Chapter 30
Although the Verdala Palace had been the official residence of British Governors of the Maltese Archipelago for over a century, Admiral Sir Julian Christopher had until the last few days, eschewed its comforts and grandeur for humbler lodgings in Mdina and Valletta. His working day — in fact every day since his arrival on the islands — began before dawn and rarely concluded until well after midnight. Basically, he had had no time to spare to savour, let alone enjoy, the splendours of the magnificent castle — for that was what the Verdala Palace was — situated on the high ground overlooking the village of Dingli on the rugged western coast of the main island.
It was remarkable that such a tempting and vulnerable target had not been attacked by the Italian Regia Aeronautica fighter bombers ranging across the Maltese Archipelago that fateful evening in early December last year. Standing proudly undefended on a hilltop it must have presented an irresistible temptation to the attackers and yet, it had remained unmolested, its ancient stones untouched and its tranquil gardens surviving as an unsuspected oasis of calm amidst the chaos and devastation being visited in and around Valletta.
The personal effects and belongs of the late Hugh Staveley-Pope, the Commander-in-Chief’s oldest friend in the Royal Navy and immediate predecessor, whom he had come to Malta to relieve from command, remained crated and stored in the cellars of the old palace.
When he mentioned this to Margaret Thatcher she blanched.
The conversation at dinner had been a little stilted, somewhat terse. It was a strange gathering; the Commander-in-Chief entertaining the Prime Minister, her companion Lady Patricia Harding-Grayson, the wife of the Foreign secretary, the ten year old Thatcher twins, Mark and Carol, both totally over-awed by the occasion, with Julian Christopher’s old friend, Captain Nicholas Davey, Captain ‘D’ of the 7th Destroyer Squadron making up the numbers and trying manfully to jolly things along.
In this endeavour the portly hero — one of many — of the desperate fight to save the grievously damaged American super-carrier the USS Enterprise, felt himself to be wading uphill through ankle-deep treacle. The Foreign Secretary’s wife was an intelligent and gracious woman, the Prime Minister’s brats were very polite but the two leading actors were oddly subdued. Nick Davey had expected the indomitable Angry Widow to dominate the affair; and Julian Christopher to turn on his deadly charm and perhaps, to trot out a string of his best anecdotes. Instead, the whole thing was a tad flat and there seemed to be nothing he or Lady Patricia could do about it.
“Forgive me Admiral Christopher,” the Prime Minister apologised, patting her lips with her napkin. “I’m not used to the warmth of the evening. If I might I shall step outside for a few minutes.”
The Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations pushed back his chair.
“Might I accompany you, Prime Minister?”
The Foreign Secretary’s wife and Nick Davey rose to their feet as Margaret Thatcher and the Fighting Admiral made their exit. They exchanged hopefully knowing looks.
Outside on the terrace, their privacy guaranteed in the inner walled garden below the broad, marble veranda, Margaret Thatcher and Julian Christopher stood a little apart. Neither spoke for perhaps a minute, each collecting their thoughts and unscrambling their wits. They had spent the late afternoon being filmed, cheered and enthusiastically acclaimed as they toured the bomb sites left by the devastating sneak attack on Malta three months ago. They had visited half-a-dozen cemeteries, bowed their heads in unison to honour the dead. As darkness fell they had stood on the Saluting Battery ramparts and gazed upon the might of the combined British and American naval expeditionary force assembling in the Grand Harbour. They had had no time to be alone, no opportunity to be private, and no opportunity to voice any of the intimate words that needed to be spoken.
“This place was built in 1586 by Grandmaster Hughues Loubenx de Verdelle. Hence the castle became the Verdala Palace,” Julian Christopher explained. “As with most buildings on these islands it was built on the foundations of an even older building. In this case a hunting lodge owned by a certain Jean Parisot de Valette, for his pains a previous Grandmaster of the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, Rhodes and of Malta.” He chuckled softly in the gloom. “I used to think being Commander-in-Chief of All British Forces and so forth was a bit of a mouthful until I came here.”
The woman said nothing.
“It is too dark to see it now,” the man continued, “but the Palace is pretty much surrounded by a boschetto, landscaped gardens by any other name. The gardens used to be more extensive in olden times. The Knights of Malta allegedly came over to this part of the island to do their hunting. The original 1586 Palace was improved upon and upgraded by at least two other Grandmasters. By the time Napoleon arrived on the scene and turned it into a prison the towers already had five floors and the layout of the inner ‘palace’ was, allegedly, more or less as it is today. Sir William Reid was the first Governor of Malta to take the place in hand and make it his summer residence. That was in 1858…”
Margaret Thatcher giggled…
Julian Christopher did not quite believe his ears.
“Do you remember when we were at Balmoral Castle?” She asked.
“Er, yes…”
“Just before the attack? You told me all about the history of that castle?”
“Yes, indeed.” He wasn’t about to forget it!
“I hope it isn’t an omen.”
“The RAF has assured me that it will shoot down anything that comes within a hundred miles of the archipelago this weekend, Margaret.”
“So much has happened since that day at Balmoral Castle,” she responded, searching for the right words. “It worries me sometimes when one is cheered and feted like you and I were this afternoon. It frightens me that so many people are depending upon us to make the World right again.”
Knowing that she did not really expect a reply the man held his peace.
Margaret Thatcher sighed.
“Before Ted Heath was assassinated in Washington you asked me if I would marry you, Julian?”
“Yes.”
“Is your proposal still on the table?”
“Yes.”
“If we were married; do you worry about what kind of marriage it would be?”
“No.”
She laughed uncomfortably and stepped down into the garden, following the marbled path by the light of the crescent Moon in the perfect inky black cloudless night sky. The man followed, touched her left elbow and took her hand in his. Still, they were separate, from long habit occupying their own personal spaces even in their semi-intimacy.
“Did you know that there is a man who calls himself the ‘King of London’?” She asked, both amused and a little vexed.
“The ‘King of London’?”
“His real name is Harold Strettle. Before the war he was a trades union official with ASLEF. That’s the Associated Society of Locomotive Engineers and Firemen. Nobody knows if he is really the ‘king’ of anything but he seems to represent a group of many hundreds, perhaps, many thousands of men and women who are living in the ruins of London.”
“Living in the ruins?” Julian Christopher could not hide his scepticism.
“Yes. We were all surprised. There were rumours about people who survived the October War in basements, and in the London Underground’s deeper tunnels but it is only recently that Royal Engineer survey teams reached Westminster, Lambeth and the docks in the East End, and encountered a relatively large number of people living in the ruins. The Home Secretary has sent emissaries into the city to make contact with ‘King Harold’, and others.”