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She nodded, a dreaminess in her expression. ‘I want to do something like that.’

‘Then make it come true. It’s up to you.’

‘Stop putting ideas into the girl’s head,’ Maria said, her tone stern, as she bustled back in. ‘You don’t understand life here. It’s not like London. Talking like this… it won’t end well.’

Peter looked down, chastised, torn between wanting to encourage this girl and acknowledging the realities of her world. ‘I’ll come to your father’s bar, Valentina.’

‘Thank you. We’re open three days a week.’

‘I promise I’ll be there as soon as I’m able.’

She beamed an achingly sweet smile, and then surprised him by blowing him a kiss before fleeing his room.

FIVE

Valentina balanced two more glasses on her almost-full tray and took them to the sink to be washed and dried. Emman Falzon was leaning against the bar talking to her father – talking about her, she realised with horror. She could tell from the way he kept glancing in her direction.

She moved back to the bar to deliver clean glasses to the space near her father.

‘The rations are so poor that Stella is now having to ensure our children eat at the Victory Kitchen,’ he was saying, shaking his head. ‘What has our life come to?’

Using the Victory Kitchen was not as dramatic as her father was making it out to be; Valentina figured he was mentioning it to reinforce to Falzon that their families needed to formally unite. Her father’s bar was in a prime position on Kingsway, although the street was now mostly rubble, and she knew Falzon coveted it, but at the same time, he probably didn’t want his son marrying into a family that needed charity. The Camilleris were no worse off than anyone else, she knew. The Kitchen was there simply to handle the rationing of food fairly, and to make the best use of everything Valletta had available.

‘It’s about stopping wastage,’ she’d overheard a government employee explaining to a friend. ‘I know it feels controlling but it’s going to help prevent shortages occurring.’

‘We’re already short of everything,’ his companion observed.

‘Well, further shortages!’ the man had added.

‘Leni!’ It was her mother calling.

‘Yes?’ Valentina said, stepping into the tiny room behind the bar.

‘We must go and get some food. Grab those two pots, will you?’

‘I’m helping Papa.’ She wanted to keep listening to the conversation if it was about her future, not run errands with her mother.

‘He’s hardly rushed off his feet, and I could use the help. Come with me, please.’

Valentina hated queuing at the Victory Kitchen, even though she knew why they did it. But it reinforced just how far their quality of life had sunk because of the war. She knew everyone was in a similar situation, but that didn’t help. Recently things were beginning to feel worse.

A few minutes later she was standing with her mother, holding the tickets that they would exchange for food. All the local mothers queued, holding their pots and pans.

‘Apparently it’s stew today,’ her mother huffed. ‘Stew! I’d like to meet anyone who snares a piece of meat.’

The women around them agreed and joined in with the complaining.

‘They give us just enough to keep our hearts beating,’ someone said with disgust.

Valentina looked down at her feet, not wishing to engage. She was fairly certain her family did better than a lot of others, given the Falzons had access to black-market goods; that meant her father did too, at least to an extent. From what she could tell, anything from necessary goods to rare treats could be acquired via illegal trading. She was grateful, regardless of the means by which they were obtained, but she admired her mother, who, every few weeks, risked the bombings and found a way to get out into the country and secure some root vegetables, especially potatoes, and turn them into bread.

She tuned back in to the women’s conversation.

‘I heard through my sister-in-law, who works for the Communal Feeding Department, that unless something changes, we’re weeks away from the country starving.’

‘Hush. Don’t say such things.’ Her mother looked around as though worried who might hear.

‘I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.’