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‘What sort of a man is he going to grow up into, clinging to your apron strings?’ Lawrenz said in a mocking tone.

‘He’s ten years old,’ she said with no frustration, even though her body was shaking with it. ‘He’s too young to leave alone.’

‘I could run my father’s bar at his age. He’s a mummy’s boy.’

She felt the rage rise again. ‘Well, we’ll both be there to wave you off.’ And before she said anything else, or allowed herself to spit in his face, which is what she felt like doing, Valentina walked out of the kitchen, calling, ‘I’m going to see if I can find some fresh vegetables.’ She needed to get away.

She heard his sarcastic grumblings behind her but blocked them out. Just another few hours and he’d be gone.

At the harbour, the ferry blasted its horn to sound its departure. She could see Lawrenz scowling from the top deck and watched him carelessly flick his finished cigarette over the railing, then retrieve a hip flask and take a sip.

Just before he’d turned to board, he said he’d be away for up to a month. She’d nodded, showing no joy, but nor did she pretend any disappointment.

Now, she relished the news. A whole month without his presence, his moods, his violence. Without worrying that Danjel would be affected. Did that make her a bad wife? She didn’t think so. She had tried her best in the marriage. No one could ever accuse her of not making the best of her situation. She had endured his rudeness, had cooked, cleaned and waited on him, staying polite and dutiful even as he screamed at her, for what else could she do? Valentina was no longer a dreamer as she’d been in her youth, imagining another life for herself with Peter Fox, the Spitfire pilot, or some other knight who might take her away. Years ago, soon after she and Lawrenz had married, she’d made a decision that she could either face up to this life her parents had chosen for her, or she could end it by killing herself. There was no middle ground, no going home to her family to complain about her new husband. It would only make it worse for her to draw attention to his shortcomings.

In that moment of despair, she’d told herself that she needed to find a way to survive… and perhaps even thrive within this marriage. That had felt brave in the moment, but her attempts to defy her husband had cost her too many cracked ribs and bruises. She’d soon realised that Lawrenz could barely hear her when he was in a mood to hurt her. Once Danjel arrived, in order to spare her child the same treatment, she had gone against all her instincts and simply acquiesced to whatever her husband demanded.

But now she’d have a month to do whatever she pleased. Valentina banished thoughts of her husband as she raised her hand in farewell. ‘Wave to him, Danjel. He’s watching us.’

Her son lifted his arm obediently but murmured to her, ‘I hate him so much.’

This open expression of feeling was new. It seemed he could no longer contain his despair.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, and felt happy for the first time in an age. A month of no Lawrenz. A month of bliss. Maybe a change too?

Nothing could make her happier.

SEVENTEEN

It was already late April. There wasn’t much time before the royal visit, but Peter reminded himself that he had no formal duties to attend to, no actual role; he was merely a bystander, ready to leap in should he be needed. All he had to do was make himself known to the cathedral team and find an opportunity to suggest the Queen see the Caravaggio, although he suspected that the Courtauld Institute might already have set those wheels in motion via his superior.

Peter had been given a room at one of the auberges in the city, and had spent his first two days back in Valletta trying to take in the scale of the devastation that had been wreaked upon the formerly glorious city. So many of the small inns had been badly damaged while he was still flying his Spitfires for the RAF, but more had been obliterated by the sustained raids and bombings after his departure.

Some buildings, he noted, had been singled out for special attention by the Luftwaffe. The once majestic Opera House – the Teatru Rjal, designed by Edward Middleton Barry – had suffered its fair share of trauma since it had opened in the mid-nineteenth century, including a fire that had caused significant damage in 1873, but just four years later it had been restored and reopened. But the building had become the focus of intense aerial bombing and was now mostly rubble. He stood, slack-jawed and despairing to see nothing more than a few columns and patches of its perimeter walls still standing.

Why had it been targeted?

He presumed the Luftwaffe had given it such attention for psychological torment of the city’s people. To destroy something the Maltese admired and felt proud of was a way of attacking the very fibre of the people. No doubt there were plans to rebuild, but as Peter stood there staring at the devastation, he felt the sadness of losing something special that could never be recreated. The original builders, stonemasons and craftsmen were gone, and while the new generation had done a sterling job so far, the building’s nostalgic atmosphere could never be achieved again in the modern era. For that he felt a sorrow.

What was heartening, however, was how fast the city was recovering. It was a dozen years since he’d left, and ten since the war had ended for this city. He’d been told that the last time the air-raid siren had sounded was in August 1944.

In that time the city had healed and repaired itself to a great extent. Enough to make his heart swell, to feel proud of its people for their resilience. Children now dribbled footballs in the side streets, people sat outside drinking coffee, and women walked with their eyes cast skywards, soaking up the sun rather than scanning for fighter planes. Men in short-sleeved shirts and women in pretty dresses moved into and out of the marvellously old, ornate city gates whose history dated back through various designs all the way to the mid-1500s, when it had been little more than a passage hewn through the rock face, Peter knew from his studies.

He thought about Caravaggio arriving in Valletta in the early 1600s, though he’d come via a ship belonging to the Order of St John and would not have passed beneath the arches of the Porta Reale, called Kingsgate by the English.

Thinking about the artist reminded Peter why he was here. He now strolled towards the cathedral, which he’d so far avoided, wanting to savour the moment when he stepped back into its cool, dark embrace. Hoping for a few more moments of anticipation before going in for his meeting, he found a café nearby and sat down outside to order a cool drink.

A waitress arrived. Even that was different. A dozen years ago only a man would have waited on him.

‘Good afternoon, welcome to Malta, sir, what can I get you?’ she said in lightly accented English.

‘Good afternoon. Is it that obvious I’m a foreigner?’

She laughed. ‘Your blond hair, your height, your clothes…’ she said playfully.

He grinned. ‘I was a pilot stationed here during the war.’

‘Welcome back.’