Page 15 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Yes,’ I say slowly. ‘Professor Kathryn Borg.’
‘Oh, I know a Professor Borg – a delightful gentleman,’ Christina says. ‘I wonder if it’s the same one. Oh no, how silly. A lady professor? That is marvellous.’
‘A woman professor – don’t sound likely,’ the sergeant says.
‘More likely than you knowing the sum of two plus two,’ Christina tells him sweetly. ‘Run along now – there’s a good fellow.’
The sergeant harrumphs, mutters ‘four’ under his breath, but nevertheless turns on his heel and goes off to do her bidding.
‘This way.’ Christina leads me up the steps of a grand-looking building. ‘Ordinarily, you’d be taken off to the prison to be interrogated, but as you are a woman, we have broughtyou here to see General Gort himself . . .’ Christina has taken a few steps when she realises that I’m not following her.
‘Come along, now,’ she says, beckoning me. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Considering the nature of what constitutes reality,’ I tell her honestly.
‘Come on, you silly goose.’ She beckons me impatiently. ‘The general is a busy man, and I expect he has hardly the time or the ammo to muster a firing squad for you, even if youarea spy. Besides, I’ll look after you. Promise.’
A promise from Christina seems like a solid thing, so reluctantly, I walk to her side.
‘All you need to do is tell the general that you are here staying with your cousin the professor, and when your cousin arrives, all this will be cleared up.’
‘Right,’ I say.
Except, of course, there is no cousin to vouch for me here.
Chapter Ten
‘So, you see the problem we have, Miss Borg?’ General Gort tells me as he leans back in his chair, stroking his impressive moustaches, a pipe smouldering in one hand. ‘Can’t possibly afford to let any intel get back to Axis HQ in Sicily, so we must take every possible threat seriously, no matter how . . .’ He gives me a lingering look. ‘. . . unlikely.’
Before reaching the general’s smoke-filled office, Christina led me through a series of elegant and regal rooms bustling with activity. Quiet and intense men and women were labouring over matters of life and death with all the laser-focused concentration those kinds of stakes demand.
Now, as the general waits for my defence, I catch Christina’s eye and read the note of caution. Christina seems to be the expert on navigating this world; I’d be a fool not to heed her.
‘I’m not a spy,’ I say. ‘I got lost and, as you can see, suffered a head injury, and now everything is a little fuzzy. I’m not sure what happened to my papers . . .’
‘Well, that’s not good enough, is it?’ The general slaps his hand on the desk. ‘I’ve got a lot more important things to deal with now than a little lost English girl who can’t keep hold of the most basic items. I should probably just send you off to the prison and have done with it.’
Perhaps he wants me to cry. I’m not going to cry; I’ve dealt with so much worse.
‘What I did at the shelter was foolish; I could have got two other people killed . . .’
‘Not just any person,’ the general tells me. ‘Flight Lieutenant Daniel Beauchamp is our best pilot. He’s taken down nigh on twenty enemy aircraft here and saved dozens of lives by doing so. Damn fine man, for a Canadian.’
‘Oh,Canadian– I see,’ I say.
The general scowls at me.
‘It’s just that I thought he was American.’
‘Men from all over the world have come to Malta to fight, madam,’ he tells me. ‘Americans, Canadians, Free French, South Africans, Polish, and of course our own chaps are the best of the lot. There’s nowhere in the world where pilots risk their lives hourly like they do on Malta, and . . .’ He checks himself.
‘I realise that, and I just want to say that I really am truly sorry. I lost my mind for a moment, but I’m better now, thanks to Miss Ratcliffe and the doctor. I swear to you that I am not a spy.’
‘And is there any reason why you appear to be dressed like a navvy?’
This man really is quite something.
‘Clothes shortage, I expect,’ Christina jumps in helpfully, looking up and down at my cut-off jeans and T-shirt. ‘Some days, I wonder if I shan’t have to start wearing brown paper bags – my frocks are all but worn to threads as it is. I admire Miss Borg, not bowing to the impulse to keep up appearances during wartime. Good for her, I say.’
