Page 27 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Thomas Hardy, rarely cheerful,’ Sal says fondly. ‘But, Vittoria, you were always such an enthusiastic pupil.’
‘I had to leave school,’ Vittoria explains, turning to me, unalarmed by the fact that we’ve only just met. Perhaps when so many people are taken from the city on such a regular basis, sharing with anyone you can find becomes commonplace. ‘My father dies, the war comes. I am alone. I help the doctor when I can, and in the evenings, I . . . work in the bars, you know?’
I do know. I have known many young women like her, out of options and forced to trade the one thing she has left.
‘After the war, I am going to leave Malta and go to England to train as a nurse, and I will wear a bright white starched cap and marry Lawrence Olivier.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say.
‘I will bring another book to you tomorrow,’ Sal tells her. ‘Are you well, Vittoria?’
‘I am well.’ Vittoria nods. ‘I have a special friend now. He is kind and says he will take me to England after the war. I wonder if he might even fall in love with me? Well, I’d better go. I have a date with him tonight! Thank you, Professor. Goodbye!’
She races off to her date as though it is with a boy who has courted her with sweet nothings and not with a stranger paying for her survival.
‘She’s very young to be making those kinds of hard choices,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t people have helped her?’
‘We all help her as we can. The doctor cannot pay her, but she can teach her and keep her hope of nursing alive. And I’m afraid some of our good people turned their backs on her when they realised how she had been earning her keep. Not all are as modern as we are, Maia. Or indeed as Miss Christina and her friends.’
We stop in front of a door that has been recently painted green, but its weathered surface reveals layers of colour peering through. Straightening his tie, Sal raps the mottled-brass dolphin knocker smartly, and we wait. And wait.
‘Perhaps she’s out,’ I suggest. ‘At the place where she took me to get interrogated.’
‘There is always someone in – we must wait.’ Sal knocks again.
After another minute a tall fair-haired young man in a crumpled RAF uniform opens it, leaning on the doorframe like it’s the only thing that might keep him upright. He is clearly rather the worse for wear.
‘Prof, old chap!’ He swings out and claps Sal on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you!’
‘Flight Lieutenant Warburton,’ Sal replies formally. ‘I have brought my cousin, Miss Maia Borg, to call on Miss Christina. Is she home? They’ve met before.’
‘Well, hello to you, too,’ Flight Lieutenant Warburton says to me cheerfully. ‘Chris! You have a gentleman caller requesting an audience with you. Oh, and his “cousin”!’ He grins blearily at us both in turn. ‘She’ll be down ina minute when she’s dressed, old chap. That damn raid quite ruined our rest. Now, if you please, I’m about to lose a year’s wages to a bloody Canadian and his northern sidekick.’
‘Of course.’ Sal steps inside at Adrian’s gesture, and I see Danny at a table in a small sitting room, alongside another young man, one who looks to me like he should hardly be out of school. He has the smooth complexion and ruddy cheeks of a very young man and a swathe of blond hair so fine you can see the sunburnt pink of his scalp through its strands.
‘Stitches!’ Danny says, getting up. ‘Hey, are you following me?’
His companion blushes a deeper shade of plum.
‘I thought you were up there?’ I say, pointing at the ceiling.
‘I was meant to be, but the erks couldn’t figure out a way to get my engine to stayinsidethe Spit. Mac here’s out for the same reason. That’s the problem when you have a finite number of Spitfires in an air war and no spare parts. Every day, we have to find new ways to stick ’em back together. Considering how dangerous it is up there, Command sure are fussy about letting a feller fly a plane with a loose engine. Damn frustrating if you ask me. Anyway, we’re grounded until tomorrow. Good to see ya, again, ma’am.’ He tips his hat and winks at me.
‘Don’t mind Champ,’ Warby says, pouring himself a large neat whisky. ‘He’s as sober as a vicar, just plays along with me so that I’ll let my guard down. Works every bloody time. Mac, on the other hand, is sozzled after half a mild stout.’
‘Hey, that’s not true.’ Mac laughs, his eyes glittering in a way that suggests Warby might be right in his assessment.
‘Please to meet you, miss.’ He straightens his shoulders. ‘I’m Flight Officer James Mackay.’ He offers me a smooth young hand, and the blood in his face reaches his temples.
‘Hello, Mac,’ I reply. ‘Yorkshire accent?’
‘That’s right, miss.’ He nods. ‘Scarborough.’
I nod. ‘Lovely spot.’
‘Taking a bit of a beating from that lot at the moment,’ he says. ‘Still, every plane we take down here is one less to bother them there, right, Champ?’
‘Right, son.’ Danny pats Mac on the back in a firm and fatherly way that makes Mac beam. There’s maybe four or five years between them, but it’s clear that Danny is the elder statesman in this friendship and that Mac is his loyal, adoring squire.
