'I didn't,' said Israel's sister, Deborah.

'You wouldn't,' said Israel.

'She's joking, Ted,' said Israel's mother. 'They like to tease each other. Of course she missed him.'

'Have you had your hair cut?' said Israel to his sister, sipping his wine.

'Yes, of course I've had my hair cut. You think I'd grow my hair for six months without having it cut?'

'Well, it looks…different,' said Israel.

'And you look like you've been sleeping in a ditch,' said Deborah.

'Thank you,' said Israel.

'Mmm,' said Ted, who was enjoying his first experience of Armstrong paprika chicken. 'Delicious.'

'And what about me?' said Israel's mother.

'Sorry?' said Ted.

'My hair, Israel?'

'Yes,' said Israel. 'Yours is-'

'It's shorter,' said his mother. 'More modern.'

'Is it…?' Israel thought perhaps his mother's hair colour had gone a shade too far towards burgundy.

'There's a touch of colour in it,' she said.

'Right,' said Israel. 'And there's something else…'

'My nails?' said Israel's mother. 'He's very observant. He gets that from my side of the family,' she explained to Ted. 'I've started getting my nails done.' She held up her hands and stretched out her fingers as though about to play a two-octave scale. Her hands were all wrinkly and slightly liver-spotted, but the nails were pure bright white and shiny; like old wine skins stoppered with brand-new plastic corks. 'French polish,' she said.

'I thought that was something to do with furniture,' said Israel.

'Tuh!' said Deborah.

'But they're nice,' said Israel. 'Really nice.'

'Thank you,' said his mother.

'And your eyebrows,' said Deborah.

'Ah, yes, my eyebrows.' Israel's mother raised an already arched eyebrow. 'I go to a woman now that Deborah knows in Swiss Cottage.'

'I thought she needed some updating,' said Deborah.

'Right,' said Israel.

'A woman needs to take more care of herself as she gets older. Isn't that right, Ted?' said Israel's mother.

'Mmm,' said Ted. 'Lovely chicken.'

'After all, I'm only sixty-two. There's plenty more, if you want some.'

Ted looked bemused.

'The chicken?' said Israel's mother.

Ted smiled and graciously accepted another ladleful of paprika chicken.

'Now,' said Israel's mother. 'Just for a quick catch up on all the news, Israel, seeing as you've missed so much while you've been away. Mrs Metzger?'

'Who?'

'Mrs Metzger, of the Metzgers?'

'Oh.'

'She's been in hospital. They cut out half her intestine.'

'Ouch,' said Israel.

'And Mrs Silverman?'

'Sorry?'

'Her husband taught the girls the violin.'

'Ah. Right.'

'He's dead.'

'Oh.'

'Cancer.'

'Oh dear.'

'Of the nose.'

'I didn't know you could get cancer of the nose.'

'You can get cancer of the anything,' said Deborah.

'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure.'

'It can kill you,' said Israel's mother.

'Cancer of the nose?'

'For sure. He's dead. And Mrs West, her Israeli cousin, her son, he's dead. He was killed.'

'Oh dear. In Israel?'

'No, in Tunbridge Wells,' said Deborah. 'What do you think? Of course in Israel!'

'And we're doing Guys and Dolls again with the amateur dramatics. It's a shame you're going to miss it.'

'Yeah. That is a…shame.'

'Gerald-'

'An old Armstrong family friend,' noted Deborah.

'Calls it Goys and Dolls!'

'Ha!' said Israel. 'Very funny.'

Ted looked perplexed.

'Anyway, we know the news, Mother,' said Deborah.

'Israel doesn't know the news.'

'He knows it now. What we want to know is his news. So how is the world of information services, brother of mine?'

'Well. Erm. Good, thanks,' said Israel. 'It's…very interesting.'

'I'm sure Israel has made a lot of good friends over there, hasn't he, Ted?' said Israel's mother. 'The Irish are renowned for their warmth of welcome and hospitality, aren't they?'

Israel almost choked on a mushroom.

'Aye,' said Ted, who had paprika around his mouth. 'That we are.'

'We're in Northern Ireland, Mother,' said Israel.

'Ah, yes, of course,' said his mother. 'The IRA bit.'

'Yes. Well…' said Israel.

'How's all that going these days?' said Israel's mother.

'Fine,' said Israel. 'It's this whole peace process thing and the devolution, so-'

'Ah, yes, good, good. My late husband was an Irishman,' said Israel's mother. 'Did Israel tell you, Ted?'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'From Dublin.'

'County Dublin,' said Israel.

'So good they named it twice,' said Deborah.

'That's what he always used to say,' said Israel's mother. 'He'd kissed the Blarney Stone. Have you kissed the Blarney Stone, Ted?'

'Ach, no,' said Ted.

'He was great crack, my husband, Ted. You'd have got on. Do you have crack where you are?'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Craic? We do.'

'Good,' said Israel's mother. 'I am glad. I do love the Irish-such a sense of fun and adventure.' Israel couldn't tell if she raised an eyebrow, or if it was permanently raised.

Israel's mobile phone vibrated. Text message from Gloria: she was going to be later than she thought. Okay. That was fine. That was okay.

They were sitting in the back room-the best room, the room with the curtain tiebacks and the swags. Israel looked up at the photos on the walls: his father, his grandparents, the Irish, and the Jews, all tiny, all reduced and captured in neat shiny silver frames; his mother liked a nice silver frame. All shipshape, present and correct. And there, there was the old wooden gazelle on the mahogany sideboard under the window, a wooden gazelle that Israel remembered as having belonged to one of his mother's aunts; and next to it a couple of elephants made of coloured glass, which he recognised as having once belonged to his granny. Things had slowly migrated to this room from other houses, or got washed up, like wreckage; it was a room completely stuffed to overflowing, teeming, bobbing with booty, ornaments and furniture; barely enough space to edge round the dining table (which had for years been in situ in Colindale, at Israel's mother's brother's, before coming adrift and floating downstream to the Armstrongs). The whole thing was like a palimpsest of other rooms, a stratum, layer upon layer of other people's lives. The only thing that Israel could identify as being absolutely native, something original and aboriginal and uniquely of their own, was a stainless-steel hostess trolley that had never been used for hostessing, as far as Israel was aware, and had only ever been used for storing newspapers and the Radio Times; though by the looks of it his mother seemed to have converted since his departure to the TV Times. Standards were slipping.

Half an hour after the meal had begun, on the verge of the end both of the conversation and of the paprika chicken, Deborah's fiancé arrived. He was wearing the kind of shirt that had obviously recently seen a tie, and he had a thick, luscious head of hair, the hair of a lead character in an American made-for-TV courtroom drama.

'Hi!' said the thick-haired fiancé loudly, entering the room, to everyone and no one in particular. 'Sorry I'm late.'

'Long day?' said Israel's mother.

'You could say that!' He kissed Israel's sister-on the lips. And then-unbelievably-he went over to Israel's mother and kissed her also. On the cheek. Israel didn't like this at all; this was definitely a new development. Israel was pretty sure that his sister's fiancé hadn't previously been in the habit of kissing his mother; Israel would definitely have remembered that.

'Israel!' he said, reaching across and shaking his hand, in a man-of-the-household fashion. 'No, no, don't get up. Good to see you. You're looking well. And…Hello!' He shook Ted's hand. 'I'm Ari.'