He ought to have visited the Pembroke Barracks before now and he would have if he had not been in such a state of high anxiety. Normally, the calmest of men and as he had discovered in the last few months, positively icy in the direst and most pressured of combat, life and death situations, every time he thought of Maya and the two toddlers, Yelda and Yannis, that she and her younger sister had rescued from her Anatolian village ahead of the Red Dawn horde, the knees of the man of steel who commanded the Royal Navy’s most efficient killing machine threatened to turn to jelly.
Simon Collingwood had never really understood how otherwise perfectly rational, sensible men so frequently made complete asses of themselves over a woman. He had seen it happen countless times, shaken his head with despair, pitied the poor dope who had let himself be wrapped around some girl’s little finger. It was only now, six weeks into his thirty-ninth year that Simon Horatio Collingwood, that noted confirmed bachelor and misogynistic curmudgeon when it came to allowing feminine distractions to interfere with his naval career, belatedly understood the profound error of his former ways.
He told himself that it was probably just a stupid infatuation but it was no use. He felt what he felt and he was in turmoil. One way or another he had to resolve his churning emotions before he flew back to England. He might never see Maya, or Yelda or Yannis again and he knew that if he flew away without ‘sorting things out’ he would never forgive himself. He would always wonder if he had done the right thing; or stupidly thrown away the one God-given chance that would ever be presented to him to embrace a partner for life in whatever awaited humankind in this strange, half-demented post-cataclysm World.
At the Pembroke Barracks the duty sergeant at the Guard Office saluted crisply and clattered to attention. He could not get rid of the fierce-looking Navy Captain who had turned up unannounced quickly enough. The camp Adjutant felt pretty much the same way. Escorting his visitor deeper into the establishment past rows of huts erected between ancient limestone fortifications, the sound of hammering grew louder.
“Some chaps from one of the destroyers in the hands of the Admiralty Dockyard at Senglea were detailed to come up here and, well, improve the condition of the accommodation for the displaced persons who are being sent to us,” the Adjutant explained.
It transpired that the ‘chaps’ in question were wearing caps with the badge ‘Talavera’ on the brim and were being supervised by a four square red-headed and bearded bruiser of a Petty Officer.
“Petty Officer Griffin, sir!” The man reported. “HMS Talavera, sir! The MDF requested the loan of carpenters and electricians and suchlike, sir!”
“The Malta Defence Force?” Simon Collingwood queried, not unpleasantly or intending in any way to attempt to intimidate the man in front of him.
“Oh, that would be me!” Declared a flustered, girlish voice from behind his right shoulder.
HMS Dreadnought’s commanding officer turned around. A slight, very attractive young woman in her twenties with long, nut brown hair and wide almond eyes returned his stare. She was wearing a pale blue nursing smock and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.
“My boss, Surgeon Commander Seiffert,” she explained ‘was not happy about the new huts. So she asked me to ‘do something about it’.”
“Oh, and you would be?”
“Marija Calleja,” the woman replied, less flustered than before as she stuck out her right hand and perfunctorily shook Simon Collingwood’s larger, much paler hand.
“Collingwood,” he responded, knowing the woman’s name rang all manner of bells, yet utterly unable to immediately recollect why. “Dreadnought,” he added. “I promised the refugees we picked up in the Eastern Mediterranean that I’d personally inspect their quarters and ascertain their wellbeing and so forth when they left my care. I also promised I’d look into any grievances or complaints on their behalf arising from the same.” He grimaced, realising that he had inadvertently made the bald statement sound like a threat. “And here I am. It will be one of my last duties as Captain of HMS Dreadnought, I return to England in a day or so.”
“Captain Collingwood!” Marija cried, her face suddenly lighting up with delight. She turned to the rough hewn Petty Officer who was starting to look nervous — if Marija had not detected the implied threat in the four-ringer’s introduction, Jack Griffin had — and playfully cuffed his teak-like left arm. “This is Captain Collingwood, Jack!”
Jack Griffin rolled his eyes, momentarily forgetting that what he really wanted to do was dig a hole in the ground and jump into it.
“Peter,” Marija explained happily, proudly, “my intended, sent Jack and his boys over here as soon as he heard Margo, sorry, that’s Surgeon Commander Seiffert, was angry about the state of things here.”
Suddenly, Simon Collingwood’s feet touched terra firma anew.
He realised he was confronted by ‘the Marija Calleja’ the fiancée of ‘the famous son of the famous Fighting Admiral’. Wasn’t the wedding tomorrow?
“The wedding is tomorrow?” He asked like an idiot.
Marija did not notice.
“Margo sent me here because I was being very ‘irritating’,” she confessed. “She said I would be happier if I was ‘fully occupied’. So she sent me here to ‘irritate’ somebody else.” Marija’s thoughts were moving at hundreds of miles per hour and had been for days. Tonight she had to go home and endure her Mama’s prattling and panic, and her Papa’s well-meaning attempts to convince her that everything was going to be ‘just fine’ tomorrow. “Jack,” she decided. “Send somebody to find Maya and the children.” When the red-headed and bearded Petty Officer hesitated she added: “Chop! Chop!”
Jack Griffin shrugged, saluted and backed away. It wasn’t entirely clear whether he had saluted the stern-eyed four ring post captain or Marija Calleja. Not that there was ever any doubt about who was actually in charge.
“Do you know a Miss Maya Hayek?” Simon Collingwood inquired tentatively.
“Yes,” Marija nodded. “I was on duty when the people from your submarine arrived. Maya is sort of the leader of the women, so I see her every day I am here.”
“On duty?”
“You are speaking to Nursing Auxilliary First Class Calleja, of the MDF Medical Directorate,” she proclaimed, laughing. “Well, actually, I’m still only a volunteer. I usually work at the St Catherine’s Hospital for Women in Mdina. You know, in the Citadel close to St Paul’s Cathedral.” Now that Marija had got into full flow there was no stopping her. “Maya, and the others, of course, say that you and your men were incredibly brave and that you saved them all from being murdered, or worse?”
The man flushed with embarrassment, momentarily tongue-tied.
Yelda and Yannis arrived first.
“Yelda’s name means Summer Rose,” the man muttered in disarray as the toddlers gleefully clung to his legs.
“Captain! Captain!” The youngsters cried happily.
And then Maya was standing in front of the helpless warrior.
Marija giggled, she could not stop herself.
It seemed that the heroic Captain Collingwood was at her new sister’s mercy.