The congregation waited with baited breath.
“I do,” she said clearly in English. In Maltese she added: “Iva!” Yes! There was a soft murmured of delight behind her.
Things got very confused after that.
However, the main thing was that Peter had been just as enthusiastic about the idea of marrying her as she was of marrying him.
The rings…
Fortunately, Lieutenant Miles Weiss, her beau’s second-in-command and best man, had been a model of grace under pressure and the rings had appeared without fuss, bother or mishap.
The kiss.
Marija had been terrified she would be hopelessly self-conscious about that; but in the event she was completely, unashamedly wanton. And then the newlyweds were on the steps of the Cathedral and the crowd was cheering. There was confetti, she was afraid she was going to trip over her dress. Her Mama had been careful to tailor it so it never fell below her ankles because if the hem had been any lower she would have constantly been falling on her face and that would hardly have made a very good impression on the day…
Her Mama, her Papa, Joe, Margo, and Rosa hugged her, Admiral Christopher shook her hand politely, smiled and bowed his head; Mrs Thatcher had also shaken her hand and made a pleasant comment about her dress which Marija forgot the instant she stepped along the line. There was to be a reception at the Pembroke Hall, a deliberately less formal, family sort of affair where people did not have to dress in their starchy best outfits and to which the politicians were uninvited.
Family and friends only!
The Pembroke Hall had been built by Australian soldiers serving on Malta in the Great War. It was a long way from the dignified environs of the Citadel or Valletta, the traditional seats of power on the archipelago, a building renovated in recent years and the setting for film and stage shows, and dances most nights of most weeks predominantly put on for servicemen and women.
Afterwards, the newlyweds returned to Mdina.
Peter Christopher had not visited his new wife in her cell at the St Catherine’s Hospital for Women until that night. The second floor room was Spartan. An additional single iron bedstead had been pushed against Marija’s bed and a double mattress — more a lumpy palliasse — found. So many houses had been destroyed in the December bombing, and so many soldiers, sailors and airmen had arrived on the island in the months since, that accommodation on Malta was at a premium. Nonetheless, Admiral Christopher’s suggestion that the couple spend their wedding night at the Verdala Palace had been turned down instantly; Peter was adamantly opposed to claiming any special privileges on account of his father being the Commander-in-Chief, and Marija, who had been working herself up to decline the offer rather more diplomatically had planted a kiss on her soon to be husband’s cheek in proud approbation.
Margo Seiffert had said Peter could stay with Marija at the hospital until they ‘sorted themselves out’.
Marija leaned against the door and it closed with a click.
After the excitement and the terrors of the day the lovers were finally alone.
Spying a hook by the door the man hung his cap on it.
“You look like a fairy princess,” he observed, looking down into his wife’s almond eyes.
“I feel like Cinderella after she found her prince, husband,” she retorted, quirking a nervy smile.
The room was illuminated by a single bulb hanging on a chord from a grey Bakelite ceiling rose almost exactly above their heads. Strange shadows played on their faces as the light swung in the breeze filtering in through the open window.
“You didn’t tell me that you lived like a Nun?”
“I was a Nun until you came to Malta.”
He buried a kiss in her hair, greedily sucked in the musky scent of her.
“Are you tired?” Marija asked, her cheek resting against his chest.
“A little. And you?”
She shrugged against him, sighed deeply and eased herself away to move around him and stand in front of the bed. Awkwardly, with fingers and thumbs that were clumsy, disobedient she began to struggle with the buttons at the neck of her wedding gown. Her eyes lowered, as if in shame.
Glancing around the room the man dropped his jacket on the one, rickety chair beside a tiny scratched desk, and started to release the studs of his shirt. His brand new dress uniform — the old one had got scorched to ruination at the Battle of Cape Finisterre — was a close fit and at times he had found the pleasant warmth of the spring day oppressive. For a million reasons it was good to let the air get to his skin again.
“Let me help,” he decided, seeing Marija struggling and fast growing hugely embarrassed. A dozen small buttons clasped in tightly sewn, stiff button holes had completely defeated his wife. “Turn around, my love,” and he was behind her, easing the stubborn buttons free. An inch, then two, and another of Marija’s back appeared as he patiently worked his way down to her waist until presently, the sublime curve of her spine was bare for him to trace with his finger tips.
She shivered, giggled, and his hands retraced their tingling progress.
He eased away the mane of darkly nut brown hair and kissed the nape of her neck.
“That is so nice…”
He kissed again, and again.
She stepped away, half-turned, her wedding gown threatening to fall off her slender shoulders.
“If you had been sent away before this day,” she said, her eyes moist limpid pools, “I would not have let you go before a night like this.” She sniffed, shook her head. “Even though I was afraid of…”
It was too much; he had to hold her and to protect her from all ills.
The breeze was picking up in the darkness outside as it swept across the highest point of the island, the hemp drapes billowed and flapped like sails before settling, stilling anew.
“We’re both sensible people,” Peter Christopher reminded Marija. “And we love each other to bits, so,” he hesitated, “it seems to me that the thing to do is just take off our clothes and take it from there. I know that’s not the way things happen in fairy tales or romantic novels, but we’ve got the rest of our lives to make up for that. Okay?”
Marija nodded tight-lipped and slipped the gown off her shoulders.
The man discarded his uniform without looking to her.
Peter Christopher had not known what to expect; but he had steeled himself not to betray his real feelings whatever he actually saw. But that was impossible.
Marija stuck out her jaw defiantly and slowly pirouetted, once, twice to ensure that he saw everything.
Her abdomen and her left thigh looked like somebody had repeatedly hammered barbed wired into her naked flesh. The marks of the steel frames embedded, anchored though skin and muscle to lock her crushed and shattered leg and pelvis back together time and again as she grew and orthopaedic reconstructive techniques slowly improved, pitted her skin. She had described some of her torment in the letters, now at last he really understood what she had been through in order to become whole again and that the battle would never, ever be over.
“You poor, poor…”
Marija gave him a quizzical look, her discomfort and embarrassment morphing into curiosity as she studied her new husband’s naked body. He was tall, lean and athletic; whereas, she was crippled somewhat and always would be. She was disconcerted when the man dropped onto his knees. His hands stroked the outside of her thighs, his fingers roaming the livid pink of several scars and the faded tan of others.