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‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘And I don’t wish to leave Malta, but these are my orders. Wartime orders. I can’t disobey them.’
‘When will I see you again?’
He took a moment to decide how best to answer. ‘I don’t know’ seemed the most honest but direct response.
‘But they will send you back here?’
‘Well, it all depends on how long they need me in London.’
‘Promise me you’ll come back.’
There was so much pleading in her expression, and he simply couldn’t hurt her any more than he already had. ‘I promise,’ he said, not knowing if he was lying and when he might ever return. ‘Listen, I have something to give you.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘It’s a book about Caravaggio, one that’s precious to me.’ He held out the small book. ‘And for that reason and because you are now a Caravaggio convert, I’d like you to have it.’
She took it from his hand and flipped gently through the pages. She paused at the opening where he’d scrawled his name, her finger tracing it. He could see her chin beginning to tremble.
An air-raid siren began its slow moan. It was the first time in his life he’d ever been grateful to hear one.
‘Ah… and there I was thinking how fortunate we were to have a raid-free day. Come on, let’s get you to the tunnels.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘I think I’m going to stay here with Caravaggio.’
‘Valentina, please, come on.’
She shook her head, and again he had the thought that she was in fact a much older woman with the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. ‘Just go. You have to leave anyway, you said.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll be fine. They never bomb the cathedral, and even if they did, I’d rather die here looking at something this meaningful to me than cowering in a dark tunnel. And I told you, I’d be happy to give my life to Caravaggio. Maybe I shall.’
‘Good heavens,’ he said in wonder.
She shrugged. ‘Thank you for giving me this,’ she said, pointing towards the enormous artwork. ‘May our hearts always be linked through our love of art.’
He blinked again in astonishment as the air-raid siren cranked up to full scream. ‘I have to report back.’
‘Goodbye, Peter,’ she said. ‘I hope we meet again.’
He had no choice but to leave, moving out of the cathedral as fast as his limp would let him. He signalled to a horse and cart that looked like it was headed into the city, then jumped on the back at the man’s nod. With a jerk of the reins, the pony was off and Peter, facing the cathedral, watched it disappear from sight as he was taken down the hill and away from Valentina.
In his mind, relief warred with sadness. He couldn’t imagine what life had in store for either of them.
PART 2
ELEVEN
LATE MARCH 1954
Bath, England
Peter Fox stood from his desk with a tired sigh and stretched, turning to the tall Georgian window with its fifteen small panes, where he looked past the tendrils of ivy that had grown vigorously over the entire frontage of the house, framing the window, into the garden. The garden wasn’t large, but it had been formally planted for a neat, almost Italianate appearance, complete with a small fountain, very much at odds with the wandering ivy.
The contrast seemed to sum up his marriage.
Delia was in the garden right now, busily clipping away with her secateurs clutched in white-gloved hands. He knew she’d like to tear down the ivy on their austere yet tranquil Georgian terrace home, but he refused to permit it. That ivy had been crawling over the house since his earliest memories. He used to imagine shrinking and hiding within the ivy. Maybe that was the mindset of an only child; lacking siblings, he’d made up for it with grand imagination.
Even now Delia often accused him of being lost in his thoughts. She accused him of lots of things, if he was honest: being distant, silent, bookish… and he knew it was on the tip of her tongue to add boring. Was he? He never used to be, but perhaps he was thinking of when he’d been a daredevil Spitfire pilot. Back then he’d been a gregarious member of the squad, one of the lads, often merry with liquor or singing along boisterously to the chorus of a favourite song. He could remember when he’d liked dancing too, moving to the music with a woman in his arms.
