Page 28 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Christina, are you coming?’ Warby shouts upstairs once again.
Danny smiles at me over Warby’s shoulder as he settles back into the game. It’s a nice smile, more confident and relaxed than it has any business being in the middle of a war, and I get the sense he wears it like a shield.
‘Warby, the hero,’ Sal mutters as we leave them to their game and return to the foot of the stairs. ‘And yet so . . . undisciplined. I’m not familiar with the younger gentleman. I’m afraid they are often not around long enough for one to get to know them.’
‘The hero?’ I repeat. I have a feeling I’ve heard about Warby in my real life.
‘He’s a quite brilliant reconnaissance pilot,’ Sal tells me. ‘And a singular young man – a rebel and often insubordinate but so good at his job that Command takes a lenient view. And he seems to make Christina very happy, though I do believe he has a wife somewhere in England.’
‘Honestly, who hasn’t got a spouse they’ve forgotten about these days?’ Christina appears at the top of the stairs wrapped in a silk robe printed all over with pink roses. She looks like a movie star, frail but luminous.
‘Miss Christina.’ Sal breaks into a wide smile. ‘You said you wanted to keep a close eye on Maia, and I thought perhaps you might start with some sartorial advice. She worked on a farm, you see, until very recently. It was an isolated life, and she has very little notion of feminine style – unlike you.’
‘Oh, Professor, you old charmer.’ Christina giggles, smiling broadly at me. ‘I think Maia here is perfectly stylish in her own way. But yes, I’d be happy to help. Could do with a bit of light relief. We are at sixes and sevens here, as always. But that’s what you get with former theatricals, I should say. Actually, as one of my housemates is our chief costumier, he might be just the ticket.’
‘Christina and her friends once entertained at the cabaret,’ Sal tells me as we follow her upstairs. ‘After war broke out, they formed a concert party, the Whizz Bangs, to entertain the troops.’
‘We still perform when we can,’ Christina tells me. ‘But now we all have other more important jobs, doing our best for the island that has been so kind to us. What are you doing for the war effort, Maia?’
‘She has been helping on her aunt’s farm on the other side of the island, but she’s come to stay with me now,’ Sal says. ‘We must find her a role here. She has experience in reporting, so I will take her to meet Miss Strickland when she looks appropriate.’
‘Oh, gosh, she needs a suit of armour to meet dear Mabel,’ Christina says. ‘Amazing woman. Terrifying. She’s kept theTimes of Maltain print every single day duringthe war. I don’t know how she’s done it, but I am in awe of her. And a tiny bit terrified.’
I remain mute as Sal and I follow in Christina’s wake. Her dancer’s grace hides her acute thinness with fluid movements, but it’s easy to see that she is near starving. Her high cheek bones are razor sharp, and her grey eyes look huge in her heart-shaped face. Still, her elegant eyebrows have been perfectly drawn on under her bleached-blonde curls, and there is not even a hint of roots showing. Her lips are painted a resolute red.
She graces me with another smile as we reach the second floor and a square of open doors to rooms that lead off the central hallway. The definition of putting a brave face on it, I think.
‘This is my place, but my Warby stays with me whenever he can, and I have a lot of friends . . . We do have a rather anything-goes attitude here, Maia. I hope you are not too easily scandalised.’
‘Hardly ever,’ I say as I go into a small but serviceable kitchen.
‘She does rather look as if she has been living on a farm,’ Christina says, without any cruelty, as she looks me up and down. ‘And that will never do, not for such a pretty girl. And certainly not for Mabel Strickland! You remind me of someone, Maia – I can’t place who. But perhaps it’s just the Maltese women – they are so very lovely.’
‘Thank you?’ I say, uncertain. ‘I’m only half Maltese. My—’
‘Her father was Maltese,’ Sal puts in, as though afraid I may get our cover story wrong. ‘I thought perhaps you might help Maia make herself a little more . . .’ He gestures vaguely at me once again.
‘Naturally, I don’t have any clothes that will fit her. I have hardly any that aren’t threadbare and worn through.’
Sal nods sombrely. ‘Of course.’
‘But I do know a haberdasher in St Paul’s Bay who still has a good stock of material, and in the meantime, of course our Alex is a dab hand with a needle, you know. Let’s go and see Alex now and see what he says. Coming, Professor?’
‘I cannot stay.’ Sal bows. ‘I am teaching the older children this afternoon at St Peter’s. Of course, they would prefer I didn’t, but mathematics is still important even in a war. You understand.’
‘I do, Sal,’ Christina says. ‘You leave her with me – I’ll get her sorted.’
‘It’s good of him to teach the children,’ I say, once the professor has departed.
‘He’s a good man,’ Christina observes as we head to find this Alex. ‘As well as teaching, he takes the bus and visits the chaps at the hospital in Mtarfa. Reads to them, plays cards with them, that sort of thing. Gives them a bit of a pick-me-up. Of course most of them would prefer to be visited by Rita Hayworth, but what can one do?’ She turns to me, eyes twinkling. ‘But perhaps you already know that – after all, he is your “cousin”. Anyway, my friends and I do our best to keep up morale – or at least we did when the troupe was touring. Now I am a plotter, and it’s serious work. Especially when my dear Warby is in the air.’ She hesitates for a moment, a brief expression of pain passing over her delicate features. ‘Well, all the boys, really. There are so few of them, and so few of them last very long. One does what one can.’
I want to ask her what a plotter is, but I decide that I should probably know, so I just nod sagely.
‘Here’s Alex!’ Christina claps her hands with delight as if she has never seen anyone as remarkable as Alex, and I think she might be right.
Alex is a strikingly beautiful young man sitting in a string vest that shows off his toned torso to a tee. He is bent over a sewing machine, which dominates a small bedroom strewn with colourful scraps of material. At first glance, he seems to be hemming some sort of garment with it.
‘Alex, this is Maia. We are tasked with making her presentable.’
