Page 3 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Foolish and naive,’ Dad says. ‘Unable to face reality. We live; we suffer; we die. Most can’t cope with it – they have to invent heaven.’
‘Still a laugh a minute, I see.’ Kathryn winks at me. ‘So, the temple is built in the classic clover-leaf design, with a series of five apses or leaf-shaped chambers that were likely used for worship, perhaps burial. This temple, like the one in Mnajdra, is aligned with the equinox sunrise.They saw the heavens as their ruler, and they weren’t far wrong. A drought, a blight, a cold summer would be enough to decimate a community. This huge undertaking was designed to placate and appease the sun and the stars, but it also had a practical purpose: when to sow seeds, when to bring in the harvest, when to fish . . . The sky and the temples together made up their calendar, too.’
Kathryn leads us across the wooden walkway that takes us into the centre of the temple. ‘See, there – you can still see traces of the plaster and paint that decorated the chambers.’
‘It’s like they’re still here,’ I say. ‘Just out of focus, billions of particles floating in the air.’
Kathryn tilts her head. ‘You are poetic. Do you paint like David?’
‘God, no.’ I shake my head. ‘No, I’m all hard-headed facts and economic prose.’
‘Yes! I want to hear all about your career as intrepid war correspondent.’ Kathryn loops her arm through mine. ‘I’ve followed your work, of course, but now I get to hear about it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Really?’ I’m flattered. ‘You’ve read my work?’
‘Of course!’ She smiles. ‘Another brilliant Borg woman? I’m so proud of you – I boast about you all the time.’
Tears spring into my eyes. It has been such a long time since anyone has told me that; it makes me think of Mum, and coming from someone who was a stranger until today makes it all the more powerful. Turning away, I focus on a pattern of grooves etched into a huge block of stone.
Kathryn squeezes my hand briefly before turning to my father. ‘You’ve never been inspired to create any art based on the temples, David?’
‘Not my thing,’ Dad says. ‘Magnificent, nevertheless.’
‘Well,’ Kathryn says. ‘Let me take you to see the “fat ladies” and then to a lovely place I know for lunch in Victoria. Then we can explore the citadel before we take the ferry back to the main island.’
‘Thank you,’ I hear Dad say as they walk away, ‘for dropping everything to be our tour guide, especially when we haven’t been . . . in touch all that much.’
‘Family is family,’ Kathryn tells him. ‘Besides, I’m thrilled to spend some time with Maia. I only wish it hadn’t taken this long.’
‘Sometimes,’ Dad says before they walk out of earshot, ‘there never is a right time.’
Chapter Three
Three Days After the Crash
Saturday 21stJune 2025, 5.30 a.m.
‘You mustn’t keep blaming yourself,’ Kathryn tells me. Her voice is soft in the quiet of the early morning.
When I was discharged from hospital after a serious concussion but somehow with no other injuries, she was adamant that I would stay with her. She whisked me off to her harbourside apartment in Birgu, just across the blue water from Valletta, and embedded me in her guest room as if I were an infant niece and not a fully grown cousin.
Kathryn has surrounded me with every comfort she can think of, and I love her for it. It has been a long time since anyone mothered me. I hardly even remember what being truly cared for felt like. It has been a long time since I have rested feeling completely safe. Kathryn has given me that gift, and it feels like respite, even from myself.
Dad is still in hospital – his tibia is broken, but a clean break, thank God, but they’re worried about his heart. A high-impact crash isn’t good for an elderly man, even one who seems determined to live forever.
‘It’s hard not to feel guilty,’ I say, rueful. ‘The accidentwasmy fault. Only I could go on a trip with my estranged father and end up almost killing him.’
‘Nobody’s perfect,’ Kathryn says with a wink, and I find myself laughing as she flashes me a mischievous smile. ‘Anyway, let’s just focus on the fact that it wasn’t worse,’ she continues. ‘You are up and about after a few days; your father is as strong as an ox. All of you, including the other driver, will live to see another day.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Dad is eighty-eight. A head-on collision can’t be good at that age.’
‘Meh – my mum says that if living in New York in the 1960s didn’t kill your father, then likely nothing can. She insists he will outlive us all, simply to spite her.’
‘Were they ever close?’ I ask. I know my father cut off what was left of his Maltese family a long time ago. Nevertheless, his little sister, Kathryn’s mother, came to see him at the hospital the day after the accident, even if she did leave within twenty minutes.
‘There’s a photo,’ Kathryn says. ‘Mum keeps it tucked in the back of a photo frame – her as a baby sitting in this huge pram, and David holding the handle, smiling at her. He looked after her a lot when they were children during the war, though he was very young himself, only five. Perhaps they were close once, but they were separated young. After the war, David was sent to be educated in England, he was the son, so it was up to him to gain an education. My mum stayed in Malta, raised by neighbours. David rarely came home and when he did, it was clear he didn’t want to be there. Mum says it was as if he’d decided never to look back. Perhaps it’s understandable. The war was a terrible time for the people of Malta. For our parents particularly, they lost everything. David even lost his home.’
I know very little about what the Siege of Malta in the Second World War was like, but it wasn’t so long ago thatI myself was hiding in a hospital basement in Mariupol as the ground was pounded with heavy artillery. There was fear and exhaustion in the darkened room, desperation and anger – but so much love between fathers and daughters, brothers, sisters, cousins and neighbours, too. It was palpable.
