The next morning, Edward woke with a dull, throbbing headache. ‘You’re probably not used to the wine,’ said Lucky as he fried them some breakfast. ‘Maltese red is a bit heavy, and I admit it doesn’t mix that well with whisky.’
‘It’s not the wine, it’s the amount of alcohol. I woke up in the middle of the night still sitting in an armchair in the lounge with the light on.’
Lucky looked sheepish. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t like to wake you. But we had a good evening, didn’t we?’ For a moment he looked almost childlike.
‘Yes, we did,’ said Edward. ‘And if I’ve a headache, it’s my own stupid fault.’
Lucky grinned. ‘Some breakfast will sort that out.’ He stood by the cooker, striped apron covering his front, frying bacon, eggs and fried bread. ‘And afterwards,’ he added, ‘I thought I’d show you my photographs.’
‘I hoped you might. I’ve been looking forward to seeing them.’
‘You should have reminded me. I’d have got them out yesterday.’
Edward shrugged. ‘I was stringing out the anticipation.’
Lucky’s study was a small room down two steps at one end of the house. The old stone walls had been kept, but carefully built bookcases had been added. Underneath the window stood a wooden desk, clear except for a word processor and several models of aircraft. A few photographs stood on the bookshelves: Lucky during the various phases of his life. One showed him in middle age, arm round another man, with mountains behind. Edward guessed it must be Alaska. Another was of Lucky taken during the war with flying helmet and goggles, sitting in the cockpit of a Spitfire. ‘Me and my Spit’ he’d written across the bottom.
Lucky pulled up another chair to the desk, then stretched up to one of the bookshelves and brought down a dog-eared photo album. ‘Here,’ he said, laying it on the desk. ‘Have a look through this.’
Edward opened it and the first page nearly fell away in his hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Lucky. ‘The paper’s completely crumbling.’ Gingerly, Edward turned the pages. There were pictures of pilots training in Canada, then in England, and of the Eagle Squadron – Spitfires, groups of smiling pilots. Snapshots of his friends.
‘Skip these ones,’ said Lucky. ‘Malta’s coming up.’
Edward turned the pages slowly, carefully. Then there they were: Edward, Laurie, Alex and Harry, grinning at Lucky’s camera up on the balcony at the Xara Palace. Alex with his cap on the back of his head, the others bare headed, hair roughly swept back. They looked so young, so unafraid of what lay in store. His first feeling was of relief: that his memory of Harry had been right.
‘My God,’ said Edward. ‘Can that really be us?’
Lucky laughed. ‘Hits you hard, doesn’t it, when you realise how we’ve aged. Such baby-faces we all were then.’
Edward stared at it. He brought a hand to his mouth, biting firmly on a knuckle. ‘I – I just can’t believe it,’ he said at last. ‘After all these years. I can’t believe it’s us. That – that it’s Harry. That I’m seeing Harry again.’ His legs felt weak and he dropped back on the chair, then felt Lucky place a hand on his shoulder.
‘You ready for some more?’ said Lucky.
Edward nodded.
The pictures were small, black-and-white, each carefully tucked into tiny black corner mounts. There were photographs of aircraft, both intact and burning, of Takali under clouds of smoke. Blurred pictures of them all outside dispersal and on the balcony of the Xara Palace. A picture of Butch scowling and Baggy Bagshawe behind, smoking his pipe.
‘The gharrie race,’ exclaimed Edward, as he turned another page. ‘I don’t believe it. Look, there’s Zulu!’ Another picture showed Zulu, Harry and Lucky grinning and flexing their arms.
‘I don’t know who took that one,’ said Lucky. ‘Boy, that was a funny day.’
There was a picture, too, of Harry and Edward together, their hair wet and dishevelled, mooring the boat at St Paul’s Bay.
‘Tell me, how did you get hold of all this film?’ Edward asked. ‘You were always very guarded about it.’
Lucky chuckled. ‘From a guy I knew in the photo reconnaissance squadron over at Luqa. He made me swear not to tell anyone. Guess he didn’t want lots of other people asking him for it. Then the word would get out and he would be in the pan.’
Edward laughed. ‘Well, they’re just wonderful, Lucky, really wonderful.’
‘I’ll get you copies of some of the good ones if you like.’
‘Would you? Really? I’d absolutely love that. I’ll reimburse you, of course.’
Lucky waved a hand. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll get them done and mail them to you. Anyway, I’ve got a few other bits and pieces,’ he said, producing a large old envelope. ‘Here, look at this,’ he said, carefully extracting a frail and yellowed sheet of folded paper. ‘An old copy of the Times of Malta.’
‘It’s so thin!’
‘Four pages of joyous morale-boosting propaganda. I read somewhere that the islanders used it to wipe their backsides.’
Edward laughed, then spread out the paper on the desk. ‘May 11, 1942,’ he said then read out the headline, ‘“Battle of Malta: Axis Heavy Losses. Spitfires slaughter Stukas.”’
‘That was us,’ said Lucky. ‘I got one that day.’
‘Listen to this: “It has always been known that man for man, and machine for machine, the RAF were infinitely superior to the Hun.”’
‘Amen to that.’
‘Amazing. Pure Hugh Pughe. It could have been written by him.’
‘Probably was. I can see him now, strutting up and down his office in the Hole, clutching a tumbler of gin in one hand, cigarette in the other, dictating to some WAAF or other. “Take this down will you, Marjorie.”’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Edward laughed.
Lucky also produced a small wooden box, in which he kept his hand-stitched wings badge and his medals. ‘I had the medals mounted a while back. I’m proud of what I did, and I’m damn glad they gave me a DFC and an Air Force Cross. I reckon I deserved ’em.’
Edward looked at them, fingering the heavy metal of each in turn. He was conscious of Lucky watching him, so he turned and smiled. ‘They’re heavy, aren’t they?’
‘You haven’t got yours, have you?’ said Lucky.
Edward shook his head. ‘No. That is, well – I wore the ribbons when I was still in, but after the war, no. I never did get the real things.’
‘You got a DFC for Malta, right?’
Edward nodded.
‘You should be damn proud of what you did, Eddie. Who else in the RAF had to go through what we did on Malta? Tell me that. If you ask me, they should have given every goddam one of us a DSO at least.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s partly the problem. Why did I get one and, say, Alex didn’t? He gave his life, after all.’
‘Doesn’t mean you should feel bad about yours. I tell you, Eddie, we did a hell of a thing back then. I know we were young and pretty clueless half the time, but you know, we played our part. We helped save Malta and that was a big deal. We might not have done much since, but we did something with our lives back then. Something worthwhile. Listen, do me a favour: when you get back, order them up will you? You should have them, and what’s more you should be damn proud to have them, too.’
Edward looked at him and smiled. ‘All right, Lucky.’
They ate out that night, Lucky driving them into Victoria. But first, drinks – at a bar in the main square. ‘Negronis,’ I think, said Lucky.
‘No, really, Lucky, I don’t think I will,’ Edward told him.
‘Oh come on, Eddie. It’s your last night. You can dry out again when you get home. Just keep an old drunk company for one more night.’
Edward smiled. What the hell? he thought. ‘All right, then. You’ve twisted my arm.’
‘That’s the spirit!’
When the drinks arrived, Lucky chinked their glasses and said, ‘Cheers, Eddie. You know, it’s been really great to
see you again.’
‘It’s been wonderful,’ agreed Edward, and lifting his glass said, ‘To old friends.’
‘I’ll drink to that. And to absent friends as well.’
‘Yes – to absent friends.’
Lucky took a sip of his drink, smacked his lips with satisfaction, then said, ‘Incidentally, did you know the Americans built an airfield here on Gozo? Knocked the whole thing into shape in about two weeks. Amazing.’
‘Actually, I did know that. I came back to Malta, you know, in June and July 1943.’
‘Really?’ said Lucky. ‘Goddam, I never knew that. Why didn’t you say?’
Edward shrugged. ‘It was only a couple of weeks. The place was so different by then that it hardly felt like the same island at all. I can’t really remember that much about it, to be honest. I was posted back here as a supernumerary flight lieutenant just before the invasion of Sicily. I was based at Qrendi. That had been built specially too – south of Takali. Honestly, the change in a year was staggering. Heaving with aircraft and ships. And there was food and drink on the Island, too.’
‘So you took part in the invasion?’
Edward nodded. ‘Went on to Sicily, then took over command of a squadron at Termoli in southern Italy.’
‘Squadron Leader?’
‘Well, you know how it was. If you survived you could hardly fail to be promoted.’
‘And you stayed in Italy until the end of the war?’
‘Yes.’ He wondered whether he should say more. He took a sip of his drink and fingered his earlobe.
‘And what was that like? I knew a guy back in the States who flew P-51s in Italy. Said it was pretty tough.’
‘Really?’
Lucky eyed him. ‘Why are you being such a closed book about this? C’mon, Eddie, I never went to Italy. You know, it’s interesting for me: we fought against them, then suddenly we’re over there, flying from their bases and so on.’
‘I’m not being a closed book,’ Edward lied. ‘It’s just that there’s not much to say.’ He sighed. ‘It was mainly low-level stuff, ground-strafing and escorting medium bombers – that sort of thing. It was pretty hairy at times, but of course there was almost no Luftwaffe left by then.’
‘And that’s it?’
Edward sighed again. I’m not ready for this. ‘I got shot down and spent about six months with the partisans. Terribly dull, really. We didn’t achieve very much.’ He sighed again. ‘And then I eventually got back to the Allies and served at Group Headquarters before being given another squadron just before the final push. Then back home.’
Lucky looked at him suspiciously. ‘All right, Eddie. Well, perhaps you can tell me a bit more about it another time.’
‘Really,’ said Edward, a snap of irritation entering his voice, ‘there’s nothing much more to tell.’
It was just before six o’clock that evening that Lucky poured them the first of several whiskies; a little over an hour later and Edward was already beginning to feel slightly light-headed. The sun was beginning to lower, but the sky was still bright, and the sea twinkling benignly beyond the cliffs.
‘D’you know what I think?’ said Lucky as he sunk back into his chair. His voice had begun to slur. ‘I think you and I are more alike than we think. The war – it’s made us unhappy, hasn’t it? I know I’ve not had a particularly happy life, and I’m not so sure you’ve been that happy either.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I dunno. You haven’t told me much about it. You tell me it’s been dull and a bit boring. You haven’t mentioned your family very much.’
‘You’re right. No, I can’t really say I have had a “happy” life.’
‘You’ve never got over the losses, have you? Harry, the others. You probably lost good friends in Italy too.’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ, I know how close you and Harry were. Jesus, you were like brothers.’ They were silent for a moment, then Lucky said, ‘You think you should have gone instead of Harry, don’t you?’
Edward sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Harry was a brilliant person: charming, funny, talented. The sort of person who would have made a great success of life. I haven’t made a great success of it, Lucky. All right, so I’ve never been a drunk or fooled around with other women, but I’ve achieved very little. I’ve hidden away in some tiny boarding school all my life, I married a woman I loved but was never in love with, and I have a son I barely know – a son who tends to get into a temper whenever he sees me. And I don’t really blame him. I’ve few friends, and when my time does come there won’t be many at my funeral.’
‘There’ll be even less at mine. It’s just the war, Eddie, it’s the fucking war. It messed up all our lives. I sometimes think the lucky ones were the ones who died. But then, you know, these past few days – I’ve enjoyed myself, Eddie. I’ve had a good time.’ He took another gulp of whisky. ‘You know, if you and I had met for the first time ever a few days ago, we’d probably scarcely have looked at each other. I’m a washed-up drunk, and you’re such a closed book it hurts – not about Malta, but everything else. But we’ve got this place, haven’t we? A shared experience. We’re blood brothers, Eddie. The survivors of a great and terrible thing. I’m rambling, I know, but I can’t tell you what it’s meant to me to see you again these past days. You were a great pal back then, and as far as I’m concerned you always will be. You come and see me again, Eddie. Will you do that? Keep in touch. We must keep in touch.’
‘Of course, Lucky,’ said Edward, meaning it. ‘And I’d like you to visit me in England, too.’
Lucky slowly lifted his glass, and grinned. ‘You try and keep me away.’
On the way to the airport, they stopped outside Valletta, at the RAF memorial they had seen on Edward’s first evening on the Island. It had been Edward’s suggestion. They parked outside the church of St Publius then walked over towards the Phoenicia Hotel, crossed the road and slowly stepped up the narrow path to the foot of the column. Brass plaques were pinned to the curved stone, the names of every member of the RAF who had gone missing during the battle for Malta and Sicily. They found Zulu’s name first, and then Harry’s. Flight Lieutenant H.W. Barclay, 21.6.1942.
Edward gazed at it, ran a finger over the embossed lettering and felt his throat tighten and his eyes begin to fill with tears. He stood back, stumbled a step, and tried to surreptitiously dab his eyes, but Lucky said, ‘It’s all right, Eddie,’ and suddenly he knew he could keep it in no longer and that his self-control had momentarily deserted him. Crouching to the ground, he clutched his hands to his eyes and wept, his whole body convulsing as fifty years of grief poured out of him in an unstoppable stream.
Somerset – June, 1995
When he opened the front door of his house in Brampton Cary and stepped inside, everything looked exactly the same as it had done a week before when he had set off for the airport. And yet it wasn’t, because in the intervening six days, so much had happened that Edward now viewed everything differently. He was struck by the pristine starkness of his sitting room. Three photographs – that was all! The one of Cynthia, another of Simon as a baby, and one of his grandchildren. It was, he realised, a room devoid of any personality.
A pile of post was waiting for him, mostly bills, but there were two letters that immediately caught his eye. The first was a typed envelope with Pete Summersby’s address stamped on the reverse. Inside were details of the Squadron Association and the latest newsletter. There was also a note from Pete, telling him about the next meeting, which would be at Biggin Hill on 15th August. ‘Hope to see you there,’ he’d added. ‘There’ll be a few faces you’ll know.’
The other letter was handwritten. Neatly slitting open the envelope with his paper knife, he carefully took out the page of light blue paper and saw it was from Andrew Fisher. His heart quickening, he sat down, then began reading. ‘Dear Squadron Leader Enderby,’ it began, ‘I hope you will forgive me for writing to you out of the blue, but Pete Summers
by got in touch with me about my uncle, Harry Barclay, and mentioned he’d seen you recently and suggested I write to you. I was very pleased as I have been trying to trace you for years, as I know you were close friends. I have a wealth of my uncle’s letters and other effects of his. I am trying to learn more about him, and feel sure there is much you could tell me. Would you consider allowing me to visit you? I would be happy to come and see you wherever you are and at a time that suits you. I also have some things of his that might interest you. I look forward to hearing from you. Yours sincerely, Andrew Fisher.’
Edward read the letter through several times. He felt annoyed that Harry’s nephew had beaten him to it – and silently cursed Pete – but was also surprised to find that, having prevaricated and put off contacting Andrew Fisher for so long, he now felt excited and suddenly impatient to meet him.
He decided to reply almost immediately, so having unpacked and made himself some tea, Edward sat at his bureau and finally began the letter he had promised himself he would write several weeks before. I would be very happy to meet you whenever you like, he wrote. Why don’t you telephone me at your convenience, and then we can arrange a rendezvous? Having completed that task, Edward then filled out the Squadron Association membership form, wrote out a cheque for five pounds, and added a brief note to Pete thanking him for putting him in touch with Lucky.
Two weeks passed and he heard nothing from Andrew Fisher. He did, however get a call from Simon. He had not told his son about his visits to Cornwall or Malta, and it had crossed his mind that Simon might have tried to call him while he had been away and then, not getting a reply, become worried. But there had been no such calls; that soon became clear enough when they did finally speak – for the first time, Edward realised, in nearly a month.
They began with the usual stilted pleasantries before Simon cut to the point. He was calling about the air show. ‘Dad, do you remember you promised to go with Nicky to Duxford?’
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 26
