‘Come on,’ said Lucky. ‘Let’s go to Mdina.’
Lucky was talking as they drove up the road towards Rabat, but Edward was not listening. It was now, more than at any point since his return to Malta, that the passage of time seemed to have melted. Gazing out of the window, the warm air buffeting his face, he looked up at the imposing bastions of Mdina, dominated by the dome of its cathedral, bleached and stark against the deep blue sky. And – yes – there was the Xara Palace; he could actually see the balcony, that place where they spent so many hours; where they watched the battles raging over Takali. This road, too – he sighed. How many times had he trod this route, up and down, back and forth? How many dawns had spread over the Island as they trudged sleepily down towards the airfield? How many evenings had he seen the lengthening shadows across the road stretch and disappear entirely at the end of another long day? It was such a small passage of his life – six months only – and yet now he could recall so much so very clearly. Even sitting in Lucky’s car, the wind in his face, took him back to that first time in the bus, that hopeless, rickety old bus, with its blown windows and grinding gears. Edward smiled to himself.
Lucky turned the car up a short, steep incline, past the Pointe de Vue – ah, yes, there were pilots housed there too – and into the main square of Rabat.
‘OK,’ said Lucky. ‘Let’s go. Only residents or tradesmen are allowed to drive into Mdina. It’s not quite the Silent City it used to be, but it’s still a damn sight quieter than most places.’ They ambled slowly over the bridge and through the city gate. The narrow streets were cool where dark shadows protected them from the glare of the sun.
‘It hasn’t changed at all,’ said Edward, staring up at the high walls and stone windows, and baskets of vibrant bougainvillaea. ‘It really is exactly as I remember.’ He grinned at Lucky, glad to have somebody to share this moment with. They turned down a side street and emerged into a courtyard. Workmen’s trucks and building materials filled one side of the square, but facing them, unmistakably, were the columns, ornate cornicing and elegant windows of the Xara Palace.
‘Do you think we can see inside?’ Edward asked.
‘I’m sure we can.’
A workman told them to speak to the foreman. ‘He’s inside somewhere,’ he said, then looking at them said, ‘OK, I’ll show you.’
They followed him into the hall and inner courtyard. That smell, thought Edward – stone dust, cool and musty; it was so familiar to him. A man appeared – small, dark skinned, and a four-day growth of beard. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Can I help?’
‘Sure you can,’ said Lucky. ‘We used to live here during the war. We were pilots with the RAF. Any chance we could have a little look around? For old times’ sake?’
The foreman eyed them a moment, then said, ‘Of course.’ He spread out his hand. ‘Have a good look. Just excuse the mess.’
‘Oh, we’re not worried about that.’
The foreman led them to the stairs. ‘Up there,’ he said. ‘All the rooms and the balcony.’
‘Much obliged to you,’ said Lucky. ‘We won’t be long.’
The foreman waved another hand. ‘Take your time.’
They found their old room easily. It had yet to be touched. Paint peeled from the ceiling, the thick floorboards were covered in dust and it was completely bare, but Edward had no difficulty envisaging how it had once been. He closed his eyes and opened them again, half expecting to see Harry lying on his bed in the far corner, one arm behind his head, the other holding aloft a folded-back battered old paperback. He could almost hear Harry’s voice: ‘Eddie, there you are.’ He smiled, remembering. I still miss him so much, he thought, then turning to Lucky, said, ‘Your bed was here, beneath the window.’
‘Yeah, it was, and yours was over there.’
Edward looked at the width of the walls next to the windows. ‘No wonder we felt quite safe here. Few bombs would have got through these.’
‘We were still pretty cavalier, though, don’t you think? I don’t ever recall taking shelter. Maybe we hit the deck a few times, but that was about it. I think a bomb did hit the place once, but didn’t explode.’
‘There were a lot of those.’
Lucky smiled. ‘I reckon we owe those Polish factory workers, don’t you?’
‘I think we do.’
‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘they got the Pointe de Vue, of course. How many were killed then? Quite a few.’
Edward shrugged. ‘Half a dozen?’
Up another flight of stone stairs, through the old mess and the intelligence room, past several workmen, and out onto the balcony. Half the Island lay spread out before them. Edward stared, scanning the sweep of fields, villages and towns, shimmering in the late morning heat.
‘Do you remember the time Butch shot down that 109 from up here?’ said Lucky.
‘Yes,’ chuckled Edward. ‘He was mad with rage.’
‘He grabbed the Lewis gun and started firing away, shouting, “You fucking bastards!” Butch could get real mad when he wanted to.’
‘Quite incredible that he hit him. I know that 109 was close, but I don’t think I ever saw anyone else shoot down a plane with a Lewis.’
‘I don’t suppose that pilot could believe he’d been hit either. He went down just over there, at the foot of the hill beneath Imtarfa.’ He pointed, then said, ‘Remember Imtarfa?’
‘Of course.’
‘You used to visit me when I’d been wounded.’
‘Apart from Laurie Bowles, you were the only one left. The only one of the Originals.’
‘The Originals,’ repeated Lucky. He savoured the word. ‘I was secretly pretty proud about that. He was a cunning man, was Butch. Knew how to get the best from people.’
‘I wonder what became of him.’
‘Butch? He survived. And stayed in too, I think. Passed away, oh, four or five years ago now. Cancer. You see, Eddie, if you’d been in the Squadron Association, you’d know that.’
Edward shook his head. I’ve been a fool, he thought. I’ve left it too late.
They left the Xara Palace and wandered through the city. At the far end was a garden café, with seats on the old ramparts overlooking Imtarfa and the north of the Island.
‘A drink, I think,’ said Lucky. ‘You grab a seat, Eddie, and I’ll go and order.’
Edward found a table and looked out at Imtarfa’s clock tower and the cluster of buildings below. His memory was less sure about those final weeks on the Island. For a while after Harry had gone missing he had been in something of a daze, refusing to accept that his friend had gone. When Pip and Lucky had suggested it was time to pack up Harry’s things, Edward had angrily refused. Not until two weeks had passed did he finally acquiesce. There wasn’t much: a change of clothes, shaving kit, a silver cigarette box, hair brush, fountain pen. A few books. Lots of handkerchiefs. Edward smiled, remembering – Harry always carried a clean handkerchief. ‘It’s so much more than something with which to blow one’s nose,’ he had said. ‘A hand towel, a mop for one’s brow, a neckerchief, a reminder if you tie knots in it.’ Ever since then, Edward had made sure he always carried one too; he’d often echoed Harry’s reasoning as well.
Edward turned the ring on his finger, then rubbed his chin. Difficult days, he thought to himself. He’d felt so disorientated. He kept walking into the mess, or waking up in the morning and expecting to see Harry there – and then he’d remember. But he’d carried on – flown whenever he was told to, tried to help the new boys acclimatise. He’d been promoted again – to Flight Lieutenant, his second ring. But taking command of a flight only because his greatest friend had gone brought no comfort.
As new pilots arrived, others had died or been wounded. Alex McLeish had been killed: two 109s had got him, and he crashed into a wall and was flung twenty-five yards. He survived a day or so. Lucky, Laurie and Edward had all gone up to Imtarfa to see him; they’d watched the life drain from him.
Edward wondered what had become o
f Alex’s wife. Had she remarried? Did she still think about him? Edward could picture Alex now, sitting at dispersal or in the Mess writing endless letters to his wife. The bundle of letters that had arrived on the mail plane had thrilled Alex every bit as much as Kitty’s letters had cheered Harry.
Edward had helped the new boys, but had put a distance between him and them; he’d not wanted their friendship. Only Laurie and Lucky would do. They were the only ones who really understood. Perhaps if there had been more drink, things might have been different, but they’d all been far too sober. There’d been no escape. Then Lucky had been shot down, and so he’d trooped up to Imtarfa whenever he could, sometimes with Laurie, more often on his own. By God, he thought, I’d felt alone.
Lucky reappeared with two beers, but there was a waft of something stronger on his breath. Spirits, thought Edward. He’s just downed a shot of something.
‘Cheers,’ said Lucky, chinking their glasses.
‘Cheers, Lucky.’
Lucky wiped his mouth and sighed appreciatively. ‘That’s better,’ then eyeing Edward said, ‘What’s going through that head of yours?’
‘I was just thinking about visiting you in Imtarfa.’
‘And much appreciated it was, too.’
‘I can’t remember where you were hit. I just know you were lucky. Very lucky, Lucky.’
Lucky smiled, and clutched the back his shoulder. ‘Cannon shell straight through there,’ he said. ‘A Macchi of all things. Attacked me from slightly above and at an angle, and wham! It was like being punched by Mohammed Ali or someone. The funny thing was that it didn’t really hurt, not then anyway. I was mad, of course. Mad with him, but really mad with myself for not keeping a better watchout.’
‘So was your plane hit too?’
‘No – my Spit was fine.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘And I remember thinking, ‘To hell with this, I’m going to get this son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I do. And here’s the thing: when I’d first been in England, my instructor had been this big-shot Battle of Britain ace and he taught me a trick. You pull back the throttle and kick hard on the rudder and the Spit practically stops mid-air. So I do this, and the Eyetie screams over my head – he’s got no choice or else he’s going to collide, so then I’ve got the perfect shot ’cos this joker’s now right in front of me. I couldn’t miss and I didn’t. Fifty yards in front and he went straight down.’ He plunged his arm. ‘I guess he’s still down there somewhere.’
Edward said, ‘I’ve never heard that being done before.’
‘Honest to God,’ said Lucky. ‘Anyway, then I realise I’m in trouble. I’ve got a hole punched through my shoulder, my shirt’s covered in the red stuff and I’m still at eighteen thousand or something. But the Spit seems to be OK – the cannon shell that hit me missed anything serious. About an inch from hitting the central petrol tank. So I’m diving down, when this fucking 109 hops onto my tail. Well, I’ve seen him this time and I try to out-circle him, but he’s good and although I eventually manage to shake him, it’s not before he’s hit me in the engine and I’m spewing a ton of white coolant. I tried to bale out, but couldn’t unbuckle my harness. Just couldn’t get the damn thing to unclip. Maybe my fingers weren’t working properly or something. Anyway, it’s now too late to bale out. The last thing I remember is flying over this field and thinking my time was well and truly up. Turns out it wasn’t, though.’ He shook his head. ‘I crash-landed, was flung out of the cockpit and ended up in a field. Broken shoulder, broken arm, and a coupla ribs. So yeah, I was all right, but poor old Alex – well, I don’t know why these things happen. I don’t know why I was spared. Many better men than me weren’t given that chance.’
‘Many better people than me too. I left Malta without a scratch. Well, perhaps a few and a few bruises too, but that was about it. I didn’t even get the Dog. Where’s the justice in that?’
‘Ah, it’s all baloney. There’s no meaning to any of it. But you know what still gets me?’ Edward shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you: that after struggling against all those goddam Jerries, and actually coming out on top – hell, I shot down five of the sons of bitches – it was a lousy Eyetie that got me in the end. An Eyetie – Jesus!’
Edward laughed. ‘You know, Lucky, some of those Italian pilots were incredible. I’ll tell you something,’ he said. ‘After Harry had gone, I had a strange experience with one. It was one of my last flights on Malta. We’d been in some dogfight or other. We’d intercepted a raid and I’d got a Ju 88 – actually, that was my fifth on Malta – but then we got tangled up with a number of Macchis. Anyway, I got off a few squirts, but then ran out of ammunition and I was about to make a hasty dive for the deck when I saw an Italian on my tail. He fired a burst at me and it actually knocked off my mirror – missed my head by not very much. So I flung my Spit into a tight turn, but still this ruddy Macchi stuck on my tail. I weaved about, twisting, turning, getting lower and lower until I was right on the deck. But still this Italian was behind me. I kept thinking, well, come on then, if you’re going to shoot me, shoot me. I was absolutely exhausted, and I had this strange moment where I just gave up. I levelled out, flew straight and waited for the bullets to come. But they never did. Instead, he did the most extraordinary thing. He flew alongside, fired his guns into the air and with a wave, turned away.’
‘Son of a gun,’ said Lucky.
‘I swear it’s true. Anyway, the next day – or almost the next day, I can’t quite remember – an Italian was shot down. He managed to bale out over the Island but landed on a fountain in Sliema and was impaled on the top of it. A horrible way to go, but later some of the others were recounting this story in the mess. They told it with such relish, they thought it a great hoot. I was still feeling very cut up about Harry, and I’m afraid I rather lost my rag, telling them they were all inhuman so-and-sos and hadn’t they a heart and so on. “But Eddie,” one of them said – actually, I think it was Mike Lindsay – “But Eddie, it’s only an Italian. It’s nothing less than the lily-livered bastards deserve.” So I told him about my experience the day before. “They don’t want to kill us,” I told him, “they’re just pretending to do so, firing their guns so it looks as though they’re shooting us down. They don’t want to be in this war any more than we do.” And this I do remember, Mike looked at me and he said, “Eddie, this is total war. We’re way past the point of feeling sorry for the enemy.” And he was probably right.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘I think you were in hospital then. Laurie and I were sent home a few days later, so you must have been.’
‘It was brutal, Eddie. You know, I think we all toughened up a whole load. War does that. It’s dehumanising.’
‘And yet I saw amazing things too – amazing human kindness. Later, in Italy – well, I met a lot of wonderful Italians.’ He shook his head and looked out over the bastions wistfully. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to believe we saw such terrible things. Such terrible, terrible things.’
Twice before they finished lunch, Lucky got up ‘to take a leak’, disappearing into the bar beneath them. Both times when he returned, a noticeably stronger smell of alcohol pervaded their table, so that for the second time, when they finally left, Edward felt a little uneasy about getting back into Lucky’s car with him. He wondered whether he should say something. Then he thought, Oh, to hell with it. Lucky seemed clear-headed enough. And anyway, nothing he could say would change him or make any difference. Lucky was an alcoholic; it was how he was now.
And as it happened, they reached the ferry in the north of the Island without any alarms. A short trip across the sea and an even shorter car ride the other side and they reached Lucky’s house, a restored farmhouse on the south of the island that stood near a cluster of houses overlooking the sea, and which was surrounded by small fields of golden corn and orchards of olives and figs.
‘What a place, Lucky,’ said Edward as they stood on the stone terrace and gazed out at the twinkling Mediterranean, soft and blue and as inviting as it had been that J
une day when Harry had gone missing.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said. ‘Come on, let me show you around.’
Lucky was an attentive host. He had told Edward he rarely had people to stay, but had clearly made an effort to make his guest feel welcome: there were books about Malta placed on the bedside cabinet, several fresh towels on the bed, new soap, bath salts, and shampoo in the guest bathroom, and he had stocked up the fridge and his larder. ‘Help yourself to anything,’ he told Edward. ‘My house is your house. And if there’s something I haven’t got in that you’d like, just say. We can go and get it in Victoria.’
‘Honestly, this is perfect,’ Edward assured him.
‘Well, I know you’ve given up your hotel room.’ They were in the kitchen and Lucky opened the door of the fridge. ‘I got in various kinds of fruit juice because I wasn’t sure which ones you liked. And tea,’ he said, producing two packets from a cupboard. ‘I met an English lady in the shop and she suggested English Breakfast and Earl Grey – does that sound right?’
*
That afternoon they talked less of the war and more about other things: the slow pace of life on Gozo; Maltese politics; America; sport – baseball and cricket. They walked along the coast and down to the tiny fishing village of Xlendi. They took their time; after all, there was no rush, and the sun was high and hot. They passed two farmers, neighbours of Lucky’s, and waved. Even the scent in the air – ripe corn and wild flowers – felt dry and hot. The rocky path crunched rhythmically underfoot. Edward was impressed by the beauty of the place: an island of soft earthen colours, surrounded by the deep blue sea. He’d never thought of Malta in such a way.
In Xlendi they bought some fish, took it back to Lucky’s house and barbecued it for their supper. They talked some more. Conversation came easily. Edward wondered why he could never talk in such a way with Simon; why he could rarely talk in such a way with anyone. He and Lucky were poles apart in so many ways, and yet with him he felt a sense of the camaraderie that had been missing from his life for so long. And then he thought, it’s because of the war. The war has linked us. We’re like blood brothers.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 25