He walked past the open door to the dining room from which drifted the murmured conversation of a knot of pilots taking a late lunch. Bryan’s guts were too tight with expectation to allow space for eating, his mind too focused to engage in small talk. He strode out through the front door and across the courtyard towards the battered RAF truck, parked up against the wall. Bryan opened the passenger door and swung up onto the worn leather seat.
‘Ta’Qali,’ he said.
‘Fuel restrictions, sir,’ the driver answered. ‘I’m not supposed to move with less than four passengers.’
Bryan swivelled his head to look at the airman. ‘Drive me to Ta’Qali.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man fumbled with the keys, the ignition coughed and the engine fired.
The truck sidled across the town, through the gate and bumped off down the hill towards the airfield. As they lost elevation, the landscape flattened and the horizon dipped away. Robbed of his bird’s-eye view of the aerodrome, Bryan scanned the bright sky for movement. There, dead ahead of them, dark against the deep blue backdrop, four shapes rose from the ground, tightened their formation and banked into a climb, heading due north. The patrols were up; the convoy was close.
The truck pulled through the airfield gates and Bryan jumped down as it shuddered to a halt. A patina of dust from the take-off hung in the air as he loped down towards the readiness tent.
A different section of four Hurricanes buzzed the airfield and climbed away into a landing circuit. Bryan squinted at their wings as they passed overhead. Doped red canvas still covered the ports of their unfired guns so the convoy couldn’t be under any kind of concerted attack. Grinning with satisfaction he ducked into the tent to find Copeland in flying kit chatting with an orderly.
‘This is more like it,’ Bryan said. ‘Have you been up yet?’
Copeland’s eyes shone bright with the purpose of action. ‘I took the first patrol, and I’m up on the next one.’
‘Anything doing?’
Copeland shook his head. ‘A flight of aircraft shadowed us for a bit, but they decided to go home in the end. Probably didn’t fancy their chances getting past the escort screen.’
‘How far away are the ships?’
‘The convoy’s bang on schedule. It should be in the harbour well before nightfall.’
Bryan left the tent amid the roar of the landing patrol, their wings flattening out on a cushion of warm air that dropped the craft delicately onto the hard-baked ground. Bryan walked out to the perimeter. Hurricanes stood in their blast-pens with airmen re-filling fuel tanks from metal cans, the fumes blurring their features as they concentrated on getting every drop home.
The sharp tang of aviation fuel tingled into Bryan’s nostrils and the grinding cacophony of taxiing fighters embattled his hearing. He stood for long minutes amongst the swarm of noise and motion, allowing the tingle of adrenalin to swell and glow all the way down to his fingertips.
Copeland’s flight taxied out and swung onto the runway as Bryan strode back towards the airfield’s gate. He stood at the bus stop and watched the four sand-coloured fighters rise from the field and swing north, towards the sea and the ships that brought the island a chance of survival.
The rumble of aero-engines receded and was overlain with the pneumatic rattling of the approaching bus. It slewed to halt and Bryan jumped aboard.
‘It’s a good day,’ he said to the driver.
‘Yes, my friend,’ the driver said. ‘Always good day on Malta.’
****
The bus clanked to a halt on Quarry Wharf. Bryan alighted and walked east along the northern edge of Grand Harbour. The low growl of truck engines rolled across the water from the harbour’s south side as preparations continued to receive the incoming vessels.
The road rose before him, narrowed between two walls and crested next to a wide bastion that supported a heavy anti-aircraft gun. A semi-circular bulwark of sand bags surrounded the gun, casting shade over its lounging crew.
Beyond this emplacement the road commanded a panoramic view of the harbour entrance and the staggered breakwaters. Along the pavement small groups of islanders gathered, leaning on the wall and squinting out to sea. Children played around the legs of adults who chatted in hushed tones of excitement. Bryan found a space, leaned on the wall and lit a cigarette. The westering sun stretched the edge of their shadows along the ground as they waited.
A shape, no more substantial than a shadow, creased the haze on the horizon. For long moments, its apparent lack of motion belied its solidity, then it burst through the heat rumpled air. A grey warship, thrusting up a sparkling bow wave, coalesced in the distance, surging towards the harbour. Behind it, the haze creased again and again as a knot of cargo vessels pushed through the veil of hope and steamed into solid reality.
Ragged cheers broke out along the sea wall as more people arrived to swell the numbers gathered there. The islanders moved with the fluid grace of a congregation, their short pilgrimage measured in yards from their battered homes in the capital’s shattered streets, their purpose to bear witness to the miracle of temporary salvation.
Bryan glanced at his watch; it was close to five o’clock and the newspaper offices would be closing. He walked through the increasing flow of people back up a narrow alley and turned left onto the long drag of St Paul Street. The news of the convoy broke like a wave ahead of him, pasting smiles of relief to the faces of those that passed him on their way to the harbour. Bryan scanned the faces, hoping that Jacobella might be amongst them.
He plodded up the increasing incline through the lessening throng of strangers, his breath growing ragged with the exertion. The gradient flattened as he arrived at the newspaper offices to find the doors locked. His spirits sagged; he’d missed her and his contrived hope to walk and talk with her was dashed.
He set off alone, across the square, towards the gardens so he could pick up his clothes from her hallway. His pace slackened to a stroll and his racing thoughts levelled out. ‘She’s married,’ he muttered to himself, ‘and you’ve got work to do.’
A flight of four Hurricanes, probably Copeland’s, flew low over the city towards Ta’Qali in the west, and Bryan quickened his pace towards Valletta’s north shore.
****
Bryan arrived at the plinth and scanned the empty balcony and the blank, lightless window behind it. With a sigh of resignation, he crossed the road and opened the latch on the blue door. It opened into a dim windowless hallway. Along one side, two doors stood closed, each painted the same blue, each peeling and flaking to expose a lighter undercoat. A rusty bicycle hung from nails on the opposite wall and beneath it stood a rough wooden chest. His canvas bag was nowhere to be seen. He opened the wooden chest to reveal only boots and shoes jumbled around a pair of ancient umbrellas.
Frowning he crossed to the doors. A small brass bracket secured to the doorframe on the right held a handwritten card bearing the word Azzopardi. Bryan hesitated for a moment, then knocked. The clump of footsteps crossed the floor above his head and grew louder as they descended the stairs behind the door. A bolt drew back and the door opened.
Jacobella, wearing a stained canvas apron over a sage-green dress, wisps of black hair escaping from her hairband, smiled in greeting.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you.’ Bryan felt his face flush in her presence. ‘I was looking for the washing.’
‘It’s in my kitchen.’
She started up the stairs. Bryan stood mute, his eyes drawn to her movement.
Halfway up, she paused and turned. ‘You’re welcome to come in.’
Bryan moved to follow her. Jacobella reached the top and slipped out of sight. Bryan, still only halfway up, found himself looking into the face of a small girl. She stared down at him with implacable disapproval, her hair and eyes mirroring Jacobella’s in their darkness. Bryan slowed his progress and pulled what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
‘Luċija,’ her mother called, ‘come and finish your food.’
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The child dashed away as Bryan reached the top of the stairs. The apartment was simply furnished and uncluttered, the unadorned limestone walls lent a cool ambience to the air. Bryan walked through the living space to the kitchen. The little girl clambered onto a chair at the plain wooden table, picked up her spoon and dipped it into her bowl. Her glare flashed back onto Bryan from under a frown, annoyed by her mother’s wielding of authority in front of a stranger. Jacobella, her back to him, opened the shutters, letting more light wash into the room. She stooped into the corner of the kitchen and brought Bryan’s kitbag across to him.
‘Would you like some soup?’ She stood and waited; hands folded in front of her.
‘Well, yes please,’ Bryan said. ‘As long as you have enough.’
‘Sit down,’ she said, reaching to retrieve another bowl.
Bryan put his bag onto the floor and pulled out a chair opposite Luċija, easing himself down into the seat. The girl’s eyes bored into him as she slurped soup from her spoon.
‘It’s mostly potatoes,’ Jacobella said, ‘with lots of basil.’
Underneath the table, Luċija’s sandals kicked against Bryan’s knees in a steady rhythm as she swung her feet backwards and forwards, one after the other.
Jacobella put a bowl of soup and a plate in front of Bryan, then went to fetch a spoon. Half a slice of rough bread sat on the plate, and Luċija’s eyes dropped from Bryan to the bread. Bryan put his index finger on the plate’s edge and pushed it slowly across the table to come to rest next to the child’s bowl. Luċija glanced back at Bryan, then grabbed the crust. Under the table the kicking stopped.
Jacobella handed Bryan the spoon and placed a small bowl of rock salt by his hand. She’d noticed his gesture. ‘That was kind of you,’ she said. Sitting down, she leaned towards her daughter. ‘What do you say?’
Luċija’s eyes remained locked on the bread in her hands. ‘Grazzi,’ she mumbled.
Bryan tasted the soup and sprinkled some salt over its surface. ‘Thank you for the washing. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to clean underwear.’
Jacobella smiled silently, her eyes flitting back to watch her daughter eating.
‘I still feel a bit awkward,’ he continued. ‘I can’t help thinking your husband wouldn’t approve.’
Jacobella tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cocked her head, considering his statement. ‘Someone does his washing on the ship,’ she said. ‘We all deserve clean underwear.’
‘Do you know where his ship is serving?’ Bryan asked.
‘In the Atlantic, last I heard. He’ll be hating that; he can’t stand being cold.’
Quiet fell on the room, padded out with the contentment delivered by the warm food. Bryan scraped the last of the liquid from the bottom of his bowl and broke the silence. ‘I’ve been told you decided to print your scurrilous headline about me.’
Jacobella breathed a short laugh. ‘I wrote that on my pad to break the ice so you’d be at ease with my questions. But after you told me your story, I realised it was wholly appropriate.’
Bryan looked into her dark brown eyes. ‘I didn’t tell you my full story.’
Jacobella picked up the empty bowls and carried them to the draining board. ‘I wrote a short article about aeroplanes. You’ll need to find someone with more spare time if you want to dictate your memoirs.’
‘I thought my story was all but over,’ Bryan continued. ‘But it’s not finished; it’s not complete.’
Jacobella turned and leaned against the sink. ‘Life will always go on,’ she said.
‘I’d stopped believing that,’ Bryan said, ‘until I saw you.’
Jacobella turned her back to him and opened the tap. The pipe rattled for a moment before the water sputtered into the sink and she rinsed a bowl under its dribbling flow.
‘You hardly know me, Mr Hale.’
Bryan flinched at the use of his surname.
‘And in any event,’ she continued, ‘you know I’m married.’ She paused, placing a second cleaned bowl carefully onto the draining board. ‘And… I love my husband.’
Bryan’s shoulders slumped and he pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘I’m sorry…’ he muttered, ‘…being stupid…’
Jacobella turned to regard him with a level gaze, drying her hands on her apron. ‘But I’d be proud to be your friend.’
Bryan looked up into her eyes. They held a steady resolve that was softened by a deeper tenderness. He nodded. ‘Alright. Yes.’
Chapter 7
Friday, 25 July 1941
Bryan pulled a clean shirt from his locker and pressed it to his nose. Inhaling deeply through the fabric, he picked up the scent-echo of Jacobella’s kitchen and the implication of her own sultry redolence. He blinked back the fantasy, and plucked open the buttons on the empty shirt, enjoying the glide of crisp fabric over the skin of his arm. As he dressed, his focus shifted; the airfield was now stocked with aviation fuel from the unloading merchant ships and Pipistrelle Squadron would rise against the night raids for the first time tonight.
Fully dressed, Bryan grabbed his flying helmet and cigarettes, then left his room. He breezed down the corridor and descended the staircase. In the lobby, three other pilots waited, Ben amongst them. As Bryan strode towards the door, the other men dropped in behind him, heading for the truck that waited to take them to Ta’Qali.
****
Two pairs of Hurricanes slinked out of the safety of their stone blast-pens into the cooling darkness of the near-deserted airfield. The new moon cut a curved sliver from the heavens, like the sickly smile of a preternatural predator hiding amongst a glittering blanket of galaxies. Its meagre gleam did nothing to separate the night-fighters’ silhouettes from the darkness of their nocturnal intent.
Bryan led them along the perimeter towards the runway, his canopy open, his head swinging from side to side, taking guidance from the riggers that walked alongside, one at each wingtip. At the runway’s end, the two men spun the fighter through ninety degrees, like cart horses at a mill-wheel, and beckoned Bryan forward to make space for Ben’s aircraft to park behind him.
Bryan throttled back, held his mask over his mouth and pressed transmit. ‘Pipistrelle Leader to Control. We are in position and ready to take off. Listening out.’
Bryan let the mask drop and tilted his face to regard the stars. His breath caught in his throat as a memory from a north London midnight pushed into his head – “We mustn’t forget the beautiful things, Bryan. We mustn’t forget the things that bring us joy.”
A surge of nausea welled in his throat and the wings of nascent panic flapped at his ears. He pushed against his tightened straps in an involuntary spasm to escape the cramped confines of the cockpit.
‘Fighter Control to Pipistrelle Leader.’ The grating metallic voice in his ears stilled Bryan’s tightening muscles. ‘You are clear to take off. Good luck.’
The flare path flashed into life and the two airmen retreated from their positions. The sudden glare blasted the demons away from his shoulders and Bryan, freed into action, slid his canopy closed, pushed the throttle forward and squeezed the brakes off. The fighter surged ahead, its tail lifting like expectation. Moments later the rumble of tyres on hard ground ceased and the aircraft clambered into the night sky. Bryan steadied his breath and looked into his rear-view mirror. He caught the back-lit silhouette of Ben’s plane behind him, before the lights extinguished and the runway plunged back to blackness.
Bryan banked east, climbing for the coast north of Sliema and the searchlight battery assigned to their patrol. Down on his starboard side, the flarepath at Ta’Qali flashed into life once more and two black shapes scuttled along the slab of light that slanted over the mustard-hued ground, dragging long shadows beside them. The second flight of night-fighters gained the air, bound for the island’s southern tip, and darkness once more consumed the airfield.
Italian bombers habitually flew past the island far to the east, then swung round a
nd made landfall on the southern coast, overflying and bombing their targets on the northerly course that would take them home.
Bryan glanced into the blackness behind him, trusting Ben was close behind, and pushed the guard away from his firing button. The smooth movement under his thumb sent a short thrill of pleasure up his arm, settling his resolve. Ahead, the reflective ripple of waves against the landmass described the seafront of Sliema. Bryan flew out to sea for a few moments then switched to transmit.
‘Pipistrelle Leader to Fighter Control. We are on station. Orbiting now.’
The wireless hissed static into his ears. ‘Thank you, Pipistrelle Leader. We’ll alert your searchlight crew.’
Bryan lounged into a gentle bank, pulling a wide circle that lapped over Sliema, then curved out over the sea again, spiralling higher with each orbit.
‘Ben?’ Bryan’s voice was flat and calm. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Bang on your tail light.’ Concentration tautened Ben’s words.
Bryan continued the lazy circle, levelling out the climb at 16,000 feet, and the minutes ticked by.
Sudden static burst into his earphones. ‘Fighter Control to all Pipistrelle aircraft. We have thirty-plus bandits, south of the island, wheeling north. Angels fifteen. Landfall over Kalafrana in five minutes. Suspect they’re lining up for Grand Harbour.’
Bryan eased his nose up, adding altitude to get above the oncoming raiders, but stayed in the leisurely orbit, circling over the sea and waiting. In the distance, at the island’s southernmost tip, searchlight beams climbed into the void, their yellow fingers groping around for their lumbering enemies.
Below the fighters circling Sliema, their own searchlights flashed into being and angled south-east to sweep above Grand Harbour. Bryan sidled their orbit south to bring them landward of the harbour, planning to follow the raiders over their target and out over the coast.
Sudden glare clamped around the Hurricane’s cockpit, stealing his vision for long seconds. Blinking against the dazzle he squinted at his instruments and pulled into a violent jink. The searchlight stayed with him and a second beam swung across to intercept his zig-zagging attempt at escape.
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 58
