As soon as they were ready, the Misfits piled into three autocars for the short ride to the town of Mdina, in the centre of the island. Father Bugelli had asked the Misfits to be at the cathedral two hours after sunset, but when they arrived there was hardly anyone there, just the priest and a few members of his congregation. The cathedral itself was completely dark apart from a couple of lanterns hung on the façade and there was no sign of the archbishop. There weren’t even any people in the surrounding streets.
The father hurried out of the cathedral as they pulled up and came down the steps to greet them. ‘Welcome, welcome! Thank you for coming.’
‘Evening, Father.’ Abby smiled, but then looked past him at the silent church. ‘Are we too late?’
The priest glanced up at the clock on the right hand tower of the façade. ‘No, you are right on time!’
‘Then where is everybody?’
‘They will be here soon.’ The Father smiled enigmatically and motioned for them to follow him. ‘This way, please.’
He led them up the steps to the cathedral, but instead of taking them through the large main doors and into the dark hole that was the nave, he led them to the tower with the clock and began to climb the stone stairs.
The pilots gave each other puzzled glances, but followed him without questioning.
There were small candles on the stone steps within, giving them just enough light to see, which was just as well, because the tightly winding steps were worn and uneven. It wasn’t a long climb by any means, but the pilots were huffing and puffing by the time they were only half-way up, exhaustion and tight dress uniforms taking their toll, especially on the women with their corsets. Eventually, though, they reached the belfry at the top.
Four women, little more than shadows in the light from the final candle at the top of the stairs, were waiting for them, speaking in hushed tones, but when they saw the priest they gave him a small bow, then each went to an archway.
The peeling of the four large brass bells was loud, but not unbearable so, and they were joined by the four bells in the other tower, sounding out a call that must have reached even the furthest corner of the island.
After several minutes of surprisingly beautiful music, the bells stilled and the women gave the priest another small bow, then disappeared down the stairs, leaving them alone.
As the silence swelled around them, Father Bugelli ushered them forwards and the pilots moved to the arches and peered out past the bells into the night, searching the countryside beyond the thick stone.
St Paul’s was on a slight hill and from their vantage point the entire island was laid out at their feet. They could see the sea all around, glittering in the moonlight, but Malta itself was dark, with not a single light to be seen.
Abby turned to the priest with a smile. ‘That was lovely, Father, but now what?’
There was no need for Father Bugelli to answer, because just then Kitty’s sharp eyes picked something out of the darkness.
‘Look! There!’
The other pilots didn’t have as good eyesight as she did and couldn’t see what she was pointing at, but in a few seconds it didn’t matter, because the single light she had spotted was joined by dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of others, from all over the island, as the Maltese people heeded the call of the bells. At the same time the sounds of movement in the town below carried up to them and the pilots leaned out to see the first of the townspeople appearing in the streets. Every single adult and most of the children were carrying candles and, as they began gathering in the plaza in front of the cathedral, bathing the church and surrounding buildings in a warm glow they began singing - a hymn of sorrow, but also of hope, uplifting, yet at the same time reminding them of all that had been lost.
The pinpoints of light in the surrounding countryside had begun to coalesce into larger groups as more and more people came from their villages or farms and joined the throngs on the roads. The biggest concentration of light by far was coming from the north-east, from the city, and the priest pointed it out.
‘Archbishop Caruana is leading the procession from Valletta himself. It is six miles away and, even though he is riding on a cart, it will take a while for him to get here and the service will of course not start until then. Those of you who wish to stay and watch the processions may of course do so, but those of you who do not, if you’d like to accompany me there is tea and biscuits below.’
‘Tea? Actual tea?’ asked Bruce, his eyes shining eagerly in the candlelight.
‘Yes, a donation from the British ships in the harbour.’ The priest gave him a nod, then turned to begin the long climb down.
The tea Gwen had brought had run out in two days and what little the convoy had been bringing had gone down with one of the supply ships, so the Misfits were understandably eager to have some, and the promise of biscuits was just the icing on the cake. They hurried after the priest, piling down the stairs after him.
Soon only four pilots were left in the belfry - two couples who had both thought to remain behind to have some time alone with only the night and the beautiful view for company.
There was an awkward moment as Gwen, Kitty, Drake and Tanya looked at each other in silence, but it didn’t last long before Tanya spoke up. ‘Gwen. Can I ask you a very important question? It’s about you and Rudy.’
‘Uh, I suppose.’ Slightly worried, she glanced at Drake, wondering what part of her childhood relationship with Rudy the woman might want to know about. He said nothing, though, and just gave her one of his half smiles.
‘I just wanted to know...’ The Muscovite chewed her lip as she paused, staring at Gwen. ‘Was it you who gave him the nickname Digger?’
Gwen laughed, relieved. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘But why? What does it mean? He won’t tell me.’
‘Um.’ Gwen grinned and again looked to Drake, but his expression was just as unreadable as before and she decided that was as good as giving her permission. ‘Well, it’s not that interesting actually - Rudy and I had flying lessons together for a couple of years when we were young and it took him quite a while to work out how to land properly. He used to slam the aircraft into the ground over and over, carving out great chunks of mud and grass every time. Hence the nickname.’
Drake chuckled and spoke for the first time. ‘Just as well the undercarriage of the old Red Admiral was so durable.’
Gwen snorted at him, then grinned at Tanya. ‘Rudy never noticed that our teacher, Manfred, had the undercarriage reinforced specially.’
‘He what?’ Drake stared at her, mouth open.
‘Even then he had to repair it more than half a dozen times after Rudy bent it.’
Tanya frowned. ‘But I’ve only ever seen him make perfect three-point landings. How did he get over it?’
Drake smiled wryly. ‘Because Manfred came up with the idea of making me replace the divots in the airfield, as if I was on a golf course - I learnt pretty quickly after that. It’s one thing replacing a few ounces of grass after your three iron has carved a chunk in the ground, it’s quite another for an eight or nine year-old to lug ten pounds of dirt around, more if it’s been raining and the ground is soft.’
‘Ah.’ Tanya nodded in understanding, but then bit her lip as something occurred to her. ‘But where do the nuns come into that?’
Gwen laughed and began to answer, but Drake cut her off quickly. ‘I think that’s enough gossip for tonight. Why don’t we enjoy the view a little while longer, then go down; it’s cold and I want some of that tea before Bruce and Scarlet drink it all.’ He very deliberately wrapped his arms around Tanya, taking care not to wrinkle her uniform, then equally deliberately turned her away from Gwen and Kitty to face the view through the nearest arch.
Gwen watched Rudy lean forwards to put his chin on the Muscovite’s shoulder, displaying an intimacy and comfort that was surprising considering how recently they had met. She marvelled at the twists and turns that fate had taken and found that she wasn�
��t remotely jealous of Tanya or sad for losing what she could have had with Rudy. On the contrary, she was happy for them, especially because of how things had worked out for her.
She turned and met Kitty’s eyes, ghostly grey in the moonlight - the American had been watching her watch the other couple. She reached up to cup the beautiful woman’s cheek. ‘I love you.’
Kitty put her hand over Gwen’s and brought it to her lips for a kiss then tilted her chin at Drake. ‘No regrets?’
Gwen glanced over her shoulder at them. They made a disgustingly good-looking couple, despite their dress uniforms having come from the quartermaster’s stores at Luqa and not a tailor in London - although Gwen wouldn’t put it past Rudy to have visited a local tailor to have them adjusted.
Gwen turned back to Kitty and shook her head. ‘None whatsoever.’
The Misfits had their tea and biscuits in the sacristy, but didn’t linger; they felt that they should be with the people who had come to pay their respects.
Father Bugelli took them back to the front of the cathedral and he positioned them at the top of the steps, to one side of the main entrance, where they stood, letting the music wash over them.
The crowd had grown immensely and the large plaza was almost full already, but not just with locals - there was a group of RAC personnel, probably from the nearby Ta’Kali, standing to one side, also cradling candles, and a few sailors scattered around. A few people were still drifting in, but it appeared that most of those who were coming were already there, ready for the main procession from the capital to arrive.
They didn’t have long to wait.
A ripple of movement began at the back, where the main road fed the plaza, and passed through the crowd. Soon after, the music reached a crescendo and the hymn ended on a triumphant note, held by several thousand voices, which grew and swelled until it seemed that the whole world was filled by it, until suddenly it cut out.
Into the silence came a heavenly sound.
Where before the hymns had been rough songs of the common people, belted out at the top of, at times toneless, voices, this was the song of the angels.
Every candle in the plaza was extinguished as the crowd split down the middle, creating a passage from the steps of the cathedral to the main road, and into the void came a glittering vision - the archbishop in all his finery, riding in his ceremonial carriage, pulled by two pure white horses. Behind and on either side of him were hundreds of men, women and children, the candles in their hands making them seem to glow in their white robes.
The carriage pulled up in front of the cathedral and the archbishop got out, helped by two choirboys, who made sure his robes didn’t catch on anything and cause any indignity. He climbed to the top of the steps, gave Father Bugelli a nod and winked at the Misfits, then turned to gaze solemnly down at his congregation.
The choir followed and spread out along the step below him, spacing themselves evenly to fill it from one end to the other. They continued singing while the rest of the people from Valletta filled the gap left for them in the plaza.
The procession had included not only the majority of the civilian population of the capital, but also representatives of the three branches of the British armed forces. The biggest group by far was from the Navy, the officers resplendent in their Napoleonic War-era dress uniforms. It was led by Admiral Myerscough, who was looking a lot older than he had when the Misfits had dined with him during the voyage. He was limping, leaning heavily on Captain Hewer, whose beard was a bit singed around the edges, and many of the men and women with them also showed obvious signs of injuries. The delegation from the RAC wasn’t quite as big, but it was still sizeable and included Dorothy Campbell and the senior officers and staff from the three RAC bases. Only a few Army officers, led by a painfully-thin general in his sixties in a red regimental jacket, were present, though, because there weren’t many soldiers on the island and most were stuck on guard duty in the various forts around both Malta and the neighbouring Gozo.
Once the last of the procession had come into the plaza and the people were still, the choirmaster brought the song to a close and absolute silence finally fell.
The archbishop raised his hand and drew a cross in front of himself, over his congregation. ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.’
‘Amen.’
The response was automatic, from every believer and there was a rustle of clothing as every one of them drew a corresponding cross on their own bodies before lifting their faces once more to the archbishop.
The man smiled down at them benevolently. ‘Welcome friends. Please, join me in bringing light to this humble church on this solemn occasion.’
He gestured to the open doors, then turned and went inside.
As the choir began to sing again, Father Bugelli beckoned to the Misfits and they filed into the completely dark cathedral and went to stand with the archbishop a few yards down the central nave, between the rows of benches.
The glow through the doors grew steadily as the people made their way up the steps, relighting their candles from those carried by the choir as they passed through their line, and when the first ones passed through the door it was like the dawn had arrived.
Once inside, the congregation spilt up, most going left and right along the walls, while a few came past the archbishop and, as the wave of light slowly advanced down the long space, the Misfits were able to see what Father Bugelli and his helpers had been doing within when they had arrived.
The walls of the building were covered with hundreds of photographs of the men and women of the Royal Navy, Royal Aviator Corps and British Army who had given their lives in the defence of Malta, many accompanied by some personal item or other - a piece of scrimshaw, a medal, a uniform cap, a book, a toy.
It was to the front of the cathedral which Father Bugelli drew their attention, though, and as the wave of light progressed, the altar was finally revealed.
The photograph of Mac had been blown up to a few times its usual size and sat in the centre of a large display which included the images of the other pilots who had been part of the Hal Far Fighter Force. Sitting in front of them were a few personal items, including the photograph of Mac and Katerina, which Scarlet had made a copy of in the lab at the base. The finishing touch was provided by the side panel of Drake’s aircraft, which had been placed at the base of the altar, leaning against it, with the stencilled letter “H”, although pock-marked and scratched, clearly visible.
The pilots stayed where they were until the last of the people had come in, then, when the choir began to make their entrance in a double file, Father Bugelli ushered them into place and they joined onto the front of the procession with the senior officers, behind the archbishop.
Most of the pilots had been born during or soon after the Enlightenment and Gwen wasn’t the only one to feel awkward and out of place as she marched down the nave of a catholic cathedral then went to her seat in the very front row for the service. However, one of the main principles of the Enlightenment was that everyone’s beliefs were to be honoured, no matter what your own were, so, while they wouldn’t actively take part in the prayers, they would witness the service respectfully, representing the squadron and by extension the Kingdom of Britain itself.
That didn’t mean that Bruce couldn’t comment quietly in his own inimitable way, though. ‘Bloody hell, I hope I get this kind of send-off when I kick the bucket.’
‘Are you religious, then, Bruce?’ asked Abby.
‘Nah,’ he shook his head and grinned at her. ‘I just like the idea of all the Sheilas I’ve known getting together in a place like this to shed a tear for old Brucey.’
‘Just the Shei...’ The leader of the Misfits sighed and corrected herself. ‘Just the women, Bruce?’
‘Of course, Boss! All the men’ll be off down the pub for the real party.’
Chapter 9
The service had been extremely emotionally charged and had left many of the pilots in tears or o
n the point of them. However, Gwen hadn’t cried until afterwards, when she had sought out the photographs of her fitters and found that Abby had included the one of her with the three of them in front of Excalibur from the Midwinter party at Bagshot Hall.
All thoughts of their lost friends and colleagues had to be put behind them for the next day, though, because they couldn’t afford the distraction.
The Misfits enjoyed moderate success against the Coalition forces, bringing down several bombers and a few fighters, but it was impossible to stop them reaching their targets and the Grand Harbour took beating after beating. The accuracy of the bombers had become much greater since the Prussians had joined the fight, but quite a few stray bombs still fell on homes and public buildings and there was a near miss on the hospital, which didn’t penetrate to the basement areas, but did destroy a few of the vehicles which had been acting as ambulances, killing their drivers.
However, it seemed that the civilian population, which had been so near the breaking point for so long, were rallying after the service of the previous night. Mac’s sacrifice in particular had inspired them to renewed effort and the numbers of volunteers taking the supplies, which were ever so slowly being unloaded from the damaged ships, to the needy around the island were greater than ever.
There was also a measure of hope in the mess at Hal Far that night as well when Scarlet and Chalky announced that they had a solution to their reconnaissance and intelligence problems.
When Abby saw the grin on Scarlet’s face she feared the worst. ‘Please tell me the plan you’ve come up with is a bit more complicated than Charles sitting in a chair bolted to the side of Hummingbird and taking pictures while you dodge bullets.’
‘A little bit. Although I’ll jot that down in case our idea doesn’t work.’
‘The plan is to convert one of the spare Spitsteams to a reconnaissance aircraft.’ Chalky began, ignoring the laughter that Scarlet’s comments had provoked. He leaned over the mess table, pushing a few cups out of the way, and spread out a large piece of paper, fresh from the Arturo’s stores. The paper had several detailed drawings on it, showing cutaways of a section of the fuselage of a fighter.
The Maltese Defence Page 14
