The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I looked for you last Saturday, but you weren’t here.’

  ‘No.’ Bryan looked into her blue eyes, then followed the line of her nose down to the pout of disappointment on her lips, waiting to feel a spark that didn’t come. ‘It’s been a busy week.’

  A smile of triumph banished her sulk. ‘I wondered if it might be you!’

  ‘If who might be me?’

  ‘The article in The Times of Malta, yesterday.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, as if visualising the words. ‘Battle of Britain ace to lead fight against night raiders.’ Her eyelids fluttered open again, her gaze flicking between Bryan’s eyes, searching for a lie. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  Bryan looked down into his glass and swirled the amber liquid. ‘I may have something to do with it, yes.’

  Her face dropped into sudden seriousness. ‘My friends must meet you.’ She beckoned to the couple she’d been standing with and they weaved towards her through the drinkers at the bar.

  ‘This is Steph,’ Katie announced, ‘she works with me.’

  The girl bobbed her head, sending a tremor through her auburn ringlets.

  ‘And this is Al,’ Katie continued. ‘He’s in the navy.’

  Bryan recognised the submariner he’d met in the bar on his first trip to Valletta.

  ‘Wait here, chaps,’ Katie cooed, ‘we need the powder room.’

  The two girls went off to the toilets. Bryan sipped his drink and regarded the sailor. ‘Al?’ he said, eyebrow raised.

  ‘It sounds better than Albert,’ the other man said.

  Bryan nodded at the man’s left hand and the naked fingers wrapped around his glass. ‘What happened to that brand-new wedding ring?’

  Albert’s cheeks reddened. ‘We lost a boat a couple of weeks ago. Thirty men sent to the bottom. No signs of what happened, except radio silence. It spooked me; I knew most of them. I’d watched them read their letters from home, from wives and girlfriends. It brought home how easy it had been to say ‘until death do us part’ thinking that it would be a reasonably long time before Death collected on the deal.

  ‘The Med is no place for submarines, it’s too clear and too shallow. It made me realise there’s plenty of room for regret, and in a sunken sub it’s likely you’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’ He looked over Bryan’s shoulder. ‘You won’t say anything?’

  Bryan turned to follow his gaze and saw the two girls making their way back across the room. The band of freckles across Steph’s nose and the bobbing of her curls made her look too young to be in a dance hall.

  ‘It’s really none of my business, Bertie,’ Bryan said. ‘You’d just better hope she doesn’t fall in love with you.’

  Bryan threw back the rest of his whisky and put the empty glass on the bar. As Katie arrived, he whisked her straight into a quick step, careening across the flow of dancers, flashing a smile at Albert as he went.

  ****

  Bryan and Katie walked out onto the pavement. The evening, although still warm, was several degrees cooler than the dance hall.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s not far to the northside. There’s a public garden there that overlooks Marsamxett Harbour. Let’s see if we can catch a sea breeze.’

  They followed the narrowing Strait Street back south-west until they came to the ancient armoury’s bluff walls. They skirted the base of the blank-faced building and entered Hastings Gardens.

  Bryan glanced upwards. ‘The Italians might be on their way already,’ he murmured.

  ‘Katie glanced at her watch. ‘No, it’s still early. Come on, let’s walk a while.’

  The dark blue sky began its descent towards black as they took a path that followed the tended beds along the narrow strip of the public gardens. They reached the bastion that curtailed the gardens at their northern end, stood for a moment to enjoy the cooling breeze that flowed up its sloping walls, then walked to the gate, past a huge empty plinth and out onto the road, heading back into the city.

  ‘Your friend seems very nice.’ Bryan said.

  Katie nodded. ‘I do worry for her, though. We have to deal with some frightful things at the hospital and she’s such a sensitive girl.’ She stopped and put her hands on her hips in mock admonishment. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be talking about other girls when you’re promenading with me.’

  ‘Habib!’

  The call came from the buildings lining the road. Bryan twisted on his heel to find its source.

  Jacobella stood on one of the balconies, taking wet washing from a basket and draping it over the railing.

  Bryan gazed up at her and she waved, smiling as she worked.

  ‘Doesn’t that mean Darling?’ Katie’s voice had hardened.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bryan mumbled. ‘I think it can also mean Friend.’

  He watched Jacobella moving back and forth, the smile never leaving her face.

  ‘Goodnight then, Bryan.’

  Bryan turned to see Katie walking away, back the way they had come. He watched her in some confusion for a few moments, but did not follow.

  He looked back to the balcony, but it was empty. He scratched his cheek and lit a cigarette, his eyes still on the railing and its dripping clothes.

  ‘Habib,’ he muttered to himself.

  Sunday, 20 July 1941

  Albert Chandler roused from his shallow slumber and lay, eyes closed, listening to the gentle breathing beside him. He pulled himself up to lean on his elbow and gazed at the girl sleeping by his side. She lay with her back to him, her breasts gathered in her folded arms and her knees drawn up. Her auburn ringlets lay tangled across her cheek, exposing an elfish ear, like a white seashell laying on dark, wet sand. Her shoulders, rising and falling with each breath, were scattered with freckles that lessened as his eyes moved down her back to where her buttocks rose unblemished. He placed his hand on her hip and traced the dipping curve of her waist, up onto her side and back to her shoulder. He leaned over and kissed her neck, the taste of her still keen on his lips.

  Rising, he dressed quickly, his eyes lingering on his lover as he moved quietly around the room, collecting his clothes. When he was ready to go, he checked the change pocket of his shorts. The hard circle of his wedding ring was still there. He searched his heart for remorse, and found none. Closing the door softly behind him, he descended the stairs and slipped out into the pre-dawn air. Without glancing back, he followed the alley downhill, towards the harbour and the sea.

  ****

  The sun dipped towards the western horizon, tingeing the island’s humped back with a sanguine shade. Sailors stood and waited under the ancient arched walkway of Lazzaretto while the water lapped a languorous rhythm against the wall at their feet. A preternatural silence lay over the men. Their talk stilled as they arrived at the designated time in twos and threes, joining their comrades in the descending dusk. Their coming together instilled an introspection, triggered by the impending transition they must make. Albert fished out his wedding ring and put it back on his finger.

  A short distance away from the wall, the water’s surface puckered and swirled in portent, then a metal snout broke the surface, like an awakening sea monster. The conning tower emerged behind it and between them they dragged the hull above the water. The bright cobalt vessel, settled into equilibrium, gleaming wetly in the dying light as it shed cascades of water from its decks and bridge. U-Class submarine, Ulric, had emerged from its daytime hiding place, loaded and ready to hunt.

  Shore crews hauled on the mooring ropes, inching the craft closer until a gangplank banged into place and was secured on the deck. Thirty-one men hefted small duffel-bags of belongings onto their backs and shuffled towards the gangway.

  Albert crossed from the shore to the submarine. As soon as his boots hit the deck, he became alive to the thrum of pumps working in the body of the craft, and his legs braced to manage the fluid instability common to all vessels that float. As he waited for his turn to climb the ladder to the
bridge and the open hatch, he looked out over Valletta. Bells rang to call the Catholic faithful to evening mass where they would bolster enough courage to face the bombs that would almost certainly fall from the midnight sky. Most would have their prayers answered, but some would reap the realities of their fragile faith before the sun rose again.

  Chapter 6

  Monday, 21 July 1941

  Bryan slouched against the building on the street’s shady side, a duffel-bag of shirts and underwear hanging from his shoulder. The dusty limestone façade radiated the day’s heat onto the back of his neck, an act of inanimate spite in the already oppressive atmosphere of St Paul Street. Bryan glanced down the thoroughfare that dipped away towards the end of Valletta’s peninsular and the entrance to the harbours. Halfway down, fresh gaps in the tall terraces left their detritus of blocky rubble piled across the pavements. He placed a cigarette between his dry lips and settled his gaze on the arched entrance to the newspaper’s offices.

  The work day was drawing to a close. People trailed in and out for many minutes as the heat pressed down on him and his resolve began to crumble like the wall against which he slumped. Then the thrill of recognition straightened his back as the woman he waited for emerged from the shadows of the lobby.

  ‘Miss Azzopardi,’ he called, ‘hello!’

  She turned to the sound of his voice and crossed the road. ‘Mr Hale. Bonswa! So, you’ve decided to let me help.’ She took the canvas duffel bag from him.

  Bryan smiled. ‘It seemed churlish not to. Can I buy you a drink or something?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I have to get home.’

  Bryan took the canvas bag back from her. ‘Then let me walk with you.’

  They walked up St Paul into the open square of Castille Place. Veering right, they dog-legged onto the road that took them past the armoury.

  Jacobella threw him a sidelong glance. ‘I think you should know, it’s Mrs Azzopardi. I’m married.’

  Bryan held his gaze to the front and swallowed hard. ‘He’s a very lucky man.’

  A wistful smile stole across Jacobella’s lips. ‘Do you think so? Mikiel doesn’t say much about the way he feels. It just seems like we’ve been together forever, and that’s all there is, or ever will be.’

  ‘Does he work on the island?’

  ‘No, he’s in the navy.’

  Bryan risked a look at his companion. Her face had become drawn with introspection. ‘It must be difficult,’ he said, ‘with him being away so much.’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘He would often go away before the war, before he joined the navy.’ She let out a short sigh. ‘Even then, I was never sure he’d come back to me. But it always made me glad when he did. So we carried on, and then we had Luċija.’ She looked up and her eyes flashed with pride. ‘Luċija, my beautiful, naughty daughter. Because of her, I know I can survive anything.’

  They walked without talking for a while, the first cultivated beds of Hastings Gardens lined the pavement to their side.

  ‘I’m sorry about Saturday night.’ Jacobella broke the silence. ‘I didn’t mean to upset your girlfriend.’

  Bryan blushed. ‘No, Katie’s nothing more than a dance partner. I hardly know her.’

  Jacobella smiled at his discomfiture. ‘She’s a very pretty lady.’

  Bryan shook his head. ‘Blondes aren’t really my thing.’

  They walked on along the road and Bryan recognised the imposing bulk of the statue-less plinth marking the gardens’ northern end. They drew to a halt and she took the washing bag from his shoulder.

  ‘Come around for your laundry whenever you like,’ she said. ‘I live behind the blue door over there. I’ll leave it in the hallway. Now, I must hurry. My mother-in-law is looking after Luċija and she can be difficult if I’m late. Goodnight… Bryan, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He fought the urge to lean towards her, rocking on the balls of his feet with the effort. ‘Goodnight.’

  He watched her cross the road and open the chipped wooden door. She vanished inside without looking back.

  Wednesday, 23 July 1941

  Merlin engines coughed blue smoke into the fetid air and swirled vortices of gritty dust across the field. As one burst into life, another choked and died, creating a perpetual canon of mechanical music.

  Bryan walked down to the field and spotted Copeland, arms folded and a handkerchief tied across his face, surveying the activity around him. Squinting against the storm of dust, Bryan approached him.

  ‘What’s the flap?’ He raised his voice against the noise.

  Copeland nodded a greeting. ‘Oil checks,’ he answered. ‘Would you believe they haven’t even been doing oil checks?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We sent up two Hurricanes yesterday to chase away a reconnaissance, one of them seized solid just after take-off. The lad tried to glide it down into a field, but there’s not enough space between those bloody boundary walls. He ploughed straight into one and broke his neck.’

  The men walked back towards the mess building. Copeland pulled the handkerchief down from his nose.

  ‘We’re putting up standing patrols from dawn tomorrow. I don’t want to lose anyone else to sloppiness.’

  ‘Standing patrols over what?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘There’s a convoy getting very close,’ Copeland said. ‘They sent a decoy formation waddling out of Alexandria a couple of days ago. The Italians fell for it, and while they’re distracted, the navy has taken the chance to scoot a few ships across from Gibraltar. They should be here late tomorrow.’

  ‘Good news,’ Bryan said.

  Copeland slapped him on the back. ‘For you, it’s great news. Once the fuel is unloaded, Pipistrelle Squadron will go operational.’

  The two men stepped into the mess building.

  ‘I received orders yesterday evening that you and your pilots are to move to dedicated quarters. Wait here.’ Copeland ducked into his office and emerged a moment later with a slip of paper. ‘It’s a mile or so west from here, in Mdina.’ He paused and scanned the document. ‘A place called Xara Palace.’

  ****

  ‘Do you reckon it’s anything like Crystal Palace?’

  Bryan looked at Ben, trying to gauge his intent. ‘I would imagine not.’

  ‘More like Buckingham Palace, then?’

  ‘Why don’t we just wait until we get there?’

  The truck ground on along the road, swaying from side to side in the ruts and potholes, climbing steadily between the scrubby fields and tumble-down stone walls which eventually gave way to familiar limestone facades as they entered Mdina. The transport crossed a bridge that spanned a wide, dry ditch and led to an ornately decorated gate that gave access to a walled section of the town. Once through the gate, the truck crawled along the constricted thoroughfare, took a sharp right down the narrow gap between precipitous walls and, with a final crash of gears, staggered to a halt. Ben unhooked the tailgate and all ten pilots on the truck dismounted into the flagstone courtyard of Xara Palace, dragging their kit-bags with them.

  ‘Strewth,’ Bryan breathed, ‘this is more my style.’

  The main entrance filled one edge of the courtyard, its large central doorway set in a shallow porch. Above the door, three large windows sat between four faux columns built onto the façade and the central window boasted a balustered balcony atop the porch roof. On the courtyard’s right side, three wide arches gave access to a covered walkway, its roof providing a wide balcony for another wing of the building.

  The truck choked back to life. The driver regarded the group of pilots for a moment. ‘Lucky bastards,’ he muttered and started a laborious three-point turn, churning heavy black smoke from the exhaust.

  Bryan tried the main door and it opened under his grip. The men trailed into the cool cavern of the entrance hall, dropped their bags in a corner and split up to explore their new lodgings.

  Bryan and Ben walked up a stone staircase that lifted them to a long corridor, heavy oak doors punctua
ted the walls and a richly patterned red runner bisected its length. At the far end, another unlocked door led them onto a wide roof terrace, protected from both sun and rain by a tiled canopy supported on a sturdy wooden framework. Both men stopped in their stride.

  The palace sat in the walled town’s eastern district, atop a ridge that dropped away steeply towards Ta’Qali. The balcony faced east and gave a clear view of the aerodrome, and beyond it, across the island’s width, to where the sprawl of Valletta and Sliema lay glimmering like mercury under an ethereal mirage of shimmering heat haze.

  ‘This would be an ideal place to build a bar,’ Ben said.

  Bryan nodded, still enraptured by the view. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘it would be rude not to.’

  Thursday, 24 July 1941

  Bryan roused in the early afternoon from the deepest sleep he’d enjoyed since he’d mounted the gangplank at Gibraltar. A sense of purpose had evicted the constant nag of vulnerability that had clung to him at the mess in Ta’Qali. The tools he needed to strike out at the enemy were slowly assembling, and the final, vital elements were drawing close; petrol, the life blood of his aircraft, and ammunition, its teeth and claws, were lodged in the bellies of a convoy of fat merchant ships, wallowing like milk cows towards the island.

  He crossed the room on muscles that felt tauter, with senses that shone sharper. He splashed lukewarm water onto his face from the bowl on the dresser, snapped out his razor and scraped the stubble of several days from his sweat-oiled skin. A concern for his appearance had re-acquired a proto-ritual gravity, an elemental expression of respect for the warriors he would soon be seeking to kill.

  He brushed his teeth and gargled, swallowing the fouled water with a grimace. He dressed quickly in a shirt and shorts, and tightly laced his oil-stained desert boots. He left the room, strode along the corridor and almost danced down the staircase, the importance of the day layering his movements with a barely-restrained impatience.