Page 47 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Forty-Five

‘God, it’s hot as all hell,’ Danny says, suddenly leaping to his feet before I can even really process what he just said. ‘Come swim with me.’

Climbing to my feet, I watch as he gallops into the sea, splashing spray in all directions. As soon as he’s waist deep, he dives headlong into the water, emerging a few seconds later, shimmering and wet.

‘It’s all right for you,’ I call to him. ‘I don’t have a swimsuit.’

‘Come as you are.’ He laughs. ‘You’ll dry off in a couple of minutes in this heat. You’re safe with me – promise, Stitches.’

I believe him.

Glancing around the beach, I see it’s almost deserted, save for a couple of fishermen mending their nets.

I have no sense of what time it is, but the sun isn’t high in the sky yet.

There must be at least an hour until the expected lunchtime raids.

An hour without noise, fear and confusion seems like something truly miraculous.

‘I’ll paddle,’ I say as if I’m making a concession, when I really want to be in that water.

Danny leans back into clear, blue water until his feet bob up and the back of his head is submerged.

The water is warm but cool enough to soothe my hot and dusty feet.

Gathering my skirt up in my hands, I walk in a little further and then a little more, until the sea circles my thighs.

I hear myself sigh long and low for a moment of simple pleasure.

Closing my eyes, I hear the water lap and the boats gently clanking. There’s a gentle breeze and constant birdsong on the shore. From somewhere further away, I can hear a woman calling to her child, loving and cross all at once.

If I could isolate these few minutes from all the madness that has defined my life in the last few days, they would be the definition of serene. I think of all the bored and empty minutes I have spent in my other life, without realising what a luxury they were.

There’s a swoosh in the water; Danny grabs my hand and pulls me hard towards him. Losing my footing in the sand, I’m dunked into the water and swimming.

‘Bloody cheek!’ I tell him, laughing.

‘You looked like you were thinking too hard,’ he tells me. ‘Today is not a day for thinking hard. How well do you swim?’

‘Not bad, I guess?’ He points to a little cove, hardly more than a spoonful of sand and rocks across the bay. ‘Can you get there?’

‘I think so. Race you!’

Before he can move, I plunge back into the water, diving under the glassy surface and into the blue.

Silvery bubbles escape my clothes and hair, cascading into the aquamarine. Tiny iridescent fish shoal around my outstretched fingers, darting away. My one yellow dress flattens and billows with each stroke I take, making me feel like a golden jellyfish.

It doesn’t take long for Danny to beat me into second place with just a few strokes of his long, strong arms. His tanned, bare skin has turned pale as moonlight under the water. With his dark curls becoming gravity-defying tendrils, he looks like the kind of creature that might sing a siren song.

When he reaches the tiny beach a minute before me, I slow down, lingering with the sea at my shoulders as he climbs out onto the sand. Two things are true: I am shy of him seeing me wet through in a clinging dress; and I want an excuse to look at him. I am only human, after all.

‘This is my perfect spot,’ he tells me. ‘See? There’s a little bit of shade here to lie in, nice soft sand, big flat rocks if you want to sunbathe.

And it’s just a short climb to the top of that cliff, and there’s a farmhouse where they will sell you a quart of milk and a little bread for only two or three times the market value. ’

‘How many poor unsuspecting girls have you brought here?’ I ask him, still wrapped from his view by the sea. His body shimmers in the sun, a glorious thing as beautiful as a Michelangelo

‘Precisely none,’ Danny tells me. ‘I haven’t brought anyone here before – it’s my place.

’ He crosses over to the rocks, rummaging around, and brings out an old leather knapsack.

‘I come here to just be plain old Danny Beauchamp. It’s where I like to draw or read.

’ He takes out a stack of what look like sketchbooks and a collection of pencils.

‘An artist, too,’ I say.

‘Not really – more of a doodler. An artistic temperament doesn’t do well in war – not when we are required to be cold-blooded killers six days a week.

’ He pauses for a moment, staring at his feet.

‘Anyhow, I stashed my stuff out here when I first found this spot, and I keep it to myself. Got a couple of books out here, too, if you want to read?’

‘It’s lovely,’ I tell him.

‘So, are you going to come out of the sea, or will you just stay there until you dissolve?’ Danny asks.

‘Will you turn around then?’ I ask. ‘This dress will not leave much to the imagination.’

‘No,’ Danny says. ‘I don’t think I will. I want to see you, Maia. I want to look at you, if you’ll let me.’

Even in the cold water, I feel the heat of desire kindle in the pit of my belly.

Slowly, half afraid and half impatient, I peel myself out of the shelter of the sea.

It takes effort not to cover my body with my arms, but I don’t.

Instead, I watch Danny as I wade onto the shore, aware of how the fabric of the yellow dress clings to every curve and dimple of my body.

He lets out a long yearning sigh as I walk across the sand to stand just before him.

‘May I?’ he asks.

I nod.

With infinite care, Danny unbuttons the mismatched buttons, his hands trembling just as they did after the crash.

This time, I don’t try to help. I stand perfectly still until he has opened my dress to my navel, letting him peel it off my shoulders and lower it until I am able to step out of it.

With great care, he spreads the dress out on a rock in the full glare of the sun, before turning back to me.

‘Can I hold you, Maia?’ he asks, his voice hoarse.

‘Yes, please,’ I say.

First, he puts his hands on my waist; his eyes meet mine.

I expect him to kiss me, but instead he just draws my cold and shivering body close to his.

His arms tighten around my waist, and mine curve up to encircle his back.

The top of my head fits neatly under his chin, my lips rest against the salty skin of his neck, and I feel the pound of his heart against my breasts, crushed against his chest.

Our bodies dry and warm in unison as we hold one another close and still, each aware we have something very precious and fragile in our tender grasp, something we both want to protect.

‘I would like to kiss you very much,’ Danny says. ‘Would that be all right?’

Pulling away a little, I look up at him, and wrapping my arms around his neck, I kiss him.

When our lips meet, they seem to know exactly how to fit together.

I feel a moan vibrate in his throat as my mouth opens for him, and we press our bodies even closer together, lost in the most delicious connection I have ever known.

It feels like we could stay here in this embrace for the rest of time, whatever order it might come in, but Danny steps away.

‘This is not what I intended, I promise,’ he tells me, running his hands through his hair.

‘I had a plan to woo you – nice and gentle and slow. I wanted to share this place with you and talk about art and books. I thought maybe, later today, I might try to hold your hand. But there you are looking like you do, and I can’t think straight. ’

‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘I feel the same way about you, Danny. I want you, too.’

Danny takes a step back. ‘Maia, I need you to know, I’m not the kind of guy who takes advantage of a girl.

That’s not how I want it to be between us.

I want it to be right, proper and good. For us to get to know each other, like folk should, with walks and picnics and holding hands, before we ever get to .

. .’ He looks at me standing there in my underwear.

‘It’s just that you are so goddamn beautiful, and I can’t take my eyes off of you. ’

All I want is to lay him down on this beach right now and let my tongue explore every inch of his body.

But Danny wants to do it ‘right’ the way that is right in his mind, in his world, in his time, and to him, we mean more than desire and longing and lust, all of which are pulsing in the air around us like little sparks of lightning.

For Danny, we mean love. We are in love. And for Danny, love is an endless thing that has a lifetime to discover the hows and whys of its existence between the two people that created it. He wants to wait to show me how much I mean to him. I can only adore him all the more for that.

I reach for my dress and find that it is almost dry already, so I slip it on over my head, buttoning it up as fast as I can.

‘I’ll wait for you, Danny,’ I tell him simply. ‘We don’t have to hurry as much as we might like to.’

‘Here.’ He scrambles up to a small, high cave in the cliff wall to retrieve some books and sketchbooks, along with a battered, sandy and motheaten old rug, which he lays out on the sand. ‘This will stop you getting sandy some. And here’s a cushion for your head.’

Longing still hums in every fibre of my body as I lie down on the rug, and Danny takes his place next to me. He stretches out his arm and I move into the crook of his shoulder, my head resting on his chest. His hand rests on my hip.

‘How long till the tide comes in?’ I ask, trailing my fingertips down his chest.

‘This is as far in as it gets,’ he says. ‘When the tide goes out, we’ll be able to walk back to the bike and our shoes. I kind of hope the tide never goes out, though, and that time will stand still forever. But I guess that’s not how it works.’ He sighs. ‘It oughta be.’

‘Can I look at your sketchbooks?’ I ask, seeing the pile on the other side of him.

‘You can, but remember, I’m just an amateur.’

I reach over him for one of the books, kissing him as I take one. He catches me to him and kisses me back, his body rising to meet mine.

‘Now, now,’ I tease, breaking the kiss. ‘We’re getting to know one another, so let me look at your books.’

He smiles at me ruefully as he lets me go, looking away as I open the book.

Each page is covered in drawings. Some pages are devoted to a landscape, some of them the view from this cove, others of Valletta and Mdina, as well as places I don’t recognise.

What amazes me is that even though the drawings are all black and white, I can feel the colour and heat in each, see the movement of breeze.

He weaves the same kind of mercurial magic in the many swiftly drawn portraits that fill the books, too: pilots, local people of all ages, from the most elderly gentleman to the youngest baby.

When I see a sketch of Christina, her arm swung around Warby’s neck, her head thrown back in laughter, I can hear her giggles.

Then there’s a drawing of an older woman who I guess is Danny’s mother – she has the same-shaped eyes and serious set of the mouth.

There’s a snow-bound farmhouse with mountains behind.

And dozens and dozens of tiny drawings of Spitfires, on the ground, in the air, crashed into fields or sand – page after page filled with little visions of curiosity.

‘They are really good,’ I tell Danny after a while. ‘My dad is a painter. He’s good, too, but these have a life to them. His art is all about death.’

‘He makes you mad and hurt,’ Danny says tenderly, reading me at once.

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘We were never close. I loved my mum, but I lost her a few years back.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Danny says. ‘My folks are as good as they get. I’m lucky.’

‘Dad is Dad. Mum was at peace in the end. They both lived the lives they wanted to. So many don’t get that chance.’

‘I’ve come to realise that chances to be happy don’t come in one big go,’ Danny says.

‘They are small and fleeting, and you’ve got to recognise them when they are here.

Like now, with you. This is just about the happiest I’ve ever been.

And that I might die tomorrow or even later today can’t take that away from me. ’

All my resolve to be patient slips away in an instant.

‘Then why don’t we do everything right now that we should wait to do until we’re better acquainted?’ I ask him. ‘We can hold hands and go for walks and to the cinema after all this is over. If we both make it out, we can do that until we are old and grey. Why don’t we live forever right now?’

Danny doesn’t even reply. Instead, he drops his sketchbook and pulls me into his arms, his kisses urgent and hungry, his fingers fumbling at my buttons again, while his other hand slides up my thigh and under my skirt.

Hungrily, my hand travels under the loose waistband of his shorts, grabbing buttocks and pulling him closer to me.

Then the sirens start to wail. We freeze, our eyes closed, paused as if we are hoping it might be a mistake. Eventually, Danny rolls over beside me, his face turned to mine.

‘I guess we’re just going to have to stay alive until the next time we can be alone,’ he says, breathing heavily. ‘I promise you I ain’t gonna die, and you promise me you will stay alive, Maia. Don’t you let me down. Swear it.’

‘I swear I will stay alive for you,’ I tell him, hoping and praying to everything and anything that I am not telling a lie.