Page 87 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘So, we have much to discuss,’ Sal says, in a lower voice. ‘What did you learn?’
‘A lot,’ I tell him. ‘But I can’t tell you here. I’m just glad I’m home.’
‘You said home,’ Sal says, kissing me on each of my filthy cheeks.
‘I’ve made a choice, Sal,’ I tell him, ‘and I think there’s a way you can, too.’
Danny appears from nowhere and, taking my face in his hands, kisses me deeply, passionately. The battered, grief-stricken people around us gasp and smile.
‘God, you are magnificent,’ Danny tells me. ‘I gotta go. But I’ll see you tonight, won’t I? At the party?’
‘You’ll see me tonight!’ I tell him, watching him run to catch up with the truck that’s already leaving for the airfield.
Chapter Sixty-Three
David puts his slight hand in mine as we walk back to the half-house; Sal pushes Eugenie in her pram.
Nicco’s car is waiting outside. My hesrt sinks as I remember our meeting. Well, he’ll just have to wait while we clean up.
I change into the makeshift skirt and shirt that Alex first altered for me and shove my dress into a bucket of water with the children’s things. My bag is covered in dust, but still holds the precious cargo.
Sal starts boiling water, filling the tin bath that resides in the living room, since the bathroom upstairs has only two walls and no ceiling at all. For every pan of hot water he pours into it, he adds half a pan of cold. When there is enough, I help David and Eugenie into the bath, one taking either end. Sal washes out the clothes as best he can, silently noting the new dress I came back in with a raise of his eyebrows.
‘These things take minutes to dry in this heat,’ he tells me as he goes into the courtyard to find a place to lay them out in the sun.
I find an old bone-handled, silver rattle rolling around in the bottom of the pram, and I offer it to Eugenie. Her small hands grab at it eagerly with babbles of delight.
‘Mama says it’s too precious for her to play with,’ David tells me.
‘Oh, well, just a moment won’t hurt,’ I tell him.
Eugenie bows her head with the kind of concentration only an infant can give to an object they find fascinating. She dips it in and out of the water, listening to the clunk of the brass tag on the bottom of the bath, watching the drips as they run off the key and down her arms.
‘Are you all right, David?’
The boy, who has been watching his sister with a faint smile, looks at me, puzzled. ‘Y . . . yes?’ he says, gesturing at himself as if that were evidence enough.
‘I mean, how do you feel? On the inside.’ I try again. ‘Every day, you see a lot of extraordinary things. Some things must make you feel frightened and sad.’
David watches me. The frown set deep between his eyes is one I recognise. I’ve seen it constantly on my father’s face. I see it often on mine.
‘We must each do our part,’ David tells me emphatically, repeating a phrase he must have heard a thousand times with more gravitas than any five-year-old should ever have to muster. ‘Until Malta is free.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And your mummy does more than her fair share, helping whoever needs it. Your mummy is a hero, and so are you and everyone on the island.’
His frown lifts for a moment; his shoulders straighten.
‘My mummy is very brave and clever,’ David tells me. ‘My daddy told us that every day. My daddy died a hero, too. I will see him again in heaven.’
‘He did.’ I nod. I’m not sure what I want him to say or what I expected when I asked him if he was all right. Perhaps for him to break down in my arms and sob his heart out, so that,somehow,I can heal all the pain inside him before it has a chance to form a scar. That’s not what this little child needs, though. Not David, and not his sister. They need what moments of safety and normality the war-torn existence thathas dominated their short lives can afford them – spaces to let their natural hope-filled resilience flourish, reassurance that this life they are being subjected to is not the only life there is.
‘One day soon,’ I tell David, ‘all this will be over. There will be no more raids, and all the houses will be rebuilt, and there will be enough food. One day really soon. You just need to hang on a little longer.’
‘Yes,’ David agrees. ‘A little longer. Mummy says one day soon, the ships will come and we will have food and enough planes to scare away the baddies for good.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘One day soon.’ I hesitate. ‘David, can I tell you something? You might not remember it for very long, and you might think it’s silly, but can I tell you something that might help you a long time from now when you are a grown-up?’
David nods, resting his chin on the edge of the bath as he listens.
