‘In Kokkinia. Very nice. Not too far from here, but not too near.’

‘That’s … terrific. Thank you, Niko, for doing all this for me.’

‘You help Greece, we help you. Let’s go in.’

Niko is telling the truth: the Cordelio is packed. He takes Tom’s arm and pulls him with friendly strength through the door. Immediately, every eye in the room is turned to him. Tom feels this collective gaze as a physical thing: it is like stepping into harsh sunlight, though the room itself is dimly lit. There is a low murmur as Niko leads Tom to a small table with two seats next to the bar. Tom notes that the way to the back door is clear, and the main entrance is screened by another three tables. ‘Put your back towards the bar,’ Niko whispers, and pulls a chair out for him.

Tom sits, looking around the room for Zoë, but he only sees men’s faces: wiry, tough-looking men, all dressed to the nines. Suits, silk shirts, fine Italian hats. Bow ties, gaudy striped ties, boating blazers. Dark, hooded eyes, brilliantined hair, brigand moustaches. To Tom, it looks like Henley Regatta on the river Styx. He recognises the two old communists, playing backgammon near the front door. They nod towards him and go back to their game. A plate appears in front of him: British Army sardines. Then a glass of pale wine. He drinks the wine and begins, reluctantly, to eat the greasy fish. Almost everyone is watching him. He looks up, smiles, raises his fork. The wall of faces nods in approval. The man closest to him, short and wide with greying hair and a vast, straight moustache, nods and points to his plate. ‘Good?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Tom says, grinning ruefully. ‘Very good.’

‘Ha!’ The man laughs and claps his neighbour on the back. As if a signal has been given, customers get up and start to gather round Tom. ‘You fight the Germans, yes?’ they ask him. ‘You fight any Italians?’ ‘British come back to Greece?’

Soon enough they begin to drift back to their seats. Tom drinks his wine, and Niko pours him some more.

‘The … I think you say novelty? It has already gone.’ Tom looks up. Zoë is standing next to him. She is wearing a short jacket in dark blue satin over a long, pleated skirt of the same material. Her blouse is black, and a long string of pearls is doubled around her neck. He fails to stop himself blinking in amazement. ‘We have all seen English soldiers before. Thousands of you. So don’t worry.’ She frowns and looks down at herself. ‘Do I look bad?’

‘No!’

‘Because you are looking at me in a … certain way.’

‘It must be because the novelty of you hasn’t worn off. Will you sit with me?’