The fishermen were keen to know when the Italian bombers would return. It was not a question Max could answer, or, for that matter, one that he properly understood, until it was explained to him that the Italians, unlike their fearless German allies, were inclined to jettison their bombs short of the island and turn tail at the first sign of resistance. When this occurred, a fisherman was no longer obliged to wring his living from the depths; he could pluck it willynilly from the surface. It was an impressive sight, apparently, the surface of the sea carpeted white with the bellies of stunned fish.
On his third day there, Max struck out south along the coastal path. It was a bright, windless morning, unnaturally still, and a millpond sea licked lazily at the base of the cliffs. A strange feeling crept over him as he walked, a sense of timelessness. Whose footsteps was he treading in? How many others had negotiated the same twisting path over the aeons? The same path, but different men, each carrying his own hopes, dreams, and regrets.
Malta’s history was rich, romantic, and violent. How could it be anything else? The island stood at the crossroads of the Mediterranean, closer to Europe than Africa, though not by much. It also happened to possess one of the finest natural harbors in the world. No wonder that so many seafaring peoples had sought to make it their own. The Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, and Byzantines had all held sway over the island, only to be displaced. The Fatimid Arabs had gone the way of the others, although their language still lived on in the speech of the modern-day islanders. Since that time, Norman knights, Spanish grandees, and Napoleonic generals had all made their home here. How different was he, a commissioned officer of His Majesty’s Army?
He tried to shrug off this fanciful notion, but it trailed him like his shadow. It was oddly comforting, the sense of connection coupled with the cyclical futility of it all. For a brief moment he could have died and it wouldn’t have mattered to him one jot.
Set against this, his troubled saga with Eleanor took on a new complexion. He found himself feeling happy for her. She had no more wanted their marriage than he had. At least she had found the courage to do something about it. He sat on a rock, pulled the letter from his pocket, and read it again. This time he was proud of her, and he found himself hoping that they could remain friends. That’s what they had always been—good friends, ever since they were young and he had played Joseph to her Mary in the church nativity play. That was long before they both began to sense that others expected something more of them. Well, his stepmother, to be more precise.
He was back at the Riviera in time for lunch, and he entered the dining room in high spirits. They soared higher still when he spotted Mitzi at a corner table. She was alone, although as he approached, he noticed that the chair across from her had recently been vacated, if the full glass of wine and the cigarette smouldering away in the ashtray were anything to go by.
“Lionel back from patrol?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Mitzi replied sweetly, before tilting her head to peer past him. “Drusilla, look who’s here.”
Max turned to see Drusilla Gleeson bearing down on him. Secretary to the Naval Wives Association, she was a formidable creature known for wearing her husband’s stripes. There was something of the overgrown Girl Guide about her, but she was redeemed by a certain gruff charm.
“Well, Major Chadwick. You look hot.”
“I’ve been walking.”
“Mad dogs and Englishmen, eh? We come here to walk—don’t we, Mitzi?—but only at first light or last.”
“I thought you had gone to Gozo,” said Mitzi.
Max knew this to be a bald-faced lie, and while he struggled to make sense of it, he played along. “Someone persuaded me to give the Riviera a go.”
“First time here?” snapped Drusilla. “Won’t be your last.”
“I’ve had a good time.”
“Needed to, from what I hear. Fiancée slipped her moorings, eh?”
“Drusilla, a touch more tact wouldn’t go amiss,” Mitzi replied.
“No doubt, my dear, no doubt.”
“Well, I won’t keep you from your meal,” said Max.
And he didn’t. He ate lunch alone at his allotted table, then headed for the beach. He tried to lose himself in his book—Wet and Windy, a light romp by John Glyder—but his thoughts kept turning to Mitzi and her unexpected arrival and the lie she had laid on him in front of Drusilla. He was dozing facedown on his towel when she joined him, the citrus smell of her perfume invading his half dream, alerting him to her presence. By the time his filmy eyes had focused, she was settled on her towel beside him.
She was wearing dark glasses and a safari-print swimsuit with slender shoulder straps.
“Drusilla’s sleeping.”
“I’m happy for her.”
“She can be a bit heavy-handed at times, but her heart’s in the right place.”
He felt her eyes straying over his body.
“You look well … if a little undernourished.”
“Can’t think why,” he replied.
“We’re all wasting away. I’ve had to take this in twice since I’ve been here.” She tugged at the material of her swimsuit. “For the first time in my life I’m actually happy with the size of my derrière.”
They were lying on their sides, facing each other across a respectable strip of sand. “I can’t see it from here,” said Max, “but I’m sure it’s a very fine derrière.”
A small smile played about the corners of her mouth, then she slowly turned to get her cigarettes from the straw bag on the sand behind her, twisting on her towel as she did so. It was done for his benefit.
“My God, you’re right to be happy,” said Max, more breathlessly than he would have liked. Like the rest of her, it was as close to perfection as anything he’d ever set eyes on.
She lit a cigarette, then tossed him the packet and the lighter. Thanks to Freddie, their mutual friend, he had got to know her well over the previous six months, well enough to come straight out with it.
“Why are you here, Mitzi?”
Exhaling, she replied, “I’ll give you a clue—not to go walking with Drusilla.”
He hoped she didn’t notice the tremor in his hand as he raised the lighter to his cigarette.
“Your hand’s trembling.”
“It does that when I’m nervous.”
“If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one who’s out of their depth. I shouldn’t be here. This is not me, not what I do.” She lowered her eyes, tapping some ash onto the sand. “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.”
“I’m not embarrassed. Shocked, yes. And flattered. And trying very hard not to crawl across the sand and kiss you.”
“That would be a deviation from my plan.”
“You have a plan?”
“Everyone knows you have to have a plan.”
“When it comes to matters military, I’m not the real McCoy, I’m afraid.”
“So I’ve heard.” She stared off into the bay. “You’re hairier than I imagined.”
“I’m pleased to say you aren’t.”
Mitzi laughed. “You’ve always made me laugh. Maybe that’s why I’m here.”
“Not the rugged good looks?”
“Oh, those too. Eleanor’s a damned fool.”
“I’m not so sure anymore.”
He told her about his little epiphany on the cliff top, and for the first time he shared with her the truth about the relationship, not the finished picture he had presented to her in the past—touched up, varnished, and framed—but the raw canvas.
Mitzi listened attentively, her eyes never leaving his. When he was done, she remained silent for a moment.
“I know all about the expectations of others, and I’m not just saying that.”
She had been promised to Lionel pretty much at birth, she explained, a union intended to seal the bond between two navy families who had lived in the same village near Portsmouth for several generations. It was a good life, too good to question when young, impossible to question when a little wiser. She had never held Lionel responsible for his attitude toward her, although neither had she enjoyed the sense of entitlement instilled in him from an early age. It had colored their relationship. She had passed through life never knowing what it was like to be courted by a man, because the only man who had ever been allowed to have eyes for her happened to have believed she was already his by right.