A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  Wearing a light blue shirt, linen summer jacket, and a tie, Edward exited the lift in the foyer at just a few minutes before seven. He spotted Lucky immediately – thick hair still swept back, and like his own, with plenty of dark remaining. But then suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Last time he’d seen Lucky, he’d been in RAF blue, peaked cap on his head, and he’d been only about twenty-five; this man’s face was lined, with bags under the eyes and liver spots on his forehead. And he was wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt, baggy linen trousers and sandals. Could it really be him? He stopped by the lift a moment, then caught Lucky’s eye and at that moment knew for sure.

  ‘Eddie Enderby!’ cried Lucky, standing up immediately. ‘Goddamn! Christ, how long has it been? Fifty years at least! How the hell are you?’

  They shook hands, Lucky clasping him by the shoulder as he did so.

  ‘Very well, Lucky. Very well. And you?’

  ‘Ah, can’t complain. Well, not too much anyways.’ They both eyed each other – is it really you? Edward smelt a waft of alcohol on Lucky’s breath. ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Lucky, shaking his head. Suddenly Edward could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Look, I thought we could go and get a drink or two, then have some dinner. I’ve booked us into the Phoenicia. Have you been back up to Valletta yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Edward. ‘The Phoenicia? Is that the same –?’

  ‘Yeah, it most certainly is. Remember it? Thought you’d like that. And the food’s a little better than you might remember.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful, Lucky.’

  ‘And you remember the Xara Palace? Course you do. Well, someone’s just gone and bought it and they’re going to turn it into a hotel. Next year, you’ll be able to come over and stay in our old room. Amazing, ain’t it?’

  ‘The Xara Palace. My God.’

  Parked directly outside was Lucky’s car, an ageing 2CV with a dented front wing. ‘Jump in,’ Lucky told him, and for a moment Edward wondered whether he should suggest a taxi instead. But Lucky had already got in and was opening the passenger door. ‘I apologise,’ he said, ‘she’s not pretty, but when I moved over here, I realised there was no point in getting anything very smart. The Malts drive like lunatics and it’s not like I ever go very far. Well, you can’t – there’s nowhere to go.’

  ‘Must be a bit different from America.’

  Lucky laughed. ‘You’re telling me. I certainly had some big cars out there. But I kind of prefer this one, to be honest. It’s easy to repair and I don’t get too upset if someone dents a fender or something.’

  If Lucky’s drinking affected his driving, Edward could not spot it. He seemed in control. Had it not been for the smell of his breath, Edward would have sworn Lucky was completely sober.

  A yellow bus, even more aged than Lucky’s Citroën, spluttered up the hill from the harbour, thick exhaust smoke belching from its behind.

  ‘What a lot of old buses they have here,’ said Edward.

  ‘Incredible, aren’t they? You can buy little models of them in every tourist shop in town, although the toy versions never have that dented, fully polluting style of the real ones. Still, they’re a damn sight better than that one that picked us up when we first got here. Remember that?’

  ‘How could I forget it?’

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Lucky. ‘I don’t know how we did it.’

  ‘No.’

  The briefest of pauses, then Lucky said, ‘Look at Valletta now. That dome wasn’t there in our day, and there’s a lot less rubble about, but otherwise it looks much the same.’

  Edward looked, muttered, ‘Stunning,’ then said, ‘But you live on Gozo, don’t you, Lucky?’

  ‘Yeah. Got an old farmhouse. I bought it nearly ten years ago now.’

  ‘Well, it’s very good of you to come over to see me.’

  Lucky turned and grinned. ‘Anything for an old pal. But seriously, it’s no sweat coming over. I get in my car, jump on the ferry, and just over twenty minutes later I’m driving onto Malta. And as I said, it takes no time to drive down here. Nothing does.’

  ‘And you’ll go back tonight?’

  ‘Sure. Last ferry doesn’t go ’til after eleven.’

  And so it continued on the short journey to the Phoenicia: observations about Malta and the Maltese, and the weather forecast for the next week (hot and cloudless), until they reached Floriana and Edward began seeing once-familiar landmarks and felt the passage of time slipping away. ‘St Publius,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What? Oh, yes,’ said Lucky. ‘And look at the clock on the left.’

  Edward looked. ‘It’s stopped.’

  ‘Exactly. 7.40 – the time the place was bombed. It’s been that way since 1942.’

  Edward shook his head, then saw they had reached the hotel. It looked almost exactly as he remembered. And opposite was the bus station, where it had always been. Busier, of course, but otherwise much the same.

  ‘And that’s the RAF memorial,’ said Lucky pointing to a tall eagle-crested column as they got out of the car. ‘We can have a look at it. There’s a number of names on there that you’ll recognise.’

  ‘Yes – I’d like that.’ But not now, he thought and was glad when Lucky said, ‘But first things first: a drink.’

  It was still hot outside and already Edward felt in need of cool air and, if he was honest, a drink. The bar provided both. ‘What’ll you have?’ Lucky asked him.

  ‘Gin and tonic, please. With ice.’

  ‘Goes without saying.’ He turned to the barman. ‘Gin and tonic and a negroni. It’s one thing I’ll say about you British – you never have cottoned on to ice.’

  Edward shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s rarely warm enough to warrant it.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it.’ Lucky chuckled and led Edward to a table next to a large indoor fern. ‘Cheers,’ he said, chinking Edward’s glass. ‘Damn good to see you, Eddie. I’m trying to think when I last saw you. In England, just after the end of the war.’

  ‘Yes, it must have been. A long time ago.’

  Lucky opened his mouth as though he were about to say something, then stopped. ‘Well, now,’ he said after a moment, ‘I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to for the last fifty years.’

  Edward smiled. ‘Surprisingly little. At any rate, very little when one considers how much happened during the war.’ He told Lucky briefly: about leaving the RAF, marrying Cynthia and his son, Simon, about the school and a lifetime in teaching.

  ‘Christ, I envy you,’ said Lucky, finishing his negroni. He looked around, caught a waiter’s eye and raised his glass – another, please – then turned to Edward. ‘How you doin’, Eddie? Need a refill?’

  ‘No, I’m fine for the moment, thanks.’

  Lucky whistled. ‘Boy, do I envy you,’ he said again.

  ‘I can’t think why. It’s been a pretty ordinary life. Dull even.’

  ‘But you settled down afterwards, didn’t you? Found stability.’

  ‘I suppose so. In a way.’

  Lucky rubbed his neck. ‘Well, that’s why I envy you.’

  Edward eyed him – go on. I’m listening.

  Lucky sighed, his eyes suddenly distant and wistful. ‘I’ve never really managed to settle,’ he said at last. ‘I stayed in the RAF as long as I could after the war, but it got kind of boring, so I thought I should head back to the States – after all, I hadn’t been back home for the best part of six years. Hadn’t seen my family at all in that time. It wasn’t the same, though.’ His mother had remarried just after he’d joined up, had had more kids, and on Lucky’s return, his stepfather made it pretty clear that he didn’t want his stepson hanging around about the place. So he left Burbank and headed down to San Diego and began teaching flying at a civilian airfield there. He soon got bored of that too, had a fight with his boss, and was given the boot. For several years he bummed about California, teaching flying and occasionally taking charter flights up and down the coast. Then he met his future wife, Celeste. ‘She wa
s a good girl,’ he said, ‘and her old man sat me down one day and told me he wanted me to join the family construction business. So I married Celeste and quit flying and settled down.’ For several years all went well. They were living ‘the American dream’ in a quiet town north of San Francisco, had a couple of kids, and Lucky was becoming respectable. ‘I know, hard to imagine, but it’s true.’

  But it didn’t last. After a while he started to get itchy feet again. ‘I wasn’t sleeping well, either,’ he told Edward. ‘You know: bad dreams.’

  Edward nodded. Yes, I know about those.

  ‘So anyway, I started to drink a bit. I found that if I went to bed with a bit of alcohol inside me, then I slept better. I guess it helped me to forget. And I missed the flying, too. You know, flying was my life when I was younger. The thrill, the excitement of being around those wonderful machines, of taking them high into the sky where no-one could get you. I used to think the sky was my own private kingdom. I liked my father-in-law, don’t get me wrong, but he was always there, breathing down my neck. And he didn’t like a man who drank.’

  Edward sensed what was coming.

  ‘So I started drinking a bit more. Sometimes quite a lot. Sometimes things got a bit out of hand with Celeste . . . you know?’ He eyed Edward carefully, but Edward simply nodded. ‘I’m not proud of myself,’ he said, looking away. Later, he started arguing with his father-in-law. This went on for a few years: occasionally going too far and smacking Celeste, fighting with his father-in-law, winding up drunk more often than was good for anyone. Then one day he got back from work and found that Celeste and the kids had gone. When he went round to his in-laws’ house, his father-in-law told him he was fired and that he was no longer welcome in their house. ‘He said to me, “D’you think you’re the only man in America who lived through the war?” He was right, of course,’ said Lucky.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I cleaned up. Went sober for a while. Didn’t touch a drop for a dozen years. And I went back to flying. Moved up to Seattle, began instructing again, and with a friend bought into a business that ran tours to Alaska. The most goddam beautiful flying I ever did.’ For a while Lucky found peace. But then the nightmares began again and this time he had a full-blown breakdown. ‘I was a mess. I suddenly realised how lonesome I was. I hardly ever saw my kids, had lost my wife, and most of my greatest pals in life were dead.’ Somehow, he pulled himself together. ‘God knows how,’ he said, rubbing his forehead. He was still a half-owner of the flying school, a business that was expanding without him. In 1982 he sold up, and decided to go travelling. He went to Britain, back to some of the places he’d known during the war, then travelled on through France and eventually wound up on Malta. ‘I never left,’ he said and for a moment Edward wondered whether he meant in 1942 or forty years later. Lucky finished his drink with a flourish. ‘Well, it’s a damn sight nicer here than it used to be in the old days. And I had a bit of money, property was cheap, and I suddenly thought – what the heck, I might as well stay here.’

  He suddenly grinned, as though momentarily embarrassed. ‘I’ve been talking too long. I apologise. You can probably tell I don’t get to speak about this stuff too much – but, well, you understand Eddie, you know what it’s like . . .’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I’m sorry you’ve had a tough time.’ Edward smiled at him; Lucky had always worn his heart on his sleeve, even all those years ago.

  ‘Yeah, well, anyway. Time to eat. You must be hungry.’

  Once sat at their table, however, and having ordered a bottle of wine, Lucky needed little encouragement to talk some more: one story after another – about his former father-in-law, about misadventures flying over Alaska, and his contact with some of his fellow Eagle Squadron pilots. Lucky was a member of the Eagle Squadron Association, and received regular newsletters. The last time he’d been back to the States had been for a reunion in Charleston.

  ‘Do you miss America?’ Edward asked him.

  ‘Do I miss America,’ Lucky repeated, turning his wine glass in his hand. ‘No. I can’t say that I do. I wish I did. I dunno. I suppose in some ways I left America behind when I joined the RAF. I’d been rejected by the US military, and by the time I came back I reckon I was pretty anglicised. Jesus, six years is a long time to be away. And when I got back everything was different. I missed the excitement of flying, but you know what else? I missed the camaraderie. God knows, I really missed that. Nothing has come close to that. What you feel for a bunch of guys that you’re living and dying with . . . like we were on Malta back then. I guess everyone else has been a bit of a disappointment. And sure, I know after the war everyone was in the same boat, but in California there wasn’t anyone who knew a goddam thing about Malta and what had gone on there. Hell, most people in California didn’t even know Malta existed. In California it was all about the Pacific war. That’s what counted. If I’d flown over the goddam Solomons or something I’d have probably settled back into life just fine.’ He took a deep drink from his glass. ‘So now I have a wife I haven’t spoken to in years, and a grown-up son and daughter who I see once in a blue moon. I’ve even got grandkids – five of ’em. I guess I’ll probably go back and see them some time in the next year or so. Or maybe they can come and visit me . . .’ He let the sentence trail. ‘I used to think I was Lucky. Now I’m not so sure. What’s that line? “They shall not grow old as we grow old”. Do you ever think about that, Eddie? Do you ever think sometimes that those guys were the lucky ones?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I mean, Christ. Sometimes I think that the only useful thing I’ve ever done in my life is the five years I spent fighting in the war. That was a time when I was doing something with my life, something worthwhile, you know?’ He rubbed his forehead, then ran his hands through his hair.

  Edward looked at him. ‘I think we’ve all suffered our fair share,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Ah, I dunno,’ Lucky continued. ‘To think I was so happy when the war was over. I’ve made it, I thought, I’ve survived. But now I’m really not so sure. We left a large part of ourselves behind, didn’t we, Eddie?’

  Lucky had insisted on paying, and Edward had insisted on taking a taxi back to his hotel in Sliema. On this, Lucky had acquiesced; he had been too drunk to do otherwise. He had wondered how on earth Lucky would be able to drive back to the ferry, and had even thought about suggesting he stay the night in the Phoenicia, so he was relieved when, the following morning, Lucky rang him in his hotel room.

  ‘Morning, Eddie, how are ya?’

  ‘Very well. And thank you again for a delicious dinner.’

  ‘Ah, don’t mention it. The least I could do after making you listen to the ramblings of an old drunk all night. Anyway, I apologise profusely.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’

  ‘Well, you’re too kind. Anyway, listen, do you want to meet up today? We can visit some of our old haunts.’

  ‘Yes, of course. So long as you don’t mind trekking over from Gozo again.’

  ‘Are you kidding? What else would I do all day?’

  And so it was arranged. After all, Edward told himself, revisiting old haunts was why he had come back to Malta.

  ‘I thought we could have a look around Valletta,’ said Lucky when they met up again in the foyer of the Preluna. It was shortly after eleven in the morning. He was wearing another Hawaiian shirt and Edward was glad he had decided to forego his tie. ‘If it’s okay with you, we’ll leave the car here, and walk down to the harbour,’ added Lucky. ‘Then we can get the foot-ferry across. And there’s always a welcome breeze across the harbour. But I warn you: it’s a steep climb the other side.’

  Outside, it was another baking hot, cloudless day, the sky a deep, rich blue.

  ‘I’d forgotten how hot it can be,’ said Edward as they stepped out into the bright sunshine.

  ‘Gets worse in August, but you’re right. I remember that June we were here. Almost no food and relentlessly hot.’
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br />   ‘I burnt my hand once getting into my plane. For some reason I hadn’t put on my glove. I got really bad blisters along the tops of my fingers.’

  ‘And nowhere really to get much shade.’

  ‘Well, dispersal certainly didn’t have a roof by then.’

  They walked down the narrow hill to the corniche, busy with traffic and people alike. Sightseeing boats lined the harbour front, their vividly coloured stands vying for space alongside the ice-cream kiosks.

  ‘Over here,’ said Lucky, pointing to a small boat and the line of people queuing to board.

  ‘I can’t get over how thriving the place seems to be,’ said Edward. ‘When we left in July ’42, this place was a ghost town. I distinctly remember coming down to Sliema – some of the 601 Squadron boys had a house here – and there was barely a soul about. The harbour was full of wrecks, the submariners had packed up and gone to Alex, and the streets were strewn with piles of rubble. I don’t know what I expected, but the difference is so marked.’

  ‘Fifty years is a long time, Eddie. Still, I think if you’d come back twenty years ago it would have looked pretty run down. Malta’s only just recently begun to take off, you know.’

  Fifteen minutes later, they were stepping off the ferry and beginning the climb up to the centre of Valletta. The place was a city of light and shadows that day. Burnished white limestone, dazzling in the heat, then cool and dark where the tall stonework masked the sun. They took their time to climb the steep streets, pausing frequently to catch their breath.

  ‘Hard work, eh?’ said Lucky as the steps briefly levelled off.

  ‘But worth it. The views are marvellous. Anyway, there’s no rush, is there?’