He reached for the banister, but couldn’t grasp it in time.
He felt the blow to the right side of his head, as his legs gave way at the top of the stairs.
Then, blackness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
15th January 1942, Valletta, Malta
They were almost the only uniformed women on Malta; every other servicewoman had been evacuated due to the inherent danger on the island. Aileen and Elsie stepped from the Lascaris War Rooms—the nerve centre of the Mediterranean operations—and the inquisitive glances and double-takes started immediately.
‘It’s actually very pleasant for January,’ Aileen quipped, threading her arm through Elsie’s.
‘It’s certainly milder than England,’ Elsie replied. She turned to face three young pilots, all staring, practically with their tongues on the floor. ‘Good morning!’
The men mumbled some kind of garbled response.
Aileen squeezed Elsie’s arm. ‘Think we’re a bit of a novelty here.’
‘A distraction from the destruction,’ Elsie agreed.
They started down the Strada Reale towards the Westminster Hotel, where they were to take their meals—it was not felt proper that the two new women should eat in the all-male headquarters’ mess—and all around them was evidence of the pounding that the island had taken from German and Italian aircraft; there were gaps—some still smouldering—where houses had once stood and giant pieces of sandstone rubble had been heaped in piles along the street, the remnants of homes and businesses. It was a sorry state, but one which Elsie had grown accustomed to seeing. It was no better or worse than London or Coventry, she considered, as they side-stepped a child’s bicycle that had been twisted and buckled as to almost defy recognition.
Elsie nodded to a gaggle of sailors loitering, smoking and chatting on the street corner, receiving a wolf-whistle in reply.
‘Woof WAAF!’ one of them called.
Elsie thrust her head into the air, relishing the attention.
‘Might I remind you that you’re a married woman?’ Aileen whispered.
‘If you have to, yes.’
The two women laughed and continued through the streets until they reached the Westminster Hotel, an imposing mustard-coloured building with ornate balconies bedecked with bright pink bougainvillea flowers. They entered the cool lobby, filled with high-ranking men from each of the services. Elsie and Aileen instinctively straightened, hurriedly unthreaded their linked arms and saluted. At the reception desk, a young woman directed them to the restaurant, where a handsome, olive-skinned waiter in a white shirt and black trousers greeted them in excellent English.
‘Yes, we have been expecting you,’ he said with a smile. ‘Please, follow me.’
He led them through a restaurant, mainly occupied, it seemed, by British and American military personnel of varying ranks. ‘Is this table satisfactory?’ he asked.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ Aileen answered.
The table was situated beside a large bay window, which overlooked the Grand Harbour. All around them were the densely built, honey-coloured buildings and forts, scarred from centuries of conflict in the Mediterranean.
‘What can I get you ladies?’ the waiter asked.
‘What would you recommend?’ Elsie replied.
‘Something local?’ he suggested.
‘I would love to try something local,’ she answered with a wide smile.
‘Maybe a sweet tea and a pastizzi? It’s a pastry with cheese?’
‘Well, that would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘The same for me,’ Aileen said.
The waiter smiled and headed off to the kitchen.
Aileen looked out of the window. ‘Look at it. Palm trees. Blue seas. Golden sands. Sixty degrees in January. You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of a ruddy war, would you?’
‘No,’ Elsie muttered, not really listening. She inhaled pensively, realising that her mind was wandering off, thinking about their stay on the beleaguered island. They had flown in yesterday by seaplane to assist with the island’s Y-Service. Without telling him the reason for the request, Flight Lieutenant Budge had been asked for the names of his two best operators. Aileen and Elsie had been put forward for an interview at Air Ministry in London and, despite some grave reservations regarding the wisdom of sending two women to a place of such prolific danger, they had received approval from above.
‘You were quite flirtatious with him just then,’ Aileen said.
‘Was I?’
Aileen shrugged. ‘Well, considering you’re wearing a wedding ring, yes.’
‘Perhaps I’m turning into Violet—not giving a damn about anything.’ Elsie raised her left hand and studied the ring. She wished she could take the damned thing off. It was a physical part of her that linked her unhappy past with a certain unhappy future when the war ended and Laurie returned. It was odd, but she no longer felt married to him. It had been more than two years since she had seen him; the two years of separation felt like double that. She eased the ring up to her knuckle but couldn’t quite bring herself to take it off.
‘Here you are, ladies,’ the waiter said, returning with a tray containing two plates and two cups. He set them out in front of the women. ‘Enjoy,’ he said, then headed off to another table.
‘Wow, that is sweet,’ Elsie commented, taking a sip of the tea. She picked up the pastizzi—an oval of pastry with pinched ends—and took a bite. ‘Nice.’
Aileen held her pastizzi up to her mouth and went to take a bite, but paused. ‘Tell me, Elsie, do you think you made the right decision?’
Elsie arched an eyebrow and smiled. ‘God, I’ve made so many decisions—good and bad—which one are you referring to?’
‘About the baby. Don’t answer if you don’t feel—’
‘-No, it’s fine. We’ve never really spoken about it, have we?’ Elsie took another sip of drink. ‘Some days I’m completely certain that it was the right decision—those are usually the days that I get some reminder or other of my old life. Of Laurie, of my old house
