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‘But if I play football, then I couldn’t be a curator.’

‘Danjel, I shouldn’t put ideas into your head. You’ve got that from listening to me talk about my lost dreams. You be whatever you want to be.’

‘But I am interested in art.’

‘And I’m pleased to hear it. But you have years of schooling ahead, so let’s not make decisions now. You can pursue any line of work that excites you.’

‘My father tells me I’ll be working in the bar and should be grateful for that. But he would be happy if I became a professional football player.’

Pain rippled through her. She hated that Lawrenz spoke to his son so carelessly, but what could she do? No amount of gentle discussion could persuade Lawrenz that his son needed encouragement and even some praise at times. Constant criticism would create an insecure adult, but he obviously couldn’t see that; she’d begun to realise he had experienced the same from his father and was simply following what he knew. It wouldn’t be the only thing he followed; when she and the Falzon boys were young, Robertu had told her that his father, Emman Falzon, beat his wife in front of Lawrenz, though no one else knew about it. He’d sworn her to secrecy. And here she was allowing history to repeat itself by keeping the ugly secret of being a battered wife.

She wouldn’t be the only one, she was sure, but something within her felt ready to snap. It felt impossible, and yet she wanted to be the wife who stood up to her husband and refused to be cowed, refused to be owned, refused to be treated like her thoughts and dreams, her desires and passion – all her needs – were not important. Her father had never treated her mother like this, so why should she keep silent while her husband treated her this way? And yet she had. For years of suffering.

No more! she thought, glancing at her son. She had him to think of too. I shall not be a meek wife any longer.

She had noticed Danjel had begun to refer to Lawrenz as ‘my father’ rather than Papa. It felt remote, distant. That someone so young possessed the awareness to make such a distinction – consciously or absently – suggested a maturity beyond his ten years. But it also reflected what she already knew and perhaps now their young son was sensing, which was that Lawrenz was going through one of his cycles again.

She didn’t know how best to describe it, but some visitors had come into the bar not too long ago while Lawrenz was away, as he often was these days. A physician – the grandfather of a young English soldier who’d lost his life on the island – and his wife had come to Malta to walk the streets their grandson might have walked while stationed here. Valentina had fallen into conversation with the couple about lots of topics, including one close to her heart, when she’d learned he was a retired physician.

‘… and this cousin of yours has mood swings, you say?’ the doctor said.

‘Yes, I don’t know how else to describe it. He, er… he says I’m stealing from the bar takings here, or that I’m being unfaithful in my marriage and, worst of all, he has claimed that my son is not ours… er, I mean, my husband’s.’ She blinked at her slip.

The wife had caught her eye, and there was immediate understanding and empathy. Her husband, if he noticed, didn’t show it.

‘Mmm, so he could be displaying paranoia.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know this word,’ Valentina explained with an embarrassed smile. Her English was good but not comprehensive.

‘Ah, sorry. Paranoia is a recognised condition in the area of psychiatry… er, the study of the mind.’ He looked up to check she understood. ‘It’s when a person has irrational thoughts, especially about others, as in this case of your… cousin,’ he said carefully. He knew too, Valentina realised. ‘People like this can be incredibly suspicious of others, accusing them of all sorts of conspiracies against them based on wholly unfounded beliefs.’

The wife leaned in. ‘My husband is choosing his words carefully as always, but I think he’s saying that your “cousin” is having delusional thoughts.’

Valentina nodded. That sounded right. ‘It can be frightening,’ she said.

‘Has he become violent?’ the doctor asked.

She nodded, deeply ashamed, but relieved to finally tell someone. ‘He is drinking more and more alcohol. That makes it worse.’

‘It certainly would. He needs medical help, some sort of intervention. But the drinking has to stop first, so the doctors might help alleviate the unevenness of his mood.’

‘He owns a bar,’ Valentina said, waving a hand around. ‘He couldn’t be in a worse setting. Alcohol is his life.’

‘Are you frightened of him?’

If only they knew about the bruises. ‘Only for our son.’

‘Then he must be protected.’

‘Why does this happen?’ Valentina asked, almost pleading with them. ‘His brother shows none of these tendencies. My husband…’ – there, she’d admitted it aloud. ‘He can be normal, but then he just seems to dip into this mood of distrust and accusations, none of which have any truth.’

The doctor nodded, giving a sigh. ‘We don’t yet understand enough about this condition, but it is likely linked to melancholia – we call it depression. It could be manic depression, or schizophrenia. They say this is the age of anxiety, and who could blame us? We’ve come through years and years of world war. Did your husband participate as part of the military? That could explain some things.’

She blinked. Now they were talking openly about Lawrenz. There was no point hiding anything now. ‘Er no, he was still a teenager, but appointed to home defence.’

‘There was a lot of bombing of this island. Perhaps he saw things at a young age that no one should.’

‘I’ve known him since childhood and his brother told me he witnessed his father hitting his mother. And to be honest, he has always been this way. Very unpredictable in his moods.’