surprise to see Ralph there, and Max experienced a momentary twinge of jealousy.
“I saw Squadron Leader Tindle in the street and told him about Caterina,” Teresa explained. Like Lilian, she was dressed in black.
“I was just leaving,” said Ralph, stubbing out his cigarette and getting to his feet. “My sincere condolences again.” He graced both women with something between a nod and a bow.
“Lilian …,” Teresa prompted.
“No, stay,” said Ralph. “I’m sure Max will see me out.”
The tall glazed doors at the back of the palace were crisscrossed with tape, and as two men entered the building, Ralph said, “Bad blow for them. Caterina was a great girl.”
“You knew her?”
“Only to ogle. She used to come to the Point de Vue every now and then.”
The Point de Vue Hotel stood on the south side of the Saqqajja, the leafy square separating Mdina and Rabat. Like the Xara Palace, the hotel had been requisitioned by the RAF as a billet for pilots stationed at Ta’ Qali. The hotel barman was known for his John Collinses, the bar itself for the local girls who were drawn there come nightfall, like moths to a candle flame. For some reason the pilots called these flirtatious encounters “poodle- faking.” Well, that had all stopped the month before, when the Point de Vue had taken a direct hit during an afternoon raid, killing six.
“That place is cursed. When I think of the times we had there, and those who are gone …”
It wasn’t like Ralph to come over all maudlin—breeziness was his stock-in-trade—and Max wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Thanks for last night” was the best he could come up with.
“Might be a while before we get to do it again. Had a summons from the CO this morning, and the fly-in’s definitely set for the ninth.”
“Three days …”
“Believe me, I’m counting. He passed me fit to fly Spits again.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s going to be one hell of a scrap. That bastard Kesselring’s going to throw everything he’s got at us.”
“But this time you’re ready. I saw the new blast pens when I passed by Ta’ Qali.”
“What counts is up there,” said Ralph, nodding heavenward. “If the new Spits really do have four cannons and are faster in the climb, we stand a chance. Who knows, we might even bloody their noses. We’d better, or it’s all over.”
“You think?”
“I know. This is it—the last roll of the dice.”
Max paused in the hallway at the front door.
“When we’re old and sitting in a pub somewhere, I’m going to remind you of this conversation.”
Ralph smiled weakly. “Tell me more about the pub.”
“It’s at the end of a long track, and there’s a river, with trout, and a garden running down to the water. It’s summer and the sun is shining, and there’s a weeping willow near the jetty where our grandchildren are playing. They’re naked, jumping off the jetty, flapping around in the river, splashing the people drifting past in punts.”
Ralph gave a sudden loud laugh. “Damn your detractors. Now I know why you got the job.”
“What detractors?”
“Come on, you’re at least ten years too young for the post.”
“I forgot to mention … at the pub, you’re in a wheelchair. You lost both legs when you got shot down over Malta in May 1942.”
Ralph laughed some more as he pulled open the front door. After the cool of the palace and its shaded garden the heat in Bastion Square hit them like a hammer.
“She’s a great girl, Max, war or no war. She’s the real thing.”
“She’s just a friend.”
“Then you’re a bloody fool.”
“If you say so.”
“Hugh says so too.”
“Hugh?”
“And Freddie.”
He knew Freddie was a fan of Lilian’s. The three of them had spent a raucous evening together at Captain Caruana’s bar in Valetta a few weeks back. He struggled to recall when Hugh had ever set eyes on her.
“Now go in there and look after her. She needs it.”
Lilian didn’t appear particularly needy. She sat there silent and grim-faced while he made the right noises, and the moment Teresa withdrew, leaving them alone together, she suggested that they head for Boschetto Gardens. Actually, it was more of a command than a suggestion, and there was something wild and reckless in her eyes when she issued it.
