Page 81 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘How are you?’ Kathryn asks me.
She has brought me out to eat in a little place she knows where the tables are balanced precariously on the steep slopes of a street leading down to the harbour. Fairy lights criss-cross the narrow lane, and the air is full of the smell of good wine and the sound of easy chatter. I’m wearing a lilac tea dress that I hope won’t stand out in 1942, and Kathryn has brought a tote bag with her, laden with objects heavy enough to pull the linen straps. But there’s an air of tension around her. Something she is carrying lies heavily around her shoulders.
Sitting at this table in the warm evening, in the beautiful rebuilt city of Valletta, with more food than I can possibly eat before me feels like a forbidden luxury, and one I am ready to enjoy tonight. Modern Valletta is a place where I think I could be almost happy. But actual happiness is waiting for me in the rubble this city will rise from – a city I want to help rebuild.
‘I don’t really know,’ I tell her. ‘I just know I want to get back to where I need to be, so that I can stop Stella being killed. Imagine if I do, Kathryn – you’ll have a grandmother that you grew up with, and Dad . . . Dad might be an altogether different person.’
‘And what happens if he stays happily married to his first wife and never meets your mother, and you are never born? What happens to you in the past then?’ Kathryn asks.
‘It won’t matter,’ I tell her. ‘I won’t be in the past – not from my perspective, anyway. I’ll be in the now.’
‘Then tell me everything, please,’ she says as the waiter fills our glasses. ‘Tell me all about Danny and how you met him, and . . . just everything. Tell me your story, so that when you’re gone, even if I don’t remember it, it will still be in my heart.’
‘Well,’ I say with that particular smile that always accompanies talking about someone you love, ‘it did begin with him saving my life . . .’
I’m not sure how much time passes as I tell Kathryn about Danny, Sal, Christina and Warby. When I tell her about Stella and the chubby baby that becomes her mother, she is thrilled. When I talk about Vittoria, her eyes fill with tears.
‘You were there,’ Kathryn tells me. ‘I know you were there. And I hope you will be again, even if it breaks my heart. You deserve to feel at home.’
Kathryn’s brow furrows. I can see her trying to find the words to voice her worries. I decide to buy her some time to think with some small talk.
‘What’s the bag for?’
Her face blanches; it seems like I’ve accidentally stumbled into big talk.
‘What is it, Kathryn?’ I ask her. ‘What have you found out?’ A realisation hits me: I think I understand why she seems so troubled. ‘Oh, did you see the line, in a footnote somewhere, where it says someone with my name died on the day before the siege ended?’ I’m not sure if it’s the wine going to my head or a new kind of optimism that seems ingrained in me, but I feel remarkably blasé about reports of my death. ‘Because you don’t need to worry about that. I’ve got it worked out. Like I said, there is no past or future, onlya series of nows. So, when I’m back there, nothing is written in stone . . .’
‘I didn’t read that, actually,’ Kathryn says, her dark eyes shining with almost-tears.
Reaching across the table, I take her hands. ‘Look, IknowI can change things – I just know it.’ I hear the almost manic tone in my voice, the desperate need to be right. ‘It will be fine – I promise you. You have to believe me; it will be better than fine. It will be beautiful, because that’s how I’m going to make it.’ Of course I am trying to convince myself – I see that now. I have to if I’m going to have a chance of succeeding.
Kathryn nods. ‘I believe that you can,’ she says. ‘I need you to believe that I believe in you. Do you?’
‘I do,’ I say. ‘But tell me why you’re so certain now.’
Kathryn reaches into the bag and takes out a small metal model of a Spitfire and a battered teddy bear.
‘My mum gave me these,’ Kathryn said. ‘They were her and your dad’s most precious things. She said that David flew that little Spitfire around constantly, pretending to be a pilot. But when he got sent to the UK after Stella was killed, he must have left it behind. And that’s Mum’s teddy. She has kept that safe for all these years.’
‘You believe me because of these toys?’ I pick up the Spitfire. Almost all its paint has gone. It’s mostly just a dull grey now, but still the shape and spirit of the little aircraft, her sleek lines and inquisitive nose, are unmistakable.
‘Yes, for two reasons,’ Kathryn tells me.
‘Go on?’ I lean forwards, holding the aircraft close to my heart.
‘That particular brand of toy Spitfire wasn’t made until 1968,’ Kathryn says. ‘I looked it up. And see how that teddy has a label round his neck? Read it.’
I pick up the bear, turning over the dog-eared, parcel label. I have to hold it closer to the tealight that flickers in the centre of the table. The handwriting is faded by age, but I recognise it. It’s mine. It reads:Love from Maia.
‘But . . .’ I look up at her. ‘When did I get these?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kathryn says, shaking her head. ‘Maybe tonight, from me. But I do know that I want my mum and uncle to have these things, these things they loved that were made decades after they were small children.’
‘I’ll take them to them,’ I promise.
Kathryn nods, her expression very grave. ‘It must have been hard for your father, just a little boy, sent away from everything he knew to go to school. Even though she was raised by neighbours, at least Mum grew up feeling like she belonged. I’m sure everyone thought that was the best course of action. But I can see why it hurt him so much. Once, he had something; then, he had nothing but himself.’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I really hope I can stop him going through that. The little boy I know is so funny and kind. I want him to survive, too.’
