Summer on a Sunny Island

When Dory finally wound down they stopped for morning coffee in the garden café, overseen by a flock of pigeons and a couple of curious cats, then wandered further into the city, almost entirely laid out in a grid. ‘Mum was once told the streets were “bisexual” rather than “bisectional”.’ Dory grinned. ‘Her face must have been a picture. Somewhere here there’s a place called Strait Street – it’s full of lovely bistros now but was the red-light district in the day.’

‘You seriously remember that?’ Rosa challenged, brushing back her hair, feeling sweaty and damp as the sunshine poured down on them. ‘You were a child!’

Dory laughed, stepping further back on the pavement to let a small horse-drawn carriage, a karozzin, clip-clop past, its domed roof well above the driver’s head, a couple of pink-looking tourists perched inside. ‘Of course I don’t remember it! I talk to Dad about Malta and there’s a lot of reminiscing on the Barracks Brats Facebook group. My own memories concern things like the old-fashioned school bus and the term when the bus drivers went on strike and we went to school in three-ton trucks with soldiers for bus orderlies. Summers when we went to school in the morning and swam at the lido in the afternoons. Leaving the camp to sneak off to out-of-bounds areas like the docks.’ She waved vaguely over her shoulder.

Rosa wasn’t sure whether she was indicating the past or an actual place behind them. It was weird seeing the present Malta through her own eyes and simultaneously, like a benevolent ghost floating along with them, Sixties Malta through her mother’s reminiscences. This café was where her parents used to take Dory and Lizzy for Fanta and a slush-like treat called granita. Several centuries ago, that enormous building was the lodging of the Knights of Castile and Lyon, now the offices of the prime minister, but important to Dory for being British Army Headquarters, where her father Lance McCoy’s military duties had taken him every day. ‘Sometimes we used to sit on those cannons to wait for Dad to finish work. They were as shiny and black as they are now. That archway opposite, with the steps up to it, that was the way to the NAAFI. If I’d walked that far without whinging Mum used to buy me a lollipop from a kiosk halfway up the steps.’

On one level, Rosa had always known perfectly well that Grandpa had been a career soldier, Grandma an army wife, her mum and aunt army kids, but now she began to really understand that for several years this hot, rocky island in the middle of the Mediterranean had been her mother’s home in the same way that the Yorkshire market town of Liggers Moor had been home to Rosa. Parade grounds had been where Dory had played rounders or ridden her bike; that turquoise sea had been where she’d learned to swim. Rosa felt that, till now, she’d let a vital part of her mother’s make-up wash over her.

As well as the sightseeing, Dory made sure she gave Rosa time to herself. In the cool peacefulness of her room Rosa created a playlist of Zumba videos on YouTube so she could play them on her iPad and dance. Something about the sensuous moves and throbbing rhythms brought her back to herself. It wasn’t the same as attending classes at the gym with the girls she danced with regularly – Emily, Brenna, Zoë and a dozen others – but in her room here she could do it naked and in bare feet.

On Saturday, Dory took Rosa to a dive shack and they bought snorkels, masks and fins, then hurried home to change. Across The Ramp and the seafront road were a small rocky beach and a swimming area. Rusty old cannons had been cemented upside down into the rock as moorings. A lady fished and teenagers shrieked as they swam and splashed. Beyond the swimming area there were boats. Blue harbour cruisers full of tourists beat past, the muffled commentary stealing across the water. Pleasure craft rocked peaceably at anchor and towering motor yachts were moored on the opposite shore, Manoel Island. Sailing dinghies, looking hardly big enough to sit in, skimmed the waves, their sailors parking their bums on the high side when the wind heeled them over.

On the beach, young women wore brief costumes, Rosa noticed, but none were topless. She laughed to watch the antics of a black pug dog in what looked like a life jacket rolling on people’s beach towels to dry off between dips, to the irritation of the towel owners.

Rosa breathed in the briny air, feeling a beaming smile take charge of her face. ‘Look how many shades of blue and green make up the colour of the sea. I can’t wait to try snorkelling.’ Although she was a strong swimmer, opportunities to snorkel had never come Rosa’s way, maybe because Marcus didn’t care for the sea so their few holidays had been more about hill walking or city breaks. She let Dory show her how to swill her mask with seawater to help with fogging then position it over eyes and nose, waiting until she was at the edge of the rocks before wrestling on her fins, which snapped over her feet like bizarre slippers and felt a size too small.

‘You’ll be fine once you’re in!’ Dory grinned, held her mask in place and took a giant stride straight into the sea, bobbing up after a moment with an exuberant ‘Whoo-hoo!’ before positioning the snorkel in her mouth.

When Rosa copied her she realised the ‘Whoo-hoo!’ was prompted by the rippling turquoise water being cold. It was also magical, once she’d made herself believe she could breathe through the snorkel and, safely protected by the mask, open her eyes in salty water.

Below her she discovered a place she’d only seen on David Attenborough TV programmes, an azure world of slow motion, where all you could hear was water in your ears and your own breathing, where fish nibbled unconcernedly at rocks studded with spiky black sea urchins. Sun filtered through the water to glint off fish scales, silver, grey-green or, her favourites, those like shimmering, swimming rainbows.

Dory led the way, pointing out crabs hunkered down beside rocky crevices they could scuttle into, the pink rubbery tentacles of sea anemones stirred slowly by the current that shrank into themselves when touched. There was even a patch of mottled grey that Dory spat out her snorkel to tell her was an octopus in its hole. The water flowed over Rosa’s body like a caress, pushing her to and fro, bobbing her around in the wake of passing boats.

When they finally clambered out via a metal ladder set into the rock to dry themselves they found Marci and Paige poking around in nearby rock pools.

‘Hey Rosa, hey Dory!’ Paige cried, running over. ‘In a minute we’re going to the café. Wanna come?’

‘If your mum doesn’t mind.’ Rosa smiled at Marci, shaking her head to get the water out of her ears before wrapping her towel around herself.

‘It would be great,’ Marci said and they packed up their things and clambered over the rocks to the café that stood nearby, claiming a table under a yellow parasol and ordering drinks and gelato.

‘Mm.’ Paige flicked her ponytail back to keep it clear of her strawberry ice cream. ‘I love Malta.’

‘Me, too,’ chorused Dory and Marci promptly.

Rosa was barely a beat behind when she said, ‘It’s growing on me.’ She was rewarded by a delighted grin from her mum.

Sunday was the day of the Barracks Brats Reunion lunch in Mdina, ‘the Silent City’, once the capital of Malta. Zach, looking continental in linen trousers, flip-flops and a short-sleeved shirt, had ordered a large cab. Rosa and Dory climbed in with him, Marci and Paige and enjoyed the journey through the narrow streets of residential Sliema crammed with cars before they headed out into the countryside where white or vivid pink oleander and twisty, dusty pine trees decorated the roadside. They passed brown scrub growing through cracks and prickly pear lolling over the dry stone walls that marked out small farm fields until the taxi dropped them at the city gate.

They crossed a stone bridge over formal gardens into the beautiful, compact walled city that was Mdina, looking as if it hadn’t changed in centuries. It rose up, its slopes clothed in farmed terraces and olive groves, its honey-coloured buildings wearing wrought iron over their windows, arches beside statues, beautiful ornamentation carved from living stone. Balconies were everywhere, open ones of wood, stone, wrought iron, or the enclosed galleriji. In the narrow streets where doors were set into walls Zach said, ‘I’ve read the streets were curved so archers could lie in wait at windows behind the wrought iron and enemies coming up the street wouldn’t see them until it was too late. Malta’s always been of great strategic importance. People were queuing up to conquer it and the Maltese fought back.’

‘Grisly,’ Rosa commented as they wandered a street so cramped she could stretch and touch the walls on each side. Most streets were too small for cars, and even the horse-drawn carriages, the karozzini, could only use the broadest of the thoroughfares. Streets opened into squares and guides herded tourists.

As they reached a flaming mass of cerise bougainvillea clinging to a towering wall, Zach glanced at the map app on his phone. ‘If we turn left here we should be at the restaurant.’

They entered the venue through a pair of tall glass doors set into a wall and stepped down into a cool double-height area set with snowy tablecloths and gleaming silverware. Rosa gazed up at the vaulted ceiling and curving stone arches. ‘I feel as if I’m always looking at something in Malta and saying, “Wow!”’

‘I know what you mean.’ Marci took Paige’s hand to prevent her from getting too close to an ancient suit of armour.

A smiling Maltese woman greeted them. ‘You are here for the reunion? Good afternoon, I am Claudette.’ She led them down more stone stairs and between the tables before taking a flight of stone steps up again. A hum of conversation grew louder as they reached a pretty function room open to a garden. The hum became a babble, punctuated with bursts of laughter.

Claudette stood aside. ‘Here is your party. Lunch will be served presently. Please order drinks from the bar and enjoy!’

A woman with long wavy hair stepped forward. ‘Hello! I’m Lesley, one of the hosts of the Barracks Brats Reunion. Let me show you the name badge table. We have sixty-eight attending – isn’t that amazing?’

From behind a long table a portly bald man in well-pressed cream shorts and a blue open-necked shirt handed out name badges on lanyards.

‘Blimey, Dory’s name badge is almost military.’ Marci gave a rare giggle. And, indeed, Dory’s badge, edged with khaki to denote her status as a barracks brat, said:

Dory McCoy Hammond

School: Tigné Barracks Infant and Junior

Lived (67–70): Royal Court, Ta’ Xbiex and St Francis Ravelin, Floriana

‘That’s the last we’ll see of Mum for a while.’ Rosa watched Dory vanish into the nearest group of people with khaki-edged name badges, her mouth set on ‘nineteen-to-the-dozen’. Zach fell into conversation with a guy called Trent about the history of Mdina and Rosa followed Marci and Paige out into the garden, helping themselves to drinks as they passed the bar.

What looked like the wall of the garden proved to be part of one of the curtain walls that formed the fortifications, at least twelve feet thick with a sloping top that led to a scary drop. While Paige counted the resident goldfish in an ornamental pond with a fountain Marci asked Rosa, ‘Has your mum subjected you to the “Here’s where we lived” and “here’s where I went to school” tours yet?’

Rosa laughed. ‘She’s shown me where the school’s stone arches and clock tower have been incorporated into the high rises that obliterated Tigné Barracks.’

Marci nodded. ‘Dad says Tigné looks like a mini Miami now.’

‘Zach told me you have a Maltese grandmother.’ Rosa watched Paige dipping her fingers in the water and the flash of goldfish flipping their tails and shooting away.

Marci settled on the coping of the pond and tilted her face to the sun. She wore a loose black linen dress and her dark hair swept down onto it in a silken sheet. ‘Grandad and Nanna met at a dance in Valletta in the Fifties. His army career took them back to the UK long enough for my dad and his two brothers to arrive, then to Cyprus. They were posted back here 1966 to 69, which would be when your family was in Malta. Grandad was in 235 Signal Squadron. After the army, Nanna and Grandad settled in Cornwall. Redruth. Not one of the craggy or pretty bits.’

Rosa wrinkled her forehead. ‘Grandpa Lance was in the Ordnance Corps. Something to do with supplies.’

‘The Royal Army Ordnance Corps went wherever there was British infantry.’ It was Zach who provided this information as he strolled up to join them, looking relaxed and cool despite the heat.

‘You sound better informed than I am,’ Rosa confessed. ‘I know National Servicemen only did a couple of years in the forces rather than the twenty-one years Grandpa served, but that’s about it. Mum natters to Grandpa about the posts and pictures on the Barracks Brats Facebook group but I don’t find it as fascinating as they do.’

‘Zach’s interested too,’ Marci said. ‘He’ll swap Maltese history with anyone. Dad read out some bits from the Barracks Brats about your mum’s success, by the way. How did she get to be a famous cook?’

Rosa settled on the coping alongside Marci. Paige was still trying to count fish, sighing in exasperation because they wouldn’t keep still. ‘That career exploded out of nowhere a few years ago after a reality TV crew came to the school where Mum was the cook.’ Rosa was used to telling the story but it still felt as if it were something that had happened to another family. ‘Her big personality came over well on camera and she became the character who stole the show. When she waxed enthusiastic about her initiative of “stealthy eating” – getting good food into the kids by disguising it, like putting beetroot in brownies – the director lapped it up and it went down a storm on social media.’ She paused, remembering that it didn’t always feel good to be talked about on social media. She shoved the thought away. ‘I helped her start a blog and various social media channels. The production company invited her onto a Christmas special, increasing the buzz. Then a literary agent contacted her saying she thought she could get her a deal with a major publisher.’

‘The Cafeteria Cook Does Stealthy Eating,’ Zach supplied, easing Paige back before she toppled in the water. ‘Dad bought Nanna the book.’

‘Mum will be delighted.’ Rosa fanned herself with her hand. The afternoon seemed to be getting warmer. ‘The book took off.’ Then she laughed. ‘Gross understatement! It was a number one Sunday Times bestseller and at the top of the Amazon charts. It’s still selling steadily. The follow-up, The Cafeteria Cook Does Stealthy Weight Loss, did just as well and sold around the world. Mum does guest spots in food magazines, on blogs, on radio, TV and video channels. She left her school and now she’s writing The Cafeteria Cook Does the Mediterranean.’

Marci sighed. ‘That’s fantastic. I wish life had been so kind to our mum. She keeps surprisingly cheerful but she’s in constant pain. We Skyped her this morning and she couldn’t wait to hear everything we’re doing.’

Zach joined in. ‘She’s more or less housebound or I bet she’d have been out here for this reunion.’

A man joined them, middle-aged and florid despite his olive skin. His name was Jim, he told them, and – like Zach and Marci’s dad – he had a British Army father and Maltese mother. ‘Dad was with the Anglians 66 to 68.’

As Zach chatted to Jim, Rosa gazed over the wall at the panorama of buildings, domes large and small and a tower on a nearby rise. Terraces followed the contours of the land like the lines on an ordnance survey map and the rich chime of church bells carried distantly on the air.

Jim drew her back into the conversation by pointing out a few features of the landscape. ‘That’s the hospital at Mtarfa where I and many children of servicemen were born. See that clock tower and the buildings beside it? That’s Mtarfa Barracks.’

‘Another barracks?’ she asked. ‘How many were there on Malta?’

The man blew out his cheeks contemplatively. ‘Depends on period. Pembroke, St George’s, St Andrew’s, Tigné, Lintorn I remember from when I was a kid. Then there was the navy and RAF.’ When Rosa stood up to take a photo he gallantly held her drink. She smiled when she’d finished, taking back the glass with murmured thanks.

Jim was evidently feeling jocular. ‘Always happy to help a lady. Some men refer to women as “the weaker sex”, y’know, but I think the phrase “the fairer sex” will get me in less trouble.’ He let out a guffaw.

Always irritated by condescension towards her gender Rosa gazed at the distant view.

Unfortunately, Jim persisted. ‘What? Not offended, are you? I said women are not the weaker sex.’ He guffawed again.

Slowly, Rosa turned to him. ‘Of course they aren’t. It’s men who carry their most sensitive organs outside of their bodies where they can be so easily hurt.’

Jim halted mid-guffaw and stared at Rosa. ‘Erm, quite,’ he muttered and drifted away to invade someone else’s conversation.

Zach grinned. ‘I think he’s worried he’s just been threatened.’

She sniffed. ‘I’m afraid Mum taught me to speak up for myself. Maybe it’s because we didn’t have any of “the stronger sex” around to do it for us.’ Her tone was so dry that Zach burst out laughing.

Other than the encounter with Jim, the event was hugely more enjoyable than Rosa had dared hope. Everyone had Malta in common in some way and more than one person had to wipe their eyes at a shared memory. Even as the grandchild of a soldier, Rosa began to feel she was mixing with her tribe as she heard snatches of conversation about the Royal Anglian Regiment, REME, RAOC, the Lancs and the Paras. Dory introduced her to Janice from Robb Lido and Carol from Tigné School. A delicious lunch of meats, salads, fruits, pastry and cakes went beautifully with Marsovin wine or Cisk beer. Paige tried a local soft drink called Kinnie but said it was ‘too pepper’. Dory drank it for her because Kinnie had been a treat ‘… when I was a kid in Malta’ Rosa finished for her.

Dory looked abashed. ‘Sorry. I’ll try and stop saying that. It’s the first of these reunions I’ve managed and they’re usually a few years apart.’

Rosa gave her a hug. ‘I’m only teasing, Mum. I’m happy you’re happy.’

Dory plunged off to exchange reminiscences with a new group of people. Paige began to play with two boys a year or two older than her and Rosa wandered over to an old lichened bench right at the end of the garden to watch, soaking in the statues, paths and the golden walls of all the buildings around while the sun baked her.

Zach appeared with wine that glowed like a glassful of pink jewels in the afternoon sun. ‘I thought you might like to try this as it’s called Santa Rosa rosé.’ He joined her on the carved stone bench, leaning in to add in a theatrical whisper, ‘Marci’s talking to a man so I said I’d come and check on Paige.’

Rosa thanked him for the wine. ‘Doesn’t Marci usually talk to men?’

He pulled a face. ‘Paige’s dad vanished while Marci was pregnant, and then the next guy cheated on her.’ He sipped his wine and licked his lips. ‘She’s overdue a positive interaction, even if it’s just chatting about favourite books at a party.’

‘Brotherly of you to look out for Paige,’ Rosa commented with real approval.

He shrugged. Then he grinned disarmingly. ‘Also, Dory asked me to keep you company in case you’re getting fed up with her talking Malta all afternoon.’

‘Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve made her feel like that.’ Rosa shielded her eyes to gaze at where Dory was still trying for the world record in cramming the most conversations into one party. ‘She’s having a fantastic time and I’m glad. I came here with a negative mindset but I am actually in Malta for her.’

‘Her version is she put you off the island, bossing you about her kitchen like Gordon Ramsay,’ he said. ‘I can’t see your mum as him though.’

‘She can do the swearing!’ Rosa laughed and they looked at each other and chorused, ‘Army kid.’

Zach watched Paige driving toy cars through the dust at the edge of the path. ‘She says the job at home is in a youth centre and you’re missing it.’

Rosa stiffened, wondering whether Dory had given any details of what had led up to her taking leave. ‘Yes.’

He glanced at her. ‘My cousin Joseph Zammit heads up a drop-in centre in Gzira and I think I mentioned that I help out there. We’re doing a sea clean tomorrow afternoon, if you fancy getting involved as a volunteer. It’s on a public beach in Sliema – a load of teens clearing out bottles and stuff.’

Instantly, Rosa’s heart lifted at the idea of being involved with something that involved young people. ‘I’d love to. As long as Mum doesn’t need me then.’

‘Let me know,’ he said easily. ‘You’d have to be ready at three tomorrow afternoon with your snorkelling gear.’

He told her more about Nicholas Centre, named after Joseph’s great-uncle Nicholas who had left the property to him. ‘It’s tucked away in a little street in Gzira. There’s not much outdoor space,’ he said, ‘but a room for arts and crafts, a function room, a small gym and a computer room. It’s open to thirteen- to eighteen-year-olds. Some of the kids come from less wealthy backgrounds because there’s plenty to do that’s free.’

‘I’d love to see it. It sounds as if it operates in a similar area to Blackthorn’s, where I organise events and sponsorship,’ she responded. ‘It was set up by JJ Blacker, the drummer from the band The Hungry Years. My branch is in my home town of Liggers Moor in Yorkshire but the first was on the Shetland Estate in Cambridgeshire where he was brought up. He doesn’t want today’s kids to feel like he did – trapped by low incomes and low expectations, nowhere to go, nothing to do but fall in with the wrong crowd.’ She halted, remembering the story he’d told her and Luccio in the restaurant in Spinola a few nights ago. ‘Sorry! I wasn’t having a dig at you.’

‘Don’t apologise.’ He’d finished his wine and was twirling the glass between his fingers. ‘I’m the first to worry about negative peer pressure.’

Before Rosa could answer, her phone burbled. Her stomach shifted to recognise Marcus’s ringtone. Though they had things to sort out regarding the transfer of their house to Marcus’s name it was the first time he’d called since she’d come to Malta. She pulled the phone from her bag and saw he wanted to FaceTime. She hesitated, apprehension wriggling through her in place of the thrill she would have felt a couple of years ago. ‘Do you mind if I take it?’

‘Of course not,’ Zach replied politely.

Rosa took a few steps away to accept the call. Marcus’s image flashed onto the screen, his hair looking as if he’d rummaged through it. ‘Hi.’ Then, evidently getting a glimpse of her exotic surroundings, ‘You look as if you’re somewhere nice.’

Rosa didn’t mind that he looked slightly envious. She even extended her arm so he could see more. ‘What’s up?’ She debated telling him she’d call him back but didn’t want to wait to know why he’d called.

‘Who’s that bloke?’ Marcus asked suddenly. ‘He’s looking at your arse.’

Rosa could see Zach on screen behind her but not where his gaze lay. She could have snapped at Marcus that just because he’d rejected her didn’t mean other men weren’t interested but she chose instead to keep the conversation neutral, not least because Zach might hear. ‘Why did you call?’

Marcus forgot Zach and became breezy. ‘Just a formality to do with the mortgage.’

‘Go on,’ she said, politely.

He cleared his throat. ‘There’s another piece of paper for you to sign. You know what solicitors are like – every box ticked, even the irrelevant ones.’

‘Oh?’ Her arm was getting tired of holding her phone in the air and she probably looked as if she were trying to present herself at a flattering angle. She sat back down on the coping around the pond, propping the phone on her lap.