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‘Flying bomb, November ’forty-four. There’s irony for you.’
The barman appeared with a tray, placed a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac in front of each of them and withdrew. Vaughan took his cognac in one easy swallow.
‘A little early in the day, I should have thought,’ she commented.
‘Or too late, depending on your point of view.’
He reached for her glass, she put a hand on his. ‘Please?’
There was something close to surprise in his eyes and then he laughed softly. ‘Definitely too late, Maggie. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? In fact, very definitely far too far gone. You know that poem of Eliot’s where he says that the end of our exploring is to arrive where we started and recognize the place for the first time?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was wrong. The end of our exploring is to recognize the whole exercise for what it’s been all along. One hell of a waste of time.’
He reached for the glass again and she knocked it over and sat staring at him, her face very white.
‘And what’s that supposed to prove?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just take it as sound medical advice.’
He sighed. ‘All right. If you’re ready, we’ll move on. I’m sure you can’t wait to get back on your side of the fence anyway.’
As they started towards the bridge she said, ‘You still don’t trust me, do you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘No particular reason. Instinct, if you like. A lifetime of bad habits.’
‘Yet you’ll take me back across the wall because Father Conlin asked you to. I don’t understand.’
‘I know. Confusing, isn’t it?’
He took her arm and they started across the bridge, footsteps hollow on the boards.
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