The Maltese Defence

by Simon Brading

  That left escape, and she had very few options there either. She couldn’t steal a boat because, not only were the Italian Navy watching the seas, according to Marco, but she also had absolutely no idea how to sail - while her friends at school had been riding horses and learning to sail their father’s yachts she had spent all her time in the air and she barely knew which end of a boat was which. Paying someone to take her was out as well, because she didn’t want to risk someone getting caught for her, although if she could find a smuggler who routinely made the trip that would be alright. The last option would be to do what Drake and Tanya had tried in Muscovy and steal an aircraft, but she lacked Tanya’s skills and willingness to kill someone with a knife and didn’t think she could ever get up the nerve to go sneaking around an enemy air base in the middle of the night.

  All in all, it didn’t look like she was getting back to Malta anytime soon. If ever.

  Her increasingly disheartening train of thoughts was interrupted when there was a change in engine note and the boat began a slow turn. She went to the porthole and peered out just in time to see the Marino’s village come into view.

  A long row of picturesque, single-storey stone houses fronted a small marina with a couple of boats, similar to the Cassandra, tied up to it, while a few smaller vessels were pulled up on the adjacent beach. People, mostly women, were coming out of the houses and making their way down to the sea front to meet the boat, many of them waving and calling out to the Marinos.

  It looked like a charming and extremely friendly place. It was just a shame it was enemy territory.

  The boat pulled up to the marina and Kitty watched as ropes were tied down and then crate after crate of fish were handed off the boat to the villagers, who carried them away to one of the nearby buildings, a nondescript stone block with few windows.

  It took almost an hour, but finally it looked like the job was done and the villagers made their farewells and went back to their houses.

  ‘Miss Wright! You can come up now!’ Marco’s voice called down the companionway.

  Kitty was ready and immediately went to the stairs, but something occurred to her before she got there and she stopped and looked around. Spotting what she wanted, she loped over to the kitchen area, fished the coins out of her pocket and put them in the coffee tin next to the sink. She grinned - when she was taken to the police, the gold would have undoubtedly disappeared as if it had never existed, at least this way it could do some good and would pay the Marinos back for their kindness in a small way.

  She made sure the lid was on tightly and the tin was back in exactly the right place before hurrying back to the stairs and climbing into the sunlight.

  There were two women with the three Marino men and they regarded her curiously as she went to join them.

  ‘Hi.’ Kitty smiled at them, trying to hide her nervousness at how, as an enemy, she would be received. She needn’t have worried, though, because the women, Marco’s wife, Adolorata, and daughter, Giulia, greeted her warmly, kissing her cheeks, like they did in Spain.

  ‘Welcome to Scoglitti! Come, I show you round!’ Giulia, who was only a couple of years younger than her, grabbed her hand and dragged her through the gate in the side of the boat, down the short marina and onto the shore.

  She took Kitty along the row of buildings, chatting continually in Italian, only some of which was close enough to Spanish for Kitty to understand, pointing out the sights as they went. That included the whitewashed building where they had taken the fish, from which could be heard the sound of an engine gently turning over and which she thought she understood was a refrigerated storage facility, where the fish was kept temporarily until it was loaded up on wagons and taken to the nearest military bases.

  As they passed the houses, curious people appeared and the girl called out to each of them in turn, answering their inevitable questions. Kitty heard her name quite a few times, along with “Americana” and “aviatrice” - the feminine form of aviator. The girl was obviously very popular and Kitty was almost glad she was appearing for the first time in her company; there was no space between the girl’s babbling for awkward silences and her obvious acceptance by the Marinos made it easier for the rest of the community to do the same.

  The Marino residence was near the end of the line of buildings. Like all the others it appeared to be just a simple stone house, but when Kitty was taken inside she found that the façade hid a secret.

  The original building had been expanded greatly, but instead of building upwards, like in most towns and cities where floor space was at a premium, the fisherfolk of Scoglitti had built backwards more than fifty metres, making room for growing families.

  A doorway had been cut in the back of the old two-room house, which was now used only as a receiving area for visitors. It opened into a small open-air courtyard, with a covered walkway around the outside and a small fountain and wildflower garden, surrounded by benches, in the middle, which served as a buffer between the public front and the private family rooms at the back.

  Beyond it was a sitting room which took up the entire width of the house and was filled with chairs of many different styles and ages, from deep leather sofas to an intricately-carved wooden rocking chair. The walls were covered with portraits, some of them so old and grimy that the faces were unrecognisable. The vast majority were of men and, as she glanced around, Kitty wondered why more of the women of the family hadn’t had their portraits painted, whether it was some sign of a patriarchal society. Her question was answered immediately, though, when the three fishermen came in behind her. They went directly to the side of the room, where there was a crucifix hanging above a shelf which held a model of the Cassandra and pictures of the three men - a small oil painting for the father, and photographs each for Marco and his son. With no ceremony whatsoever they took their pictures off the shelf, hung them on the wall next to it, quickly crossed themselves, then continued across the room and disappeared through the door on the far side.

  While they waited for the men to come back, the women sat Kitty down in one of the chairs in the centre of the room, within reach of a low table where an older woman placed coffee and snacks. Giulia finally fell silent as they bit into sweet cakes, but she still managed to mumble the name of them, cannoli, around a mouthful while rolling her eyes in a comical expression of how good they were. All the time, the older woman, Marco’s mother, watched Kitty from the rocking chair, smiling benevolently.

  When the men came back they also tucked in hungrily, knocking back several small cups of the strong black coffee each.

  During the afternoon a steady stream of fishing boats, including three large vessels like the Cassandra and several smaller ones, came back in and the Marinos were called away to the marina to join the rest of the village in unloading. Kitty offered to help, but Marco refused, once again stating that it was dangerous for the uninitiated, so she was left at the house with the older woman, Matteo’s wife, Arcangela. However, when the woman retired to take a nap, Kitty was left on her own so she went to sit on one of the benches in the courtyard and tilted her head back to catch the sun.

  She had fully intended to think about her situation and how best to get back to Malta, but the sound of the babbling fountain must have lulled her to sleep, because the next thing she knew the shadows had lengthened and she was being gently shaken by Giulia.

  The girl gave her clothes, something that was far too frilly and feminine for her liking, and then it was time for dinner.

  When Marco had said that she was to be his guest, Kitty had expected a family meal, but apparently the village had insisted on having a party. Every single one of the families brought out their dining table and they were placed end to end in the road along the sea front and filled with food and drink. It then became a kind of free for all, with people moving from table to table and no set groups, apart from the two obligatory ones of old men and old women sitting in chairs at opposite ends of the festivities.

  She was taken ar
ound by Giulia, who introduced her to all and sundry and kept her plate filled. The young woman hadn’t batted an eyelid when Kitty had explained with hand signals and halting Spanish that she was vegetarian and made sure that she fended off any offers of meat herself so that Kitty didn’t offend anyone.

  The villagers were very welcoming and friendly, but she thought she caught more than a few pitying looks shot her way and the manner in which they plied her with drinks made her think that the night was less about hospitality than it was about trying to make sure she enjoyed her last night of freedom.

  After most of the food was gone, some of the villagers brought out musical instruments and the beach became a dance floor. Kitty was dragged onto the sand over and over to dance dances that were simple and hadn’t changed in generations. Kitty picked them up easily enough and found that she was enjoying herself far more than she had expected. The only thing missing was Gwen, but she tried not to dwell on that too much.

  The evening passed in a blur of good food, good wine and good company, but all too soon it was over, the fishermen having to rise early to go back out onto the sea. A bed had been made up for Kitty in one of the spare rooms in the Marino house - apparently the family had been much larger at some point - and she collapsed onto it gratefully, falling asleep almost as soon as her gently spinning head hit the pillow.

  She was woken before dawn by Giulia, who brought her coffee and bread, thickly spread with butter and marmalade. As soon as she was finished and dressed, the young woman took her down to the refrigeration building. A large wagon was being loaded up for delivery to Vittoria and she and Marco were going to hitch a ride.

  The entire Marino clan was there to see her off, along with quite a few of the other villagers.

  A grinning Matteo had brought her flightsuit, helmet and gloves, now dry, and she took them from him with a smile, but immediately turned to Marco.

  ‘Would you hold on to these, please?’

  When she’d put the gold coins in the coffee jar she’d realised that she couldn’t take her gear with her when she was turned in to the Italians; she wouldn’t be allowed to keep it in a prisoner of war camp and it would just end up as someone’s trophy, probably Gruber’s. She had decided to leave it with the Marinos - it was worth a lot of money and they could probably sell it after the war to a collector.

  The man immediately understood and nodded. ‘Of course.’

  He handed them to his wife, who cradled them carefully, then motioned for Kitty to get into the back seat of the wagon with him.

  Once the two of them were in she turned to him urgently, knowing it was her last chance to save herself. ‘Are you sure you or someone you know can’t take me to Malta? Is there no way?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no. I tried to arrange something with a, um, friend of mine, but the authorities radioed all the fishing villages last night - you were seen coming down and they are making enquiries as to whether any of us picked you up. They will check everybody who was known to be in the area if you do not show up in a couple of days.’ He grimaced and looked away from her as if ashamed of what he was saying. ‘Too many people have seen you and would say something if I were to try to hide you or get you to Malta, even in this village.’

  The journey was extremely uncomfortable, not just because the roads were rough and the shock absorbers of the wagon were inadequate, but also because the noise of the engine prevented comfortable conversation and the two of them had lapsed into an awkward silence after Marco had crushed her last hope of escape.

  Kitty spent the time staring out of the window, not really seeing the beautiful countryside that was going past. At one point she caught a glimpse of something in the sky and pressed her face to the window, trying to see what it was, but it had already disappeared amongst the broken clouds.

  Less than half an hour after they had left Scoglitti, they arrived in Vittoria. The driver dropped them off in front of a small building with “Polizia” painted rather crudely over the door, but Marco didn’t go straight in, instead he turned to Kitty.

  ‘We might not have a chance to speak after we go in, so...’ He stopped and shifted uncomfortably, not at all reconciled with what he had to do.

  Kitty smiled warmly. She barely knew him, but felt sorry for him nonetheless; she wouldn’t have liked to be in his shoes at that moment. ‘Thank you for making me so welcome in your home and for pulling me out of the sea. You’re a good man.’ She leaned forwards and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you. I hope everything turns out alright for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took a deep breath and looked towards the open door. ‘Right. Let’s get this over with, shall we?’

  There was no need for Marco to say a single word to the two young grey-uniformed policemen inside the station. They took one look at Kitty and leapt out of their seats, spilling their coffee, then one of them ran towards the back, shouting wildly, while the other watched her wide-eyed, his shaking hand clutching the handle of the gun at his side.

  Thankfully, a sergeant with a clearer head arrived in moments. He exchanged a few words with Marco, making sure that Kitty was who she seemed to be, then ordered the two young men to take her into custody. As they led her away, Kitty glanced over her shoulder at Marco, but he was already being shepherded into an office by the sergeant and didn’t look back.

  She was taken down to the basement and locked into a tiny cell with no windows and just a bare bulb for illumination. After ten minutes, one of the young men arrived with strong coffee and cannoli. Not taking his eyes off her for one moment, he put them on the floor just inside the door. It was as if he thought she were some kind of predator, which she supposed she was, in a way, but only in the air. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it only frightened him more and he hurried out again before she could say a word.

  The cannoli weren’t quite as good as the ones Adolorata had made, but were still delicious and she wolfed them down - she usually liked to have a large breakfast and the bread Giulia had brought her when she’d woken her up hadn’t nearly satisfied her.

  She had fully expected to be kept waiting while the police decided what to do with her, but not for nearly as long as she was and the hours dragged on and on and still nothing happened. Lunch, a simple pasta dish, was deposited on the floor for her, then a few hours later an afternoon snack of more cannoli and coffee was brought. She was beginning to think that she would be spending the night there when finally the door opened, but, instead of one of the young policemen, a dashingly handsome man with a thin moustache and elaborately-coiffed black hair in a sky blue uniform walked in.

  Kitty barely had time to take in the wings on his chest and the gold stripes on his shoulders before he beckoned to her with a wide smile and spoke in a cheerful, singsong voice. ‘Chao! Come, you are now a guest of the Legione Aerea!’

  The man, who introduced himself as Colonnello Leonardo Vitelli, led her back through the police station to the reception area. As they went, Kitty looked through every open doorway that she could, but there was no sign of Marco anywhere and she hoped that they had just taken his report and let him go instead of detaining him for keeping her overnight or something. After the colonnelo had signed a piece of paper with a flourish, officially taking custody of her, he took her out to road in the front of the station where, instead of a guard wagon or some other such military vehicle, a sporty, red, open-topped two-seater autocar was waiting, surrounded by a crowd of admiring people.

  The man opened the passenger side door for her and waited for her to get settled before closing it, then made his way around to the other side, all the while smiling to the crowd, receiving their adoration as if he were some kind of movie star and answering the questions that were called out to him. There was a gasp from the crowd when he announced that the woman in his autocar was one of “il famoso Misfit Squadron” and much of the attention transferred to Kitty, but she barely noticed; she was searching the crowd. TO her relief, she eventually found what she
was looking for - Marco. Their eyes met and he gave her a half-smile and lifted his hand, but she immediately lost him again because, right at that moment, the autocar surged forwards. The crowd cheered wildly as the rear wheels slewed, fighting for grip on the old road, its stone worn thin by centuries of use, but they were left behind in seconds, along with the town itself as the man took them into the countryside.

  They said nothing during the journey, not so much because there was nothing to say, but rather because the man sang the entire way. She wasn’t sure, but she thought it was an aria from a Puccini opera and she cracked a small smile, her first in hours, when the thought that Gwen would undoubtedly recognise it popped into her head.

  With no need to make any small talk, something that had never come easy to her, despite her mother’s efforts, she sat back and enjoyed the countryside, the last of the sunset and the man’s voice, which was actually extremely good.

  It was only a short ride to the Italian air base, a dozen or so miles north of Vittoria and at the speed with which the colonnello drove it was over very quickly. They sped through the gate without slowing, the guards warned by a honk of the autocar’s horn to open the barricade in the nick of time, and raced around the perimeter track, past a very short line of Grand Eagle bombers and enormous Zeppelin hangars, empty now after the Misfits had shot down all their occupants. They finally came screeching to a halt in front of one of a row of long, thin, brick buildings which just screamed “barracks” and the man sounded the horn again.