Page 9 of Never Tear Us Apart
Chapter Eight
Tentatively, I swing my legs out of bed and put my feet on the cool tiles.
They are firm beneath my feet. A stiff breeze wanders through the broken window shutters, which fight against their rusting latch with every gust of wind.
Over the sink, there’s part of a mirror attached to the wall by a twist of wire and a nail.
Bracing myself, I peer into it to see my forehead wrapped in white bandages like a headband, with a small dark flower of blood at the centre where I was wounded.
What came before feels vividly real: I was standing there, staring at this plane flying so low it felt like it was coming straight down the street.
There was gunfire churning up the ground beneath me.
And then the American – Danny, she said his name was – he came out of nowhere and knocked me out of the way.
He saved my life, she said. My life before life, I suppose.
Hastily, I pull on my jeans and T-shirt, looking around to find my shoes placed neatly under the bed. Interesting that I’m wearing my usual twenty-first century clothes when I am in a bedgown in a hospital bed somewhere in 2025 and apparently in 1942 in this moment.
Slipping my feet into my sandals, I open the door an inch and peer into what must be a waiting room.
The windows are cracked and filmed with dirt.
Sunflower-yellow paint peels off the plastered walls; the hot, still air is thick with debris.
An older woman, all in black, sits on one of several rickety-looking wooden chairs that line the walls of the room.
She rubs at her knees, muttering fretfully under her breath.
A young mother cradles a fitful baby against her shoulder, murmuring low, soothing words.
Silent tears roll down her cheeks. Two seats away from her, a small boy of about five sits alone.
His dark head is bowed over the scraps of paper he has rested on a book.
He draws intently with the stub of a short pencil.
I recognise the tilt of his head: it’s the kid from the shelter, the one who followed me into the path of a murderous plane.
‘Hello, kid,’ I say.
The boy looks up and smiles. ‘You are alive!’ he says. Scrambling up, he trots over to me, wrapping his arms around my hips with a tight squeeze. ‘I am glad you are not dead.’
‘I’m glad you are not dead,’ I say, disarmed by his easy affection. I must be careful; this is dangerous ground to tread. ‘I did tell you to stay put.’
‘Yes, but I had to save your life,’ the little boy says. ‘Be a hero, like Papa.’
By all accounts, it was the pilot who saved both of us, but I don’t bring that up. In the full light of day, the boy is a thin but healthy-looking child. His clothes are a little big but clean, his shoes almost worn through.
This is a world of deprivation, where even everyday things are hard to come by.
I understand the resourcefulness and determination it takes to live in these worlds.
I’ve travelled through so many versions of the same place: ordinary people brought low by power grabs and political egos out of their control, while I report their hardships to the world.
I am, as ever, acutely aware that I have always been fortunate enough to be able to fly away back home to a world of new shoes and running water. I don’t know much about the history of wartime Malta, but just from looking at the kid’s shoes, I know there is no flying away from here, not for him.
There’s no sign of Christina, and I think about trying to leave, except I’m not at all sure the kid won’t follow me. Still, I start strolling towards the exit. Sure enough, the kid is on my tail, a sweet, fond smile on his face. This is stupid, but I can’t run out on him again.
‘Where do you think you are going?’
I turn around slowly to find a new woman questioning me: in her early thirties, about my age – dark hair, tall, with midnight eyes. Everything about her tells me at once that this is a woman you mess with at your peril.
‘She leaved again, Mama,’ the boy says. ‘I will stop her again! Just like Papa.’
‘Was leaving,’ the woman corrects him, without dropping her gaze from me.
Christina suddenly appears, standing a few paces behind, holding a cup and saucer. Her eyes are wide, signalling that now I’m for it. The kid’s doctor mother, of course.
‘Thank you so much for taking care of me, Doctor,’ I say.
‘The least I can do,’ she says, without a hint of a smile. ‘After all, you took care of my boy after he disobeyed my specific instructions and ran off in the shelter.’
The boy’s shoulders droop; his chin folds onto his chest. ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ he says.
‘He’s a good kid,’ I say. ‘If anything, I was the careless one.’
‘You were.’ There is the briefest nod of affirmation.
‘Nevertheless, you will not go anywhere now until you are seen and cleared by the authorities. You have been entrusted to our custody and will remain here until you are collected.’ She points at a seat next to where the kid was drawing. ‘You will sit there and wait.’
‘This is insane,’ I say, frustration bubbling up. ‘I’m not sitting anywhere. Thank you so much, but . . .’
‘You have no papers; you are dressed like a sailor.’ The doctor gestures at me, her expression somewhere between cross and bemused.
‘No one knows you or has ever heard of you. We have every right to detain you. It’s a matter of national security, especially after the last incident, the spy. The shame of it.’
I have always found it very hard to follow an order. The urge to bolt grows.
‘Doctor, if I may?’ Christina steps lightly in front her now, as if reading my thoughts.
‘Let me sit with Miss Borg while she drinks her tea. I’ll keep an eye on her.
And there’s a very nice sergeant outside waiting to take her off your hands once she has had some refreshment. ’ Christina directs me to the chair.
The boy eagerly retakes his seat. ‘I will show you my drawings,’ he says happily.
The tea Christina gives me is lukewarm but dark brown, strong and sweetened with sugar. I finish it in two gulps.
The doctor looks like she has something else to say, but suddenly the cry of a baby starts from within her consulting room.
‘Qalbi , your sister,’ she tells the little boy.
He puts down his drawing and hurries into the room. A moment later, he reappears, carrying a screaming child of about one in his arms. His sister is almost as big as him.
‘Shh, Eugenie,’ he whispers over and over again, rocking the child back and forth.
The doctor returns to her office and shuts the door.
‘You really are such a helpful little boy, aren’t you?’ Christina says to the boy. ‘Would you like me to rock her for a while?’
The boy shakes his head. ‘My . . . responsibility.’
‘And your English is coming on in leaps and bounds,’ Christina praises him, then turns to me. ‘The doctor is a marvel, really – widowed while expecting her daughter, two children to care for all alone, and still working every day. Remarkable. Whenever I feel like complaining, I think of her.’
For a moment, I stare from the closed consulting-room door back to where the little boy struggles with the enormous whimpering baby.
‘I’m a bit freaked out, to be honest,’ I tell her.
‘Freaked out?’ Christina repeats, chuckling softly, her grey eyes searching mine.
‘That’s a new one on me. Look, I’m sure you are who you say you are.
I’m a good judge of people, and I can tell you are not the traitor type.
But just be careful what you say. No one just arrives on the island any more without everyone knowing about it, especially not a pretty young woman. ’
‘It’s just that . . . I don’t think this is real,’ I find myself muttering aloud.
‘Nonsense. Does the pain in your head feel real?’ Christina asks me.
I nod reluctantly.
‘And the taste of the tea? The heat of the day?’
I nod again.
‘Then pull yourself together. Look, war does strange things to people. It drives us all a little mad. But I can promise you it will be better for you to cope with what is real rather than be labelled a lunatic and locked up somewhere – do you understand?’
‘Don’t let anyone see you’re having a breakdown. Got it,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’
The door swings open, and a gruff British soldier in khaki shorts peers in. ‘Right then – this her?’ He gives me an appraising look and clearly finds me wanting. ‘I was hoping for more of a Mata Hari.’
I notice he is wearing a black armband reading MP . He’s military police. Something about those stark white letters sends a shiver down my spine.
‘With your permission, may I accompany our patient?’ Christina asks the sergeant. ‘She is rather fragile, and I should like to make sure she is looked after.’
‘Certainly, Miss Ratcliffe,’ he replies with a bashful smile. ‘Anything for you.’
Christina smiles at him, then turns to the little boy. ‘Darling.’ She bends down until her face is level with his. ‘Tell your mother I’ll come back again if I can when she needs me – she can send for me anytime.’
He nods as his baby sister sucks unhappily on her fingers.
I find that I don’t want to leave him, sitting there alone grappling with things he’s too young to understand. He has that particular sadness of a small, ignored child: dutiful and good, but so very sad, with a sea of anger just beneath the surface, waiting to boil into adulthood.
I look at him and see myself.
‘Hey, kid, you are a cool dude,’ I tell him, with a thumbs up.
He blinks at me but smiles, too.
‘Come along, Maia,’ Christina says, giving me a look. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
She guides me outside into the searing heat, where a battered jeep idles on the road. A line of what look like bullet-holes punctuate its flank. Reluctantly I get in.
‘Chauffeur-driven.’ Christina smiles as she climbs in next to me. ‘We are living in the lap of luxury, are we not?’
The jeep shrieks into gear and judders away.