A Home in the Sun

by Sue Moorcroft

  She pointed down The Strand the other way, towards Ta’ Xbiex. ‘Just about in sight – see the restaurant with the bright yellow sign? Immediately past that.’

  ‘And your apartment?’

  She swung the other way. ‘Behind the ferryboats and the bus stops. Second floor.’ The outside of her old home – although someone else’s home at the moment – was so familiar. She remembered the warmth on the soles of her bare feet when she stepped onto the balcony the evening she waited for Giorgio, but then Charlie Galea showed up instead. She shut out the recollection. ‘You were supposed to be seeing all this in the morning.’

  He gave her a wry look. ‘Yes, I remember the idea being to go straight to bed after our late flight. I missed the bit where it got changed to wandering about half the night.’

  She let her exasperation show. ‘Go back to Richard’s without me.’

  He adjusted his position on the railings and showed her a peeved scowl. ‘You are a bloody awkward woman, Jude. At one time if a man put himself out to protect a female, she used to damned well let herself be protected. Now he has to be apologetic, in case he offends her. Go on, you carry on with your tour guide bit. I’m sure I can cope indefinitely without sleep.’

  Tour guide.

  Giorgio, standing at the front of the bus and making all the passengers smile with his easy charm.

  She let the pang of sorrow fade and made herself relax. ‘If you’re going to pout about it, we’ll wait till morning.’ She took his arm and they crossed the road, turning up the tiny street further up The Strand that led to Richard’s house with its courtyard behind. A traditionally Maltese house of limestone with tiled floors and staircase, a scroll of wrought iron swelled over each window like a belly. On older buildings it would have signified that the building had needed to be defended, the bulge at the bottom to allow a lookout to be kept down the street for enemies and fire arrows at them if necessary. On Richard and Erminia’s house it was an ornamentation filled with potted red geraniums lovingly tended by Erminia.

  ‘Look, lizards.’ Adam pointed up at geometric shadows on the pale limestone, legs making right angles against still bodies that ended in long pointed tails.

  ‘Geckos,’ she corrected. ‘Wall geckos. You’ll see plenty at night because they hang out near a light to eat the insects it attracts. Geckos have shorter, broader bodies than lizards and are dull, like speckled sand. Geckos are nocturnal but lizards like to bask in the sunshine and have shiny scales, sometimes a beautiful dark green.’

  ‘Beautiful?’ he queried. ‘Geckos and lizards are OK but snakes, like poor old Fingers, are not?’

  She snorted. Happily, Fingers lived in the spare room at Adam’s flat and she never had to look at him. ‘The geckos are up on the wall. Fingers was in my kitchen.’ She let her explanations fade away. Adam was watching her mouth.

  Geckos weren’t that interesting a subject when your one-time lover was looking at your lips with a particularly intent expression that started desire uncoiling inside her. She reached out. Her fingertips collided with his scarred palm and she let her hand close around his. ‘Adam … why don’t we sleep together any more?’

  He betrayed by only a blink that her bluntness had caught him off guard. ‘Self-preservation,’ he offered, with a quirk of his lips. And he inserted his left hand into the cradle of her fingers to take the place of the right as they walked into the lofty, cool interior of Richard’s house.

  The next three days became a holiday.

  Full of pride in her once-adopted country, Judith showed Adam up and down the steep golden streets of Sliema with the shops packed tightly from corner to corner and the pavement cafés overflowing with customers. The following day, they borrowed Richard’s car and drove to the beautiful beaches of Paradise Bay and Ghajn Tuffieha, where the Mediterranean had never looked so blue, and then onwards to the impressive silent city of Mdina in all its medieval splendour. Despite the fact that it was far from silent, as extensive cable laying works were going on and the air was full of the noise of road drills, Adam shot so many photos of the carved-stone buildings and tiny streets that he had to use a computer in Richard’s office to download the pics and email them to himself in order to free up his memory cards.

  It was in the after-hours quiet of the office that Judith sat down at her old desk and said simply, ‘Richard took me aside, this morning. He’s met with the liquidators of Sliema Z, Giorgio’s old company. I won’t see a lira of my investment back. Nothing left after paying off the preferential creditors and my loan was unofficial, anyway.’

  Adam crouched down to put a sympathetic arm around her. ‘That’s terrible.’

  Wordlessly, she nodded. There wasn’t much left to say.

  On the third day, she took him on the ferry to the lovely, unspoilt ancient capital city, the citadel of Valletta, pointing out the landmarks as they approached. ‘That tall steeple is St Paul’s Anglican Cathedral – known as the British Church – and the dome is Our Lady of Mount Carmel. You can see the turret of the Grand Master’s Palace, too.’ The way up into the walled city that seemed to hang above them was steep but Judith was merciless as she steered Adam onwards and ever up to one of her favourite spots: the heights of the Upper Barrakka Gardens, on the other side of the compact city.

  There they leaned on the painted railings and stared out over the glinting blue splendour of Grand Harbour, watching the far-below ant-like passengers disembark from a towering white cruise boat that had its own swimming pool on deck. Adam gazed silently over the depths of incredible blue to the church domes and bell towers of the three crowded little cities of Vittoriosa, Cospicua and Senglea on the opposite shore, their fingers of land creating the creeks that sheltered the clutter and clatter of the docks. ‘I can see why it’s called “grand”,’ he breathed. He was so dazzled that he didn’t even start taking photos for several minutes.

  They strolled back along the paved paths of the gardens then she took him into the city and showed him the central thoroughfare, Republic Street – a particularly pleasant place to shop as no traffic was allowed. The streets were beautifully decorated for a saint’s feast, the bandalori or bunting showing the city at its best. They lunched on pasta and calamari at Caffe Cordina in Republic Square.

  Judith chose salad and beer. ‘In the sixteenth century the Ottoman Turks laid siege to the Knights of St John in Valletta, floating the knights’ dead comrades back across the harbour waters to destabilise them,’ she told him, munching on slices of chicken and romaine lettuce leaves. ‘La Valette, the grandmaster of the time, gave the grisly order to fire back the heads of Turkish prisoners in response.’

  Adam pulled a horrified face. ‘Brutal times.’

  After lunch, they strolled between the golden baroque buildings along dusty streets so narrow it seemed impossible to survive the cars whipping past, and others where they felt safe from vehicles because the road was actually a giant flight of steps.

  She showed him the city gate in the huge ramparts that had protected the city for so long. They bought cake and ice cream from stalls standing around the circular bus terminus and he took photos of her sitting on the coping of the Tritons’ fountain in the middle, laughing, her face dusted with icing sugar and crushed almonds, her ice cream melting over her fingers.

  Judith enjoyed playing tourist with Adam, watching his face as he drank in the buildings and the views of deep blue sea to be glimpsed down almost every street. Finally, she looked at her watch. ‘We’d better go back to Richard and Erminia’s house. Family dinner tonight – cousins, their spouses and all the children they’ve brought into the world.’

  When they returned they found the family had already assembled around the long table beneath the chandelier in the dining room, ready to catch up with Judith and learn all about Adam.

  Adam looked a bit shell-shocked at the advent of so many people but joined in an evening full of laughter and finger-licking food such as lampuki, peppers and sausages. Richard beamed as he carried
on conversation with every member of his large family. Silver-haired Erminia, always more reserved, listened, but she, too, wore a constant smile. Children clambered down from the table between courses to let off steam, Lino, Rosaire and Raymond competed to entertain Adam with unflattering cousinly stories about Judith.

  It was late when the party broke up, and eerily quiet. After Judith had hugged her aunt and thanked her for a fantastic meal, Richard and Erminia went to bed, Erminia calling behind her, ‘We are not so young as you.’ Judith and Adam went out to sit in the courtyard among big dusty pot plants, the May night air chilly enough that Judith needed her jacket. Adam entertained himself by spotting geckos on the house walls.

  Tentatively, Judith said, ‘Will you be able to look after yourself tomorrow? I have stuff to do.’

  Slowly, Adam laced his hands behind his head and trained his gaze on the moths battering themselves against the orange light. ‘You’re beginning your mission?’

  ‘If you want to call it that,’ she agreed, aware of tension in his voice.

  ‘And you want to do it alone,’ he stated.

  She frowned as she tried to interpret his mood. ‘For the moment.’

  A pause. Adam continued to observe the night-time wildlife. Judith continued to observe Adam. At last he asked, ‘Are you any nearer knowing what you’re going to do?’

  She blew out a breath. ‘The office is evidently running perfectly well without me and I know it would suit Richard and his family if I simply sell out to them. Richard’s spending fewer hours in the office and Rosaire, Raymond and Lino are doing fine without me. It’s fair enough. I was the one to go home to the UK.’ She shrugged. ‘On the other hand, if I want my old position back I think it’s possible.’

  He rocked his chair back on two legs. ‘Thanks for the last few days. I’ve enjoyed being with you.’ His tone was so polite that Judith couldn’t quite tell whether he was being sarcastic.

  They lapsed into silence and for a while she thought he’d fallen asleep. But then his voice came suddenly. ‘How does it feel to be back in Malta?’

  ‘Nice,’ she answered carefully.

  ‘Nice,’ he repeated. He sounded as if he had no idea what that meant.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The sun was getting some real heat into it, making Judith roll her shoulders in satisfaction beneath the butterscotch-yellow cotton of her light shirt as she approached where her cousin Raymond’s blue Peugeot was parked. As he was tied to the office all day today, he’d said she could borrow it and she’d already called in for the keys. After a brief tidy up inside the vehicle, which involved throwing all the papers from the front into the back, she drove cautiously out of Sliema. She’d decided to begin her ‘mission’, as Adam termed it, by re-establishing her connection to Giorgio.

  That connection hadn’t quite happened just by returning to the island, a little to her surprise. Even in Sliema, where she and Giorgio had lived, her present life intervened. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t in her own apartment.

  Or perhaps it was Adam. Their familiar, easy way of being together.

  She’d certainly expected more of a reawakening of grief than she’d so far experienced. On her last visit, Giorgio’s loss had been new and shocking and Malta had seemed full of memories of him, ringing with his voice, bright with his smile, unbearable without him.

  The roads were no quieter than she remembered and she felt nervous of the lanes of weaving traffic on the regional road as she tried to re-accustom herself to the Maltese driving experience. It seemed rapid and busy after Brinham. Dust blew in through the open car window on a breeze that held a firm edge of heat, auguring the rigours of the summer just beginning. The sun bounced from the pale new limestone blocks of a building under construction, the site hemmed about by other buildings and the road. A precarious-looking crane lorry swung the large blocks into what would be the building’s basement.

  Construction in this style was a particularly Maltese skill. A building would be cut from between its neighbours and the site excavated into a yawning hole into which a new building was erected. She was sure that the occupants of the houses on either side must breathe a sigh of relief when the construction was complete.

  Joining the queue of traffic threading past the crane, she began to relax as she left it and the busier roads behind in favour of uncrowded residential areas with prickly pear trees lolling over dry-stone walls like spiky green Mickey Mouse ears. She began to enjoy her drive.

  The cemetery, when she parked the car, was enjoying an early-morning peace. The flower sellers were still setting out their stalls on the sloping car park and she paused at one to buy a single orange gerbera. Stepping through the tall, decorative gates, she had no trouble remembering her way up the avenue on the left, uphill under the pine trees to the Zammit family plot. Her previous visit was pretty well scorched into her memory.

  But having searched the monument out, she came to an uncertain halt before it, eyeing the weeping marble angel.

  Nobody was there to observe her but still, somehow, she felt like an uninvited guest. Perhaps it was because she could imagine the fury of Maria and Agnello Zammit if her visit happened to coincide with one of theirs.

  The plot was tidy. Fresh white and yellow flowers stood in a central vase. A new plaque had been created and placed in front of the older ones, pale compared to their weathered tones. An oval photograph of Giorgio made her flinch. It looked like the photograph that had appeared at the back of his tour company’s brochure. The inscription on his plaque read:

  Giorgio Zammit

  1970–2004

  Rest in Peace

  Her stomach hollowed. Already it was almost a year since the accident in the twinkling waters of Ghar Lapsi. At the other end of the summer, it would be a year since his death. She would be another year older than Giorgio as he lay here alone, the flowers nodding in the breeze, the carved angel standing guard.

  After a further glance about her, Judith lowered herself to the dusty floor. She sat cross-legged, propping her forehead on her fist and closing her eyes, preparing herself to remember Giorgio, trying to feel close to him and talk to him as she used to. She tried to tap into the grief from the familiar point of lament.

  If she had been there to keep him safe, she thought, struggling to keep her eyelids shut in the bright and inappropriately cheerful sunshine, she’d presumably have a completely different life now, still living in Malta with Giorgio.

  Her thoughts interrupted themselves. Should the two parts of that statement be separate?

  She might still be living in Malta … but ‘with’ Giorgio? Only behind closed doors.

  Letting her eyes open, she gazed at the flowers. Perhaps it was always difficult to envisage one life when living another? Having now accepted Giorgio’s death, it made it difficult to imagine him alive.

  But specific things had brought her back and she’d come here to focus on one of them. Fishing in her bag, she brought out Giorgio’s crucifix. It gleamed in the palm of her hand, some of its lustre lost now that it was no longer worn every day against warm skin. She closed her eyes again, reaching out determinedly to Giorgio with her mind.

  What am I supposed to do with this? Cass gave it to me so I’d have something of you. And now Alexia says it’s hers. The memory of her conversation with Giorgio’s daughter intruded. There had been positive dislike in the young woman’s tone and no echo of Giorgio.

  She sighed. There were so many things she had regrets about that she badly wanted to do the right thing about the crucifix, the right thing by Giorgio’s daughter. She just wished she knew what that right thing was. Maybe she should have let Adam come with her, as he’d so obviously been prepared to, because he was a rock in a crisis. All she’d had since she’d met him was one crisis after another. He must be used to coping with them by now.

  For goodness’ sake, she wasn’t meant to be thinking about Adam!

  Pushing herself to her feet, she brushed glumly at the dust and dead
pine needles that now coated her jeans, dropping the crucifix into her bag, feeling foolish over sitting cross-legged like some old hippy and attempting to gauge the opinions of a dead man. And an insect had bitten her ankle into a white lump with a pink halo and it itched already.

  She tucked the orange gerbera in with the other flowers. It blazed out from the tasteful muted whites and yellows. She hesitated. When his family brought fresh flowers, they’d surely notice this floral stranger.

  Oh, let them.

  It was unlikely to be Johanna, Giorgio’s estranged wife – she hadn’t even liked her husband. If it were his children or his parents … well, they’d just have to accept that she’d loved him too, no matter how they’d frowned.

  I wish I knew what to do. Giorgio’s grave had brought her no answers.

  She swung away and started down the hill, legs swinging like pendulums, until she could pass through the towering black gates and climb back into the hot interior of Raymond’s car. Disappointment and dissatisfaction crept over her like a black cloud. Only Giorgio’s name remained at Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery, beside the posed photograph that would keep him smiling and forever thirty-four.

  She thrust the car into gear and drove away.

  Ghar Lapsi was an area of outstanding beauty by any standard.

  Sauntering along the cliff top from the car park, Judith made for the same slab of rock where she’d waited out the day of Giorgio’s funeral. She squinted past the glitter of the sun on the ocean, almost too much for the eyes, at a red fishing boat and the dark shape of the rock of Filfla. The sea was much rougher today than last time she’d been here. She shaded her eyes to watch the blue-green, frothing waves and listen to them crash onto rock. Then, changing her mind, she returned to the steps to jog down to the foreshore.

  She passed no one on the way but there were a couple of families at the restaurant at the bottom. A pretty waitress with melting brown eyes and a ready smile took her order for cappuccino and Judith settled down to watch the waves from a green chair on the terrace as she drank. Substantial waves thrashed the shore. Divers would be foolhardy to go down today. The rip would carry them away or fling them against rock without warning. Smash, dash, flip, tumble, hold you down, drag you out into angry, jade-green depths. The sea had a soft belly but a hard head, as the Maltese saying went, and only the experienced and the incautious went down when it was so restless.