Page 80 of Never Tear Us Apart

I vowed I’d never come back to Malta, and I meant it, too.

On that final day when I got posted to England, I was certain I never wanted to see this country ever again.

Sure, it gave me a lot: the best friends I ever had, who taught me over and over what sacrifice means.

The brightest and most beautiful moments of my life happened here, right under this perfect sky, memories that still shine so clear and in focus, even all these decades later when everything else seems faded and dull.

Malta gave me the love of my life.

But it was here I lost Maia, too. It was not so very far from where I am sitting right now that she died in my arms. God, I wanted to die with her.

I begged to – I’m not ashamed to say it.

But Stella told me she’d made a promise, and she wouldn’t let me.

I hated Stella for a while for that. But only for a while.

Years came and went. Wars were won and lost. Eventually, I got too old to fly and went back to my own quiet corner of the world, where the sky’s so big you can dream yourself up there.

I tried to forget. There are some things, some faces, though, that will not be forgotten.

Maia Borg, I only knew you for a few days, but I have loved you always. Sometimes, I think I loved you before I was born, and I will continue to long after this old body of mine has turned to dust.

My bones creak, my heart grows ponderous, and my eyes are cloudy and dim. Sometimes words escape me, and this brain of mine is more and more lost in the clouds, in the high blue spaces, each and every day.

When some gal telephoned me and asked if I’d come back to Malta for the fiftieth anniversary, first I said, ‘No thank you, ma’am.’

Then they came back to me, so sudden and fresh and full of colour and heartache: the last words you said to me, Maia.

Then I knew. Deep in my heart, I knew that if I was ever going to see you again, it would be on Malta.

So I came, fast as these bowed legs could carry me, took out that one drawing I made of you from where I keep it in my wallet, and I’ve got it right here – hoping, like the foolish, weak-minded old feller I am, that me and this drawing might act like runway lights, bringing you into land, my love.

So here I am, sitting on this bench in the middle of all this fuss and nonsense, waiting for you, Stitches.

‘Flight Lieutenant Daniel Beauchamp,’ you say, sitting down next to me and taking my hand.

God, your touch – your touch I’ve dreamt of every day.

‘Stitches.’ It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen your face, I can’t help grinning wildly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Maia. Here you are at last.’

‘Here I am,’ you say. ‘Shall we go?’

Funny – when I get up, my knees don’t creak no more, and I feel just about as strong and whole as I ever have. Feel like I could take off and fly right up into the cool blue sky, and I wouldn’t need no Spitfire to make it.

‘Where we going?’ I ask you.

‘Anywhen you want,’ you say. ‘We’ve got a whole universe to choose from.’

I look back just once. I think I know that old feller, sleeping on a bench, scrap of yellowed paper clutched in his bony hand. Yes, I think I know him, but it don’t matter much to me.

Not now the wait is over.