Page 60 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Fifty-Eight

‘How are you?’ Kathryn asks me.

Sitting at this table in the warm evening, in the beautiful rebuilt city of Valletta, with more food than I can possibly eat before me feels like a forbidden luxury, and one I am ready to enjoy tonight.

Modern Valletta is a place where I think I could be almost happy.

But actual happiness is waiting for me in the rubble this city will rise from – a city I want to help rebuild.

‘I don’t really know,’ I tell her. ‘I just know I want to get back to where I need to be, so that I can stop Stella being killed. Imagine if I do, Kathryn – you’ll have a grandmother that you grew up with, and Dad . . . Dad might be an altogether different person.’

‘And what happens if he stays happily married to his first wife and never meets your mother, and you are never born? What happens to you in the past then?’ Kathryn asks.

‘It won’t matter,’ I tell her. ‘I won’t be in the past – not from my perspective, anyway. I’ll be in the now.’

‘Then tell me everything, please,’ she says as the waiter fills our glasses. ‘Tell me all about Danny and how you met him, and . . . just everything. Tell me your story, so that when you’re gone, even if I don’t remember it, it will still be in my heart.’

‘Well,’ I say with that particular smile that always accompanies talking about someone you love, ‘it did begin with him saving my life . . .’

I’m not sure how much time passes as I tell Kathryn about Danny, Sal, Christina and Warby. When I tell her about Stella and the chubby baby that becomes her mother, she is thrilled. When I talk about Vittoria, her eyes fill with tears.

‘You were there,’ Kathryn tells me. ‘I know you were there. And I hope you will be again, even if it breaks my heart. You deserve to feel at home.’

Kathryn’s brow furrows. I can see her trying to find the words to voice her worries. I decide to buy her some time to think with some small talk.

‘What’s the bag for?’

Her face blanches; it seems like I’ve accidentally stumbled into big talk.

‘What is it, Kathryn?’ I ask her. ‘What have you found out?’ A realisation hits me: I think I understand why she seems so troubled.

‘Oh, did you see the line, in a footnote somewhere, where it says someone with my name died on the day before the siege ended?’ I’m not sure if it’s the wine going to my head or a new kind of optimism that seems ingrained in me, but I feel remarkably blasé about reports of my death.

‘Because you don’t need to worry about that.

I’ve got it worked out. Like I said, there is no past or future, only a series of nows.

So, when I’m back there, nothing is written in stone . . .’

‘I didn’t read that, actually,’ Kathryn says, her dark eyes shining with almost-tears.

Reaching across the table, I take her hands.

‘Look, I know I can change things – I just know it.’ I hear the almost manic tone in my voice, the desperate need to be right.

‘It will be fine – I promise you. You have to believe me; it will be better than fine. It will be beautiful, because that’s how I’m going to make it.

’ Of course I am trying to convince myself – I see that now.

I have to if I’m going to have a chance of succeeding.

Kathryn nods. ‘I believe that you can,’ she says. ‘I need you to believe that I believe in you. Do you?’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘But tell me why you’re so certain now.’

Kathryn reaches into the bag and takes out a small metal model of a Spitfire and a battered teddy bear.

‘My mum gave me these,’ Kathryn said. ‘They were her and your dad’s most precious things.

She said that David flew that little Spitfire around constantly, pretending to be a pilot.

But when he got sent to the UK after Stella was killed, he must have left it behind.

And that’s Mum’s teddy. She has kept that safe for all these years. ’

‘You believe me because of these toys?’ I pick up the Spitfire. Almost all its paint has gone. It’s mostly just a dull grey now, but still the shape and spirit of the little aircraft, her sleek lines and inquisitive nose, are unmistakable.

‘Yes, for two reasons,’ Kathryn tells me.

‘Go on?’ I lean forwards, holding the aircraft close to my heart.

‘That particular brand of toy Spitfire wasn’t made until 1968,’ Kathryn says. ‘I looked it up. And see how that teddy has a label round his neck? Read it.’

I pick up the bear, turning over the dog-eared, parcel label. I have to hold it closer to the tealight that flickers in the centre of the table. The handwriting is faded by age, but I recognise it. It’s mine. It reads: Love from Maia.

‘But . . .’ I look up at her. ‘When did I get these?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kathryn says, shaking her head. ‘Maybe tonight, from me. But I do know that I want my mum and uncle to have these things, these things they loved that were made decades after they were small children.’

‘I’ll take them to them,’ I promise.

Kathryn nods, her expression very grave.

‘It must have been hard for your father, just a little boy, sent away from everything he knew to go to school. Even though she was raised by neighbours, at least Mum grew up feeling like she belonged. I’m sure everyone thought that was the best course of action.

But I can see why it hurt him so much. Once, he had something; then, he had nothing but himself. ’

‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I really hope I can stop him going through that. The little boy I know is so funny and kind. I want him to survive, too.’

‘I know,’ Kathryn says. ‘And that’s why I believe you. And why I know you’re going to save our grandmother. But now I realise there’s more you need to know.’

‘Tell me everything.’ I fill my glass with wine and empty it at once. Something tells me I am going to need more than one drink to face what’s next.

‘Our grandmother was killed on the evening of 14 th August 1942, around 8 p.m.,’ Kathryn begins, taking great care with the details she knows I want. ‘You probably know about Operation Pedestal?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ I say. ‘History was never my strong point.’

‘The Allies repeatedly tried to get several convoys of supplies to Malta, from Gibraltar.

Food, parts, most crucially fuel, but they were never successful.

The ships were sunk or turned back. The Axis always seemed to know they were coming.

But when the US entered the war, Churchill saw a chance.

Bigger ships, more fire power. One final push to save Malta before she fell to the Nazis: Operation Pedestal.

There was a terrible price to pay for those brave souls who were part of the convoy – many lives lost, many ships sunk.

But two ships survived, just, limping towards Valletta with hulls full of fuel and food.

They finally made it into the harbour on 15 th August. It was a turning point in the war for Malta, and it took on even more significance because 15 th August is a feast day here: Santa Marija.

‘But the night before that, on 14 th August, there was a fierce battle in the air. Axis air forces knew that time was running out to break Malta. Many were killed, and Stella was at Luqa, treating the wounded in a field hospital. A pilot was shot down right over the airbase. He crashed badly, his plane in flames, and it seemed like he couldn’t get out – he was about to be burnt alive.

‘Stella ran straight to him. She got there even before the ground crew could. He was unconscious. She hauled back the hood, dragged him out of the Spitfire with superhuman strength. Some say she knew him, that they were friends. But that’s just people talking.

Stella was the kind of woman to risk her life for others no matter who they were.

That was just who she was – a true hero, you know?

‘Anyway, she got him clear of the plane before the flames took hold, but the aircraft that shot him down came round again and mowed them both down with machine-gun fire. They both died. My mum and your father – they were there. Saw it all. Thank God Mum doesn’t remember any of it.’

In my core, I know the answer to the question I am going to ask her next, because it answers my own question, too. ‘Do you know the name of the pilot?’ I ask.

‘I do.’ Kathryn lowers her eyes, thinking for a long moment before sliding a small, flat, rectangular object out of the bag.

‘Quite a few of the pilots that were stationed here during the war kept diaries, and some of them have been published since. Not very widely – local presses mostly. So I thought I’d have a look around some bookshops today, while you were speaking to your father.

’ She hands me a slim, hardback book, its boards faded with age. ‘Open it.’

‘I turn to the first page. Under the title Malta Spitfire is a photograph of Danny Beauchamp. My Danny Beauchamp, clean and well-groomed, likely taken before he saw any service at all – but there he is, smiling back at me as if he can see me sitting here and he thinks I’m terribly foolish for falling in love with a man who died more than eighty years ago.

‘Hello, you,’ I say to his photograph, my eyes filling with tears.

When I turn the page, I see a sketch of a girl sitting on a beach, shy and hesitant. A drawing of me.

‘It was Danny, my Danny, who Stella was trying to save.’

‘Yes.’ Kathryn nods. ‘The way the history books record it now, they both die. And according to you, there’s an account that you die that night, too.’

‘That won’t happen. I’ve seen Danny as an old man, so I know there’s a version of the future where I succeed.

It’s not set in stone; there is only now.

But I know it’s possible. And if it’s possible, I have to make it real.

I have to go. I have to go now .’ I stand up.

‘There’s no time to waste. Can you get me in? ’

‘I understand the urgency, I do.’ Kathryn reaches for my hand, gently tugging it so that I sit down again, drawing concerned glances from our fellow diners as I do.

‘But it’s too early. I can get you in, but we have to wait for most of the staff to go home before we go back to the temple.

At least another hour. And maybe this will be the last hour I will ever spend with my favourite cousin. So, please, let’s eat, let’s talk.’

Our lives are a series of nows, and it’s so rare to know when one now is the very last of its kind. So as the clock ticks on towards midnight, I forget about everything else except Kathryn, my cousin and friend, who believes that anything is possible in Malta.