Oh dear, oh dear, Julia cried, beginning to look for her handkerchief.

What is an Armistice? asked Eden.

The War is over, said Mrs Macarthy.

The War is over! you shouted. You sang it all the way to Bridgton. You called to strangers in the street. Because it did not seem as if there were any strangers any more. In Bridgton you bought the flags, and sang. You bought the bag of liquorice all-sorts. And Mrs Macarthy talked about the Hand of God, and kissed Julia outside the post-office.

Eden said she was going mad. At tea she blew in her milk and nobody minded. She said she was going to stay up all night, because nobody seemed to mind.

When you got home, Mr Macarthy came out to the gate. Because Mrs Macarthy called.

Fred! she called. Fred!

The spit bounded into Julia’s face.

Fred! she called. We’re saved! God has saved us. I knew He would.

But Mr Macarthy was very quiet. As if there was too much that was too difficult to say, and laughing and crying and singing and speaking, none of these could help very much. He just stood at the gate and said: The War is over – to himself, almost as if he did not believe.

Mrs Macarthy got the bottle of port. You had the glass of port watered down. And Julia had a glass of port, she held it with her finger crooked, her hands were mottled red. Mrs Macarthy said she would propose some toasts. She said, slowly, one by one: To Peace, To the Soldiers, To our brave Allies, and each time everybody took a sip.

Eden said she was feeling drunk.

What nonsense! said Mrs Macarthy, turning the colour of port and water. Really, what things you say, Eden! Really. On a spoonful of port.

Mr Macarthy cleared his throat.

I expect it’s the Armistice, Eliza, he said.

That made Mrs Macarthy calm. But Eden kept on screaming, over and over again, I’m drunk, I’m drunk! she screamed, kicking up her heels, and burying her head in a cushion, so that you could see the seat of her drawers.

Drunk is not a nice word for a little girl, Mrs Macarthy said.

She always used tipsy herself.

Julia giggled. Her glass shook. Everyone laughed, except Mrs Macarthy, even after Eden had stopped being funny. Because the War was over. Because there was to be no more killing. It was good. Everything was good now. Only you felt a little sick. It was too many liquorice all-sorts, perhaps.

6

Leading him down a passage that smelt of boiling potatoes, Frau Fiesel opened a door at the end and said that this would be his room. The chatter of Frau Fiesel, it had a breathy, ingratiating lilt, rose and fell, leaving an occasional familiar word clinging in his head. But the journey in the train, but the close, potatoey atmosphere of the apartment stood between him and the moment of interpretation. The words remained, in fact, occasional and familiar. He could make no headway in this foreign sea. And all the time Frau Fiesel smiled, her voice retreated and advanced, she was at once both amiable and remote.