for you, Tom. But Teresa’s horoscope said this was a good day for reconciliations, you’ll be glad to know.’ He grinned. ‘Make it all happen.’

‘That’s what’s known as looking for the miraculous.’

Kaye rubbed the back of his neck.

‘Maybe what’s always needed is an act of faith.’

The way to the front door was impeded by push-bikes. In the basement, the Greek barber was singing loudly. Deirdre walked diligently, on the alert for foreign ladies and fat dogs.

Daylight still lingered in the street. Squire, Kaye and Deirdre walked along together. They turned the corner by Mr Ali Khan’s shop.

The Plumes was in front of them, doors open to admit the summer air and emit smoke. The interior looked welcoming, with its oak panels and dim lights. Black men and white, in

T-shirts and jeans, stood out on the pavement, talking and lifting pint mugs of beer to their lips. As Squire approached, he saw Teresa sitting waiting alone inside at a little table, with a drink in front of her. Teresa saw Squire.

She waved. The smile that accompanied the flutter of the hand was hesitant. She had a new hair-style.

He waved in response. He knew, as he entered the lighted space and became merged with the bustle of early evening drinkers, that Teresa — and Deirdre, and he, and everything of which they were a part — were changed. Things would never be as they had been; that must be accepted.

Even to speak to her, so familiar, so loved for all she was and symbolized, a new language was required.

‘How was Ermalpa?’ Teresa asked, as he sat down beside her, looking at him slightly squint.