The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘Bloody firecrackers,’ he muttered to himself.

  Levelling out, he skipped westwards, just seaward of the rocky shoreline along the edge of another sickle-shaped bay. A movement in the air ahead caught his eye. He throttled back a touch and the shape resolved into a small float plane, banking away to evade him. Bryan tilted into the same bank and opened fire. Hits danced over the defenceless enemy aircraft. One of the large floats detached from its underside, sending it spinning around the remaining float down into the sea.

  Hauling up over a beach, Bryan barrelled low over a headland, squirting short bursts of fire at anything that looked like a workshop or a factory. His guns rattled into silence and he searched in his rear-view mirror for his wingmen.

  The headland’s opposite beach flashed by beneath him and the open sea stretched away to the lightening eastern horizon.

  ‘Pipistrelle ‘A’ flight, form up on me. Let’s go home.’

  Two dark shapes settled in behind his wings and he pulled a long, slow turn to the south-west for the run home to Malta.

  ****

  On the top of Ulric’s conning tower, the look-outs cocked their heads at the sound of engines. They scanned the purple dawn to find the aircraft and swung their binoculars up to examine them.

  ‘Hurricanes,’ one muttered to the other. ‘What are they doing roping about at this time in the morning?’

  His companion shrugged and went back to scanning the horizon.

  Above their heads a hand-stitched pirate flag flapped from the short mast, two new white bars adorning its corner, as the submarine ran in towards the harbour entrance.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday, 11 October 1941

  Katie helped the old man out of bed and into the chair by its side. She stuck a thermometer under his tongue and took his pulse. Smiling with reassurance, she checked the mercury and stroked the man’s papery cheek. He stared back at her in unconcerned confusion.

  Katie stooped to peel away his soiled bedclothes, bundling the clean parts over the stains to hold in the smell. Footsteps attracted her attention and she glanced up as Stephanie drifted into the ward and stood by the door.

  ‘Steph!’ Katie called, beckoning her across. ‘Hold this open, please.’

  She handed her friend a pillowcase and rammed the sheets inside it. Stephanie gazed into the space above Katie’s shoulder.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Katie asked.

  Stephanie nodded vacantly. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Katie narrowed her eyes and studied her friend’s face.

  ‘Come with me.’ She grabbed Stephanie’s arm and propelled her along the corridor to the laundry room. Closing the door, she shook the dirty sheets into the basin and opened the tap. As water trickled over the washing she turned to her friend.

  ‘Now, what’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Is it something to do with Al?’

  Steph’s eyes dropped. ‘Well, yes,’ she murmured.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Katie’s voice hardened.

  ‘We were together last night.’

  Katie’s eyebrows raised with her unspoken question.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Stephanie said, ‘we’ve done it before, and he knows I wanted to do it again. I want to make him happy because I love him.’ She paused, biting her lower lip. ‘But last night it was like he didn’t care whether I wanted to or not.’

  Katie put her hands on her friend’s shoulders. ‘Did he do anything you didn’t want him to do?’

  Stephanie put her hand to her mouth and nodded once, tears welling into her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

  ****

  Bryan leaned on the railings of the Xara Palace balcony looking out across the darkened landscape. Nothing moved, no searchlights swept the sky, silence kept its private council over the island. He swilled a large whisky around his glass and considered Katie’s story.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’ he asked.

  ‘At the very least, you could have a word with him,’ Katie said.

  ‘Well’ – Bryan pulled a face – ‘it’s not like she’s my daughter.’

  ‘No that’s true’ – Katie’s voice rose a tone – ‘but it is like she’s my friend.’

  ‘Come on, Katie. She’s a grown-up woman. What did she know about the man before she got involved with him?’

  Katie grabbed Bryan’s arm and pulled him around to face her. ‘What did you know about me?’ Her eyebrows raised to emphasise her point. ‘Al let you throw him out of a dance hall once, maybe he’ll listen to you about this. I can’t have her used like’ – she struggled for words – ‘an object.’

  ‘Alright.’ Bryan nodded. ‘The next time I bump into him I’ll-’

  ‘She’s seeing him tomorrow afternoon,’ Katie interrupted, ‘after work at four. They generally meet in the International Bar under the Egyptian Queen. You could probably bump into him there.’

  Sunday, 12 October 1941

  Bryan wandered along Strait Street and glanced at his watch; nearly three-thirty. He dropped his cigarette onto the ground, crushed it under his boot and walked slowly towards the corner of Theatre Street where the door to the International stood open. Resolved, he headed for the entrance and ducked into the gloomy space.

  At once he spotted Albert sitting alone, brooding over the dregs of his drink. Bryan walked to the bar, bought two beers and carried them over to the table.

  ‘Hello, Bertie.’ Bryan put the drinks down on the table and pulled up a chair.

  Albert swilled the remains of the old drink and took a gulp from the fresh one. ‘Thank you. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Let’s just say the friend of a mutual friend thought you were acting a bit strange.’ Bryan took a sip of his beer. ‘I’ll hazard a guess it’s got something to do with your last trip?’

  Albert looked up at him. Mild surprise passed across his features, but he said nothing.

  Bryan lit a cigarette and placed the open packet on the table between them. ‘Unless of course, it’s all a big operational secret.’

  Albert took a cigarette from the pack and leaned towards Bryan’s lighted match, puffing his smoke into glowing life. ‘There’s no secret about what we do. We sneak up on ships and sink them.’

  ‘So, what was so different this time?’

  Albert pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled his cigarette around between the fingers of his other hand. Bryan watched the other man in silence, waiting for him to reach a decision.

  After a long moment, Albert spoke.

  ‘This time it was two unescorted troop ships. They must’ve missed their rendezvous along the way somewhere. Anyway, they were sitting ducks. We hit them both with torpedoes and surfaced to finish them off with the deck gun.’

  Bryan nodded and waited.

  ‘I’ve never watched people dying before. I’ve never seen people so helpless.’

  ‘I see.’ Bryan crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Do you think that’s any reason to be beastly to your girlfriend?’

  Albert looked up, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Bryan continued, ‘you know I could blow the lid off this whole affair simply by telling her you’re married. She’s a sweet, principled girl and I guarantee she’d never want to see you again.’

  ‘Why should you care about any of this?’ Albert’s voice held an edge of menace.

  Bryan leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m not sure I do care very much, Bertie. But I do know she loves you. Perhaps things will turn out so she never needs to know the truth. Either way, at some point in the future, her heart will get broken because of you. I think you should treat her with a bit more kindness until that day comes along.’

  A prickly silence descended between the two men, broken after a few moments by a woman’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Al.’ Stephanie walked up to the table. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’ She turned to Bryan. ‘It’s good to see you two have made up.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Bryan stood. ‘I’m sorry, I w
as just leaving.’ He drained the remains of his beer. ‘Have a lovely evening, you two.’ He walked to the door without looking back.

  Outside, the warm air embraced him, but tension still bunched in his nerves and the beer’s bitterness rankled at the back of his throat.

  Tuesday, 21 October 1941

  Bryan sat in the passenger seat as the transport crawled down the hillside from Mdina to Ta’Qali. Ribbons of dust unfurled in the middle distance, each birthing a speeding fighter, expelling them from the murky airfield into the clean afternoon air where they climbed away north-west along the island’s spine.

  The truck lumbered onto the station and Bryan jumped out as it stopped. He shaded his eyes with his palm and watched a flight of three Hurricanes join the circuit for landing. The coverings on their gun-ports were intact; this was no combat action. He lit a cigarette and wandered around the perimeter, skirting the billowing dust clouds thrown up by the landing fighters. He came to a blast-pen where a black Hurricane sat, stripped of its cowling, a fitter on a step ladder engrossed with its innards and humming to himself.

  ‘What’s the flap? Bryan called up to him.

  The man jumped at the disturbance. ‘Oh! Hello, sir.’

  ‘Is there a convoy coming in?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘There’s a rumour of a navy battle group, sir. Big ships. Cruisers and destroyers. Permanent posting, or so I’ve heard.’

  Bryan scratched at his cheek. ‘Any of our kites need a flight test?’

  The young fitter smiled. ‘There’s always one needing something, sir. Perhaps you ought to check with the chief.’

  Bryan wandered off in search of the crew chief.

  ****

  ‘So, what am I watching for?’ Bryan pulled on his flying helmet and fastened the chin-strap.

  ‘Intermittent drops in the oil pressure,’ the fitter explained. ‘We’ve checked the pipes and found nothing, so we exchanged the gauge. Run her hard for a bit and see what happens.’

  Bryan climbed into the black aircraft and started the engine, watching as the pressure gauge climbed normally. He taxied out along the perimeter, waited for control’s permission, then powered along the landing strip and into the waiting grip of the air.

  He climbed away on a westerly course to avoid the flight paths of the convoy patrol, overflew the hospital nestled on its hill at Mtarfa, and cruised out to the western coastline. Nosing out over the water, he climbed to an altitude sufficient for a safe bail-out, then pushed the throttles up to the gate. The engine had the bronchial edge common to all Malta’s aircraft, but the oil pressure remained steady.

  The coast streamed by in a series of bays and coves. Bryan throttled back as he reached the rocky ridge that Malta wore like a headpiece, and banked right to skim through the channel that separated her and her sister island.

  The open sea lay before him, and there in the distance, moving like dark portent, a fan of four dark-grey warships sliced through the ethereal blue that supported their pugnacious bulk. Copeland had hinted that the naval stakes were raising, and now here came the players.

  Thursday, 23 October 1941

  Bryan stepped from the bus and paused. Across the harbour, spaced along a mile of its ragged dockside, lay the four bristling warships, bright white ensigns stirring languidly at their sterns, guns along their flanks elevated towards the hostile sky.

  Bryan hefted his bag of washing higher onto his shoulder and set off across Valletta towards the opposite bank. He had plenty of time, Jacobella would still be at work, so he wandered into Hastings Gardens and leaned on the wall overlooking Marsamxett Harbour. Movements drew his eye to a submarine moored low in the water next to the wall of the ancient waterside building that skirted the edge of Manoel Island. Men carried boxes across gangplanks, stacking them on the deck to await stowage. Bryan eyed the sleek vessel from stem to stern with an appraising eye. It was required, like him, to sneak up unseen and deal out murder; only the scale of the ensuing destruction set them apart.

  He walked away from the bastion wall, crossing the narrow strip of gardens towards Jacobella’s house. He reached the statue-less plinth and dropped his bag onto the stone steps. Fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes, he glanced across the road and froze. A man stood on Jacobella’s balcony. His short black hair framed a dark, tanned face. He stood barefoot, wearing a plain bathrobe, and leaned on the balcony rail, staring absently across the gardens towards the harbour. The balcony door swung inwards and Luċija appeared. The man crouched down, picked her up and returned his gaze to the horizon. Luċija looked directly into Bryan’s eyes and a smile broke across her face. She waved to him, gurgling with pleasure.

  ‘Christ,’ Bryan muttered, dipping his head and turning his back to the building. He went through a pantomime of searching for something in his pockets, then reached down for his bag. Swinging it purposefully onto his shoulder, he strode back the way he had come.

  Saturday, 25 October 1941

  Katie pushed her hips down and forward against Bryan’s climax, gathering his urgent abandon into her warmth. Both her palms pressed his chest, transfixing him under her desire, her nails pricking indents into skin that ran slick with sweat. She felt his muscles unknot and relax, and she rocked her pelvis gently to enjoy the last of his receding hardness. He slipped from her, and she rolled off his body to lay by his side, propped up on an elbow, looking into his face. She laid a hand back on his chest, absently stroking her thumb against the rise and fall of his breastbone.

  ‘You have something on your mind,’ she said.

  Bryan pulled his head back to better focus on her face. ‘What makes you say that?’

  She glanced towards his naked belly, then back to his eyes. ‘You took a bit more persuading to join in than usual. You’re distracted.’

  Bryan returned his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Everything’s changed. Now those warships are here. It’s all different.’

  ‘Surely it’s better?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The ships will draw heavier bombing raids onto the harbour, with all that brings for the people who live and work nearby. And whatever you think about our friend Bertie, those submarines are taking out a lot of merchant ships. Once those loss reports hit the right desk, the Germans will be back, and they’ll be set on doing the job properly.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps it’s inevitable, perhaps it’s necessary, but it’s certainly not going to be better.’

  She looked into his eyes, a wisp of suspicion on her face, then a smile crept over her features and her hand moved slowly down his body. ‘Well, we’d better not waste the spare time we have left.’

  Sunday, 9 November 1941

  Ta’Qali buzzed with an optimistic undercurrent of the same ambience lately bestowed by the arrival of supplies. But today it was because ships had steamed out of the harbour instead of limping into it. At dusk the day before, the navy battle group had slipped away in the gloom. Rumours circulated of radio intercepts suggesting a large supply convoy escorted by Italian warships was making a break for Tripoli.

  Bryan wandered along the perimeter from blast-pen to blast-pen, casting an eye over each of his black-painted fighters, trying to suppress the coiling spring of tension in his guts with banal, routine activity. The grinning faces of shirtless ground-crew irritated him, and the condition of his battered night-fighters was lost to the distraction of his craving. He retreated from the company of airmen, away from the bustle of maintenance and servicing, away towards the solitude of the bus stop where his nauseous frustration mellowed into expectation.

  ****

  Bryan stepped from the bus and swept the harbour with a quick glance. The absence of the navy sent a furtive thrill down his spine. He paused, breathing deeply and steadily, even now resisting the pull of what he knew he shouldn’t be doing. His resolve melted; it was just to see her face, that was all, just to see her face. He walked across the empty city, its people locked from sight, bowed in the rictus of morning prayer.

  Striding along Windmill Street, he cam
e to the battered blue door. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then opened it and entered the hallway. Cooking smells extruded from the gap under Jacobella’s door, lacing the air with indiscriminate welcome. He reached up and knocked. Footsteps creaked down the stairs and the door opened.

  Bryan looked into the old woman’s sun-creased face, suspended for a moment in space, dangling over the chasm of his own misjudgement. He felt a frown crease his forehead; the contraction mirrored the narrowing eyes that regarded him with growing suspicion from the entrance.

  ‘Bine,’ Luċija blurted from her perch on the top stair. She pointed at him to reinforce the identification. ‘Bine.’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Bryan stammered, ‘I think there’s been a mistake.’

  He turned and left, closing the street door with exaggerated care. He leaned against the peeling paint and looked at his watch. Too early; Mass was barely over. He hurried away from the door, back down Windmill Street, wrestling with embarrassment and disbelief. He ducked around the corner into Mint Street, paused and lit a cigarette, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

  Mint Street dropped away before him, its stepped pavements gleaming dull and smooth, reflecting the passage of uncountable shoes, before it reared up again, seaward, towards the imposing dome of the Carmelite church. Halfway down the slope a loose group of figures drifted out of a side road and climbed the hill towards him. All were dressed for church and now Mass had finished they were heading home.

  At the back of the knot of people, he recognised her face, the twist of her hair, the way she carried her head and the flow of her walk. He stood and waited, helpless to avoid whatever might happen.

  A smile flashed into her eyes when she saw him. The other people flowed past and she stopped, a step below him, looking up into his face.

  ‘Hello, Bryan. It’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Bryan said, ‘I knocked on your door.’

  A flash of concern darkened her brow, but then she relaxed. ‘So, you met my mother-in-law.’ Her smile returned. ‘What did she say?’