Книга - Like Bees to Honey

Like Bees to Honey
Caroline Smailes


In her third novel, acclaimed author of ‘In Search of Adam’ and ‘Black Boxes’ Caroline Smailes draws upon her own family history for a remarkable and unforgettable story of loss and redemption.Nina travels to Malta with her five-year-old son Christopher. She left the island at the age of nineteen to study at Liverpool University but fell pregnant and was disowned by her family. Following a car accident her relationship with her husband breaks down and she feels compelled to return home, taking her young son with her in the hope of reconciliation with her father and siblings.Once in Malta, strange things start to happen. Nina discovers that the island is full of souls in various stages of transition. Malta is the place where the dead all travel to before they pass over and she is visited by seven of them who, in turn, try to help her deal with the issues that have brought her to the island after so many years away.As Nina travels round Malta and learns more from each friendly spirit she begins to understand why she has really come back and is forced to face some startling truths which will haunt the reader long after they put the book down.Caroline Smailes built up a significant cult following with her first two books, with Like Bees to Honey she has written a remarkable story which will break her through to the mainstream audience she so richly deserves.










Like Bees to Honey


~b


an-na


al lejn l-g


asel




Caroline Smailes








Remembering, always, my grandparents George Dixon and Helen Dixon (née Cauchi).




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u9a675aa1-c1a1-5a81-baea-e15307588027)

Title Page (#u124abbb3-b1d6-5f5b-9c47-74b29c4761bf)

Dedication (#u4e655143-eb64-58cf-a2ff-fb2c5ebd0992)

Excerpt (#ueb830f48-6e43-5299-96b4-cc69f9211938)

Xejn (#ue2a4df9c-159a-528c-a80b-1eb9ca843466)

Wie


ed (#u84224282-424f-5fe6-89af-e77eceefda64)

Tnejn (#u2b274cb2-9dc8-52f7-9a80-86690ebd158b)

Tlieta (#u348dbd36-8dc1-5574-90a8-d5e9715adf79)

Erbg


a (#uf2469c62-50c1-56f3-b45f-eb2c3b99839e)

êamsa (#uf30ec863-ed29-5711-a6fe-76f2b7218dfb)

Sitta (#u30d02db2-45f5-5db5-b45d-0f1147a7c583)

Sebg


a (#uce33d830-c981-5110-90e4-46c62e87822b)

Tmienja (#u739fa827-0c80-545e-b287-0b84657f2049)

Disg


a (#u81835abc-0671-56f6-bb22-b24c7128d5d0)

G


axra (#litres_trial_promo)




dax (#litres_trial_promo)

Tnax (#litres_trial_promo)

Elena (#litres_trial_promo)

Tlettax (#litres_trial_promo)

Erbatax (#litres_trial_promo)




mistax (#litres_trial_promo)

Sittax (#litres_trial_promo)

Sbatax (#litres_trial_promo)

Tmintax (#litres_trial_promo)

Tilly (#litres_trial_promo)

Dsatax (#litres_trial_promo)

Tilly (#litres_trial_promo)

G


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Wie


ed u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Flavia (#litres_trial_promo)

Tnejn u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Tlieta u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Tilly (#litres_trial_promo)

Erba’ u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)




amsa u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Sitta u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Seba’ u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Tmienja u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Disa’ u g


oxrin (#litres_trial_promo)

Tletin (#litres_trial_promo)

Wie


ed (#litres_trial_promo)

Nixtieq nirringrazzja (#litres_trial_promo)

Preview (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Caroline Smailes (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Excerpt (#ulink_595988b3-ea58-55ec-8b5e-7db470aae3dc)


‘You sent for me sir?’



‘Yes Clarence. A man down on Earth needs our help.’



‘Splendid! Is he sick?’



‘No. Worse. He’s discouraged. At exactly 10.45 p.m., Earth-time, that man will be thinking seriously of throwing away God’s greatest gift.’



~It’s a Wonderful Life, 7 January 1947 (USA)




Xejn (#ulink_b3f324dc-9027-512d-85b9-5c5f9e956601)


~zero

Christopher Robinson, born 20 December 1991.

I remember the exact moment when Christopher first realised.



We were standing together, in my mother’s kitchen, in Malta. He had been unusually quiet.



I asked him, ‘What’s wrong Cic


io?’

He looked up to me and whispered, ‘Can you see the mejtin too, Mama?’



~dead people.



I looked at my five-year-old son, shocked, confused, thrilled.



‘Dead people,’ he translated. ‘Can you see the dead people too, Mama?’




Wie


ed (#ulink_9703ceaa-86eb-5a26-90fe-21d12f1ed890)


~one

Checking In:



Please allow ample time to check in. Check-in times can be found on your ticket, by contacting your local tour operator or your chosen airline. Our broad guidelines state:



Please ensure that you check in three hours before departure for long-haul flights.



Please ensure that you check in two hours before departure for European flights.



Please ensure that you check in one hour before departure for UK and Ireland flights.

I am focusing on the woman, the one in front of me, her, with the black high high heels. She is wearing tight white jeans. I think they call them skinny jeans. She is wearing white socks and black heels, her. My son, Christopher, is standing next to me. He will not speak. I am focusing on her. I am focusing on her calves and on her black shoes. The heels are caked in mud, dry mud, around the tip of the cone. The mud is speckled up the back of her, of her calves, over her white skinny jeans.



I wonder if she realises.



We are standing in the queue. We move forward slowly. I have wrapped my large shawl around my shoulders, I roll the tassels with the fingers of my right hand. In my left hand I am clutching a small clear plastic bag containing a lipstick that does not suit and mascara that is almost empty, beginning to cause flakes on my lashes.



As we reach the security arch, Christopher walks through, no sound, no signal, no attention is given to him. I shout for him to wait. People turn and look from me and then towards where I am shouting, screaming.



Nobody asks.



Christopher carries on walking, ignoring me, he is angry. I know that I have upset him. I am anxious to reach him, uneasy when he moves from my sight. I wonder if it will be the last time that I see him, I wonder if he will finally have had enough of me, of the way that I have become.



I am stopped.



I am forced to remove my boots, empty the pockets of my jeans, be frisked with a detector that beeps. I take off my belt, I take off my boots. I look to my feet. I notice that my socks do not match.



Airport security is tight, these days. I smile. I smile as they appear to have let through my son, unnoticed. I am still smiling as I slip back into my knee-length boots. I am still smiling as I move over to the conveyor belt, searching for my handbag. I do not think that the officer likes my smile; he holds my handbag into the air, accusingly.



‘Is this your bag?’ the officer asks.



‘Yes,’ I say.



I look to the officer in his black uniform, with his shiny shoes and his shaven head. I wonder if he is proud, I wonder if he holds his head up high as he fights to save Manchester airport from terror. I like him, I decide.



‘Are you travelling alone?’ he says.



‘No my son’s with me, he’s…’ I point after Christopher. The officer flicks his eyes to there and then to me.



‘Work or pleasure?’



‘Pleasure,’ I answer. I stop.

And then, I remember.

Christopher is waiting for me when I walk around the corner, out from security. He is leaning on his shoulder, against the white wall. He still refuses to speak. I scold him; I shout and scream that he is not to leave my sight, ever, again. He remains silent. He stares down to his canvas shoes, his favourite shoes. He will not look at me. I wish that he would. I wish that he would speak. Tourists, passengers, they all stand and stare.

Christopher waits for me to finish shouting. His cheeks look blushed. I am wagging my finger, my eyes are wide, my voice is shrill. I am embarrassing him; of course I am, he is sixteen.



Two security guards turn the corner. They stand still. Their legs are apart, their arms cross their chests. A third security guard appears, he is mumbling into a radio. I finish shouting; it has been one maybe two minutes. I do not like being watched.



I tell Christopher that I need a coffee. He walks off, still looking down at his canvas shoes, still silent. I follow. He is guiding my way.

The airport is busy. I do not know why I expected stillness, a silence. It is 4 a.m., a Thursday, flights come and go all through the night. I know that. I do not know why I needed a silence.



or why I expected a hush, a hush hush.



~hu – sshhhhh.

~hu – sshhhhh.

Christopher is sulking, not talking to me and I do not have the energy to pander to him. I am trying not to focus on him, not to give him negative attention. Instead, I am listening.



to the grrrr.



~grrrr.

~grrrr.

of the milk steamer.



~grrrr.

~grrrrrrrrr.

~grr.

~grrrrrr.

The noises lack symmetry.

The coffee shop is crowded. There is not much else to do, but to drink, to eat, to wait to be called for boarding. It is 4:20 a.m. I have purchased a coffee, nothing to eat, no thick slice of cake, no huge muffin, just a tall café latte, no sugar and a child’s milk for Christopher. He hates to be called a child. There is music, unrecognisable. Looping notes with a tinny edge, what the Americans would call elevator music, I think. I wonder if I am right.



I used to dream of going to America, one day.



there is the whir.

~wh – irrr.

~wh – wh – irrr.

~wh – wh – irrr.

of the coffee machine.



then the grrr, again.

~grrrr.

~grrr.

~grrrrrrrrr.

of the milk steamer. There is the dragging scrape of the till drawer.



and the clink.



~cl – ink.

~cl – ink.

of the coins.



And then I realise that Christopher has gone. He has wandered off, again. He does that a lot, these days. I will not look for him. He will find his way, I reason. He will come back, he has come this far. He knows that he must take this journey with me, for me. He has been told that he has to escort me back to the island.

I need to telephone Matt.

I have left my mobile phone at home, in the kitchen, close to the kettle. Matt will have found it, by now. It is 4:30 a.m. and I know that I should not be calling my husband. He will be in bed, perhaps sleeping, but we have that telephone in our bedroom.



I find a payphone. I fumble in my bag, in my purse, for loose change. I lift the receiver, insert a 20p, press the number pads, wait.



It is ringing.



With the ring, I can see him stretching over the bed, I can see him in his sleepy haze, a panic, reaching his naked arm out, to answer, to grab.



‘Nina?’



‘Yes,’ I say.



I can hear crying, sobbing in the background.



‘She needs to speak to you. Will you speak to her?’ asks Matt.



I do not have time to answer.



‘Mama?’ She is sobbing, making the word high pitched.



‘Molly, Molly pupa. Stop crying,’ I say.



~my doll.



I am trying not to shout. People are listening.



I am sure that, I think that, the grr.



~grrrr.

~grrrrrrr.

has stopped and the whir.



~wh – wh – irrr.

~wh – wh – irrr.

has stopped too.



People can hear me.



‘Mama, you didn’t kiss me bye bye.’ Molly tries to stifle her heart, but I know that it is broken.



And then, suddenly, I am missing her too much.



And then, suddenly, my throat is aching and I need to cry and I need to scream and I need Christopher. I need for him to remind me why I have left my little girl, my four-year-old daughter, my pupa.



~my doll.



It is late, it is early, she will be tired and emotional, more emotional than usual. I am reasoning with myself, but I know, I know really. I know within that I have hurt my innocent.



I hang up.



I hang up on her sobs, leaving her to Matt. Her daddy.

I need to see Christopher.

I am walking around the departure lounge, searching, sobbing, snot dripping from my nose, tears cascading down my cheeks.



I find him.



He is squashed in between a couple, tourists, I presume. The woman tourist’s hair is bleached white, she wears a short short skirt and I see that her thighs are fat and dimply. She wears blue mascara, it clogs on her lashes; her lips are ruby red and her skin is orange. I do not look at the man tourist. Christopher smiles, briefly. Then he squeezes out from in between and he is off, again, running.



I refuse to chase him. I turn to walk away.



‘Are you alrite, pet?’ the woman tourist asks.



‘I’m fine,’ I turn, I say. ‘Thank you,’ I say, I start to turn and walk.



‘It’s just you was crying like a bairn a bit ago. I says to me bloke, “Look at that lass crying.”’



‘I’m fine, honest, I thought I’d lost my son,’ I say.



‘Shit,’ the woman tourist says. ‘Have you found him?’



‘Yes he’s there –’ I point, I turn, I walk away.

I find Christopher, standing below the departures’ board, straining his neck to read the listed times. The details for our flight have changed; we need to make our way to gate 53. We walk together, in silence.

All of the tourists have crowded to the gate. Christopher stays close to me, intruding on my body space. We do not have a seat. I am leaning onto the white wall, Christopher is leaning onto me. I think that he is feeling anxious. I am still sobbing. I wonder if he fears that I will change my mind, that he will fail his task, again.



‘Air Malta flight KM335 is now boarding from gate number…What gate are we?’ The crowd of tourists laugh, ha ha ha.



‘Yes. From gate number 53. Would all passengers please make their way, with their boarding cards and passports open at the photograph page.’



There is the usual scurry, the fretful rush of people desperate to claim their pre-booked seat. I do not move, neither does Christopher. I am standing, leaning, waiting for a realisation. I am waiting for some bolt of enlightenment, for something to enter into my head and to stop me from boarding the plane.



The bolt never comes.



The muffled sobbing continues, but still I am boarding the plane. I am leaving my Molly, my pupa.



~my doll.



I have no plans to return.




Tnejn (#ulink_9e593797-11de-58a5-b295-2eba9de5e0c7)


~two

Air Malta is not only committed to provide you with a comfortable journey, but also to give that extra personal touch…

The doors have been closed, security measures have been explained. I did not listen or watch. Christopher is virtually on my knee, squashing in between me and the passenger next to me. He is fidgeting, wriggling, annoying.



‘Sit still,’ I tell him.



He looks at me but does not speak. We both know that the plane is ready to lift us from that ground.



the engines are whirring.



~wh – hir.

~wh – hir.

~wh – hir.

and as my head falls back to the headrest, the engines whir some more.



~wh – hir.

~wh – hir.

then the plane darts forwards, upwards, it tickles into the back of my throat. I swallow, forced gulps.



I look out through the small oval window, the houses and cars become insignificant. I see the clouds. I am flying over the clouds. I am flying over a blanket of greying white that separates and joins. I am in the air, higher and higher.



And then I realise.



I am gone from his England.

I wrap my large shawl around my shoulders. I bring the two ends together, up to my face. The shawl has tassels, the tassels tickle me, annoy, remind me. I wore this shawl when Molly was a baby, before she began toddling. I can remember her curling into me, fiddling with the tassels, rolling them between her tiny plump fingers, pulling them up to her mouth.



I want the smooth material close to my face.



I am sobbing.



~s – ob.

~s – ob.

~s – ob – bing.

into my shawl.



I am dripping.



~dr – ip.

~dr – ip.

~dr – ip – ping.

snot and tears into my shawl.



The plane continues to move higher and higher above the clouds. I continue to sob, muffled sobs.



I have become the flight maniac. I want to apologise to the passenger beside me. He is dressed in a casual suit, creased slightly; his shoes are shiny, polished and buffed. I want to tell him about my life and my loss, but I do not. Of course I do not.



I am the flight maniac.



telling him my story, loudly, over the sound of the whir.



~wh – ir.

~wh – irr.

whirling engine, would only make things worse.



And so I continue to stifle my sobs. And the passenger beside me turns away, his left shoulder protruding, twisting awkwardly.

Christopher does not speak. I think that he may be sleeping.

The seatbelt sign goes off.



the plane is filled with the click.



~cl – ick.

~cl – ick.

~cl – ick – ing.

of metal.



And within the minute, there is a queue for the toilet, four men and one woman line from the drawn curtain and down the centre aisle. She looks pregnant, the woman. Her stomach is large, egg shaped; her palm is resting on it. I wonder if she is having a girl or a boy.



I want to talk to her. I need to talk to her. She must be able to smell food.



I really should buy her food.

I grew up on the island of Malta, in a close neighbourhood, with open window and open door. The community liked to cook and the odours of our foods were rich. They decorated, they floated in the air, breads, sweet pastries, baking potatoes, spice-filled macaronis, soups that celebrated local vegetables. This meant that a pregnant woman, whoever she might be, would smell the food and that with that smelling her baby would feel a desire, a need. And so, in Malta, without request, all from the community would know to take a dish of any food being prepared to any pregnant neighbour. It was almost a law, I think. It is said, in Malta, that the food will feed the desire of the baby. If a pregnant woman does not have, does not eat all that her baby craves, then it is said that the child will be born with a birthmark, a mark with a suitable shape.



I remember that my mother had a notebook.



She would write down the names of our pregnant neighbours and I remember that when one of our neighbours was heavy with her fourth child, my mother, she told me, ‘Nina, listen, take this to Maria.’ She told me, ‘I do not like her but her baby must have what it desires. Take her this.’



I remember looking down to see my mother holding a dish of minestra.



~a vegetable soup containing local or seasonal vegetables, potatoes, noodles.



We had many mouths to feed with our daily food, yet still we would feed a baby of a neighbour. The bowl was hot, my mother’s vegetable soup sloshed as I walked down the slope to Maria’s house. I remember that it was summer, the tall houses sheltered from the burning sun, the cobbles were cool under my naked feet, the dust swirled from recently brushed doorways. The smell of the minestra, so rich and sweet, danced and twisted up my nostrils. I remember the liquid spilling onto my fingers, burning and my longing to taste the food, but, of course, I would not, could not even. I had learned not to deprive a baby; I could not even lick my fingers. I remember walking the cobbles, slowly, slowly down the slope and I remember Maria answering the door.



She told me, ‘I will not eat the food of your mama’ and then closed her front door, with a slam. I knew better than to return home with the minestra and so I left the bowl to the left of her step, where she could not trip over it. And I shouted loudly, told Maria that her baby’s food was outside.



Three months later my mother told me, ‘Nina. Go look. Maria’s baby has the mark of a broad bean.’

I stare at the swollen stomach of the tourist on the plane. The queue is slow. She is leaning now, against an aisle seat. I look to her face. She is young, she appears tired.



I remember how tired I was when pregnant with Molly.



I push Christopher off me, slightly; he continues to sleep. I stand, place my shawl onto my seat and walk to her. I do not like walking on planes. My feet seem too light, like I have marshmallows on the tips of my heels. I squish my way to her.



I reach her.



‘Are you hungry?’ I ask.



‘Sorry?’ She looks frightened.



‘Can you smell food?’ I ask.



‘Sorry? No. Please.’ She is frightened.



‘You must eat whatever you smell,’ I say.



I turn, I walk from her, squishing my marshmallow-tipped heels, not looking back. I find my seat.



I move Christopher to one side; I sit.



I look to the pregnant woman. She is talking to the man in front of her; they are looking at me. She is full of fear. I need to reassure her. I know that she is frightened, but she must eat.



I mouth words to her.



I mouth, do not worry.



I mouth, I do not have the evil eye.



I mouth, you must eat what you smell.

I wonder what shape birthmark her child will have.



and then I realise that I have started.



~s – ob

~s – ob

sobbing, again.



I really am the flight maniac.

I have woken Christopher with my moving about, with my sobbing.



‘Iwaqqali wi





i l-art.’

~you embarrass me/you make my face fall.



I stare at him, stopping my sobbing, allowing tears to trickle and snot to drip, but no sound.



‘Iwaqqali wi





i l-art.’

~you embarrass me/you make my face fall.



‘Who taught you that? Who taught you that?’ I demand.



‘It’s ilsien pajji


i.’

~mother tongue.



‘How? Tell me how,’ I demand, again.



Christopher does not answer.

The small television screens come down, a graphic of a toy plane is edging slowly over the UK, heading South. The air steward tells us that headsets can be bought, the film starts. Live Free or Die Hard, I am glad that I cannot hear the words. Christopher is watching the screen.

A child, across the aisle, says, ‘For fuck’s sake.’



I turn. He is twelve, maybe younger. His mother smiles at me, briefly.

And I think of Molly, again.



tears drip.



~dr – ip.

~dr – ip.

again.



It is nearly 6 a.m. I think of her getting dressed. I wonder if Matt will send her to school. I think of her hair and of how Matt cannot manipulate bobbles, cannot bunch or plait. He may use the wrong brush, tug at her tats, not hold the hair at the root. I think of her crying out with pain.



I think of the mums in the school playground, of how the news will spread in hushed tones. I think of how they will fuss around Matt, eyes full of pity, of how they will never understand what I have done. I think of how he will have to excuse me, talk of grief, and how they will say that six years of grief is excessive.



And I know that they are right.



I think of Molly’s pink sandwich box, of routine, of her tastes, her quirks. I think of Matt struggling to find clean uniform, to dress, to juggle his work and his Molly. I know that he will be late for work if he waits for her to be clapped into school from the playground.



My thoughts are confused, jumbled, whirling.



I can still hear her sobbing.



I hope that Matt keeps her from school today, just today. He will need to go in to see the Headmistress, or telephone her, or both. The teachers will have to be told what an evil mother I am, of how I have abandoned my daughter and run away to a foreign country with my only son. But I know that any words exchanged will be missing the purpose, the point, that they will never fully understand why. I know, I appreciate, that people will be quick to judge me. I would hate me too. But, still, leaving my Molly, leaving my beautiful girl is dissolving any remnants of my remaining heart.



I think of her.



And then, suddenly, I am missing her, too much.



My sobbing vibrates through my body; it causes me to snort snot from my nose. My sobbing causes tears to stream.



and my shoulders shudder.



~shud – der.

~shud – der.

~shud – der.

beyond control.



I am out of control.



I pull my large shawl tighter around my shoulders. I bring the two ends together, up to my face, again. I bring the smooth material onto my face, until it covers my eyes, my nose, my being.



I breathe into my shawl.

I wonder if my Lord is laughing at me.

She wakes me.



‘Would you like any food or drink?’



I forget; for a moment, I am unsure where I am.



‘Would you like any food or drink?’ she repeats.



I look at her trolley. I see tiny bottles in a drawer.



‘Two whiskies, please,’ I say.



‘Ice?’



‘No, thank you.’



‘A mixer?’



‘No, thank you.’



‘Anything else?’



I look to Christopher, he is absorbing the film; I wonder if he is reading lips, if I should buy him a headset. He seems to be on another planet, not really with me today, an outline.



‘Do you want a coke?’ I ask him.



Christopher looks at me then shakes his head.



‘Nothing else,’ I turn, I tell her.



‘Sorry?’ She is confused.



‘Nothing else,’ I repeat, louder, almost a shout. She nods, takes the drinks from the metal drawer; she does not question me any further.



‘That’ll be five pounds.’ I hand her Matt’s money, as she pulls down the table clipped onto the chair in front and places the drinks before me.

The whisky burns my throat but at least I feel something.

I stare out through the oval window, watching, waiting.



I see the sea, the deep blue sea.



The seatbelt sign goes on.



within minutes the click.



~cl – ick.

~cl – ick.

~cl – ick – ing.

of metal is heard.



‘Cabin crew, ten minutes till landing,’ he says but we all hear.



And then, the plane is descending, rocking, bowing, dipping, shaking, swaying.



And then, I see Malta.

I see my Malta.



The island looks so tiny. I look through the small oval window. I see white, grey, green, blue. The natural colours dance before my eyes, they swirl and twirl and blend.



And as the plane dips, the colours form into outlines, then buildings, looking as if they have been carved into rock, into a mountain that never was. A labyrinth of underground, on ground, overground secrets have formed and twisted into an island that breathes dust. An island surrounded in, protected by a rich and powerful blue. I know that there is so much more than the tourist eye can see.



Quickly, the plane bows to my country, the honeypot of the Mediterranean.



And then, the wheels hit tarmac.

Mer


ba.

~welcome.



I am home.




Tlieta (#ulink_873b9344-33f4-5057-9119-5eb52dd47d93)


~three



Malta’s top 5: About Malta

* 3. Location

The Republic of Malta is a small, heavily peopled, island nation. Situated in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, south of Sicily and north of Tunisia, the islands benefit from the sunny Mediterranean climate.



I was born Maltese, in 1971, into a family that had been united through ages, through generations. Malta had first crumbled under the sun, then under siege, bombardment, invasion and yet each time it grew stronger. The dust, the ashes, it all formed into the labyrinths, secret passages that connect, divide, protect. The islanders have resilience, a determination, an acceptance of sorts. It is said that if you have been stripped to nothing, when you mend you alter, your aura changes, your purpose becomes clear.



My mother once told me, ‘In-nies ji


u Malta biex ifiequ.’

~people come to Malta to heal.

I left. I do not know what that means.

In Malta, my people speak the language Malti.



~Maltese.



We have a Semitic tongue that developed from the language spoken during Arabic invasion and occupation. Later came French-speaking Normans, the Knights of St John with their Italian and Latin, then British occupation. And so Malti became a combination of all the languages that drove through the island, of all those who came and left. It was born a rich, a breathing tongue, one that voiced our history, our invasions, our identity. When Malta later gained independence, both English and Maltese tongues were offered official status and Malti became the national language of my island, of Malta. It is known that my people can speak with one tongue, with two tongues, some speak with three or even four.

I was born into the home that was shared by my parents, by my grandparents, by my sisters and by my oldest aunt. It was the way, then. Our family was sealed, a unit that leaked noise, anger, laughter, excitement, wild gesturing with arms and hands.



There were no quiet moments. We liked it that way.



I was the third, the youngest daughter to be honoured upon Joseph and Melita. I was the favoured daughter of Melita. She called me qalbi.



~my heart.



My mother used to tell all that I was a kind, a loving, a quick-witted child. She would describe how my eyes carried a mischievous sparkle that warmed her. When I was a child, I could do no wrong.

But from an early age my feet would shuffle. I wanted to know more.



My mother would tell me that from the moment I could I would toddle out of the front door and down the steep slope that led to the harbour. My mother would tell me about frantic searches and screaming relatives dashing around the city. My mother would say that soon they learned to run to the harbour, that I would always be found standing on the same bench, waving at the boats.

And as I grew, my fascination with the atlas, the globe, the sphere, with the wide spaces and exotic names, grew too. No one could tell me of life off the island, no one had ever travelled to the distant, the bizarre-sounding shores.



I was restless to roam.



I longed for further than my island could give.



And so, as soon as an opportunity arose, I asked.

I asked my father if I could be educated away from the island, in England. Eventually, because I drilled and drained, my father agreed that I would travel, that I would be educated in the UK, but then I would return and marry a Maltese boy. I promised my father and then my mother that I would return. I promised them that they could choose my partner, I would agree to anything, to everything.



I promised.



My mother wept for twenty-eight nights.



One month before my nineteenth birthday, I flew to Manchester airport, and then climbed into a taxi to Liverpool University.



Four days later, I had found Matt.

I can, without any hesitation, avow that within four days on English soil I had met the man whom I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life in love with. Within four days, I knew that I would not keep my pact with my father, with my mother and that in doing so, I would break my mother’s heart.

As I was falling into Matt, my mother wrote to me. She said that when I left the island that ‘naqta’ qalbi’.



~I cut my heart, I lost hope.



She knew.



It was as if she could always see into my spirit and then into my mind. My mother gave up hope because she knew, just knew, that when I fell it would be totally, all or nothing. And so when I left Malta, my mother lost hope and now I realise that without hope, there is nothing.

I lost my virginity to Matt. I lost my family too.

I remember.



‘You make me lovesick,’ Matt said; he turned his naked back, away.



‘Is that bad?’ My fingers brushed his shoulder.



‘My heart is sick,’ he spoke and his shoulders began to quiver.



‘I don’t understand. What have I done?’ I feared the end of us. I remember that Matt turned to face me. We were squashed into a single bed, his student room, naked skin on skin.



I had known him for five days.



His fingers, his face, were covered in my scent.



I remember.



Matt stared into my eyes.



I remember the intensity, the strength, the drowning.



‘I have fallen for you. I feel lovesick.’



‘You mean you feel love?’ I questioned.



‘More than that.’



‘Lovesick?’



‘Lovesick,’ Matt smiled.



The lovesickness was mutual, but I never told him. Those words were his. The concept, the depth, the languishing in lovesick moods. They were claimed by Matt. He left me wishing that I could find the language to express the extreme emotion that he whipped within me.



My sacrifice showed him what my tongue could never curl.

I was naïve, perhaps dim. It was a tradition, a lesson, a belief, a thought that floated with my friends in Malta. There were rumours that if we went to the toilet immediately after or if we stood during sexual intercourse, then we would not find ourselves pregnant, it was our only control. I’d seen pregnant women, of course I had, but the connections that I made as a child didn’t quite fit. In Malta, we were told that babies were bought in shops or sometimes they came by boat. Pregnancy and sexual acts didn’t quite go together, somehow. A pregnant woman went on to buy a baby, not to deliver one, it made sense.



As girls, we were also taught, through generations, that a sexual act outside of marriage would pollute all those who came into contact with it, it would lead to catastrophe. I knew that.

Seven months after landing in England, I found out that I was pregnant. I never talked of having an abortion, my faith was strong, my love secure. Christopher was growing inside of me.



I was naïve, uneducated in such matters. Within my family, sexual consequences were never discussed, not fully, not in practical terms. Pregnancy was masked. My mother had told me that I had arrived by boat.

Matt and I decided to marry after the child was born, in love, not from duty.



We decided that I would stop my studies and we decided that Matt would continue his. We would live together officially; we would move in somewhere, rent a flat.



I was excited.



I loved Matt.



He thrilled my insides with words, with gestures, with his lovesickness. I wanted to grow old with him, happily.

And so, I telephoned my parents.



My father answered, he was so very thrilled to hear my voice.



And then, I told him that I was with child. I told him that I had a baby growing within me and that I understood the sexual facts of life. I told him that everything made sense now, that my coming to them on a boat must have been a lie. I even laughed, ha ha ha.



My father told me, ‘Inti di


unur g


al din il-familja. Minn issa, mhux se nqisek aktar b


ala binti.’

~you are a disgrace to this family. From now on, you are no longer my daughter.



My mother refused to speak. I longed to hear her voice.



With my father’s Maltese words, something inside of me broke loose, not my heart, something else. I began to crumble. My sense of being, of worth, of belonging, of identity began to flake from me. And Matt tried to hold me, to stick me back together.

I married Matt when Christopher was eight months old.



I betrayed my Maltese name.




Erbg


a (#ulink_24341cc4-2581-503c-9a27-0103b80dce5f)


~four



‘And here we have Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King, known to the Merseyside locals as Paddy’s Wigwam. This is said to be linked to the large Irish Catholic congregation and the building’s architecutural design, which draws on that of a Native North American wigwam…’

I first met Jesus in Liverpool.

There are two cathedrals in Liverpool. The Metropolitan Cathedral stands proud; it lives in harmony with Liverpool Cathedral. The two majestic beings face each other along a street that is called Hope.



When I first arrived, that street, that view, the two churches, made me feel safe. In Malta domes and steeples take over the skyline. On the corner of Hope, I felt closer to my island, to Malta, somehow.



When I first arrived here, I was living in student halls just off Hope Street. I could see Catholic faith from my window. I could attend mass, be thankful, continue to grow.



When I broke my promise, my mother’s heart, I refused to walk along that street called Hope, again. There were other routes, longer routes and I took them. I felt that to walk that street would be to play with my Lord, to tease, to laugh. I did not deserve to feel protected, safe, any more. It was my belief that in the insulting of my parents, my island, that I must also refuse that link with my Lord that connected my people.



I did not realise, then, that my Lord was vengeful.

At the end of Hope, tourists, visitors, students stand on grey pavement. They look up the stone steps to the concrete construction formed into a giant tepee of a Catholic cathedral. Tent poles stick out from the top, catching my Lord’s sunlight and my Lord’s tears.



When I first arrived, I approved of the cathedral, the construction. A giant tent, connecting, sheltering and yet crafted into a fine-looking thing. There was something about the vast space, the structure, the contrasts: uniqueness.

Three days ago I missed, I longed for my mother.



I thought of the tepee of the cathedral.



I did not understand the link.

Three days ago, before this journey began, I found myself on the corner of Hope Street, Liverpool. My Lord was weeping, again. It was raining, I had no umbrella, my hair was curling, frizzing into a nest.



I felt cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.



‘Welcome to Paddy’s Wigwam,’ I whispered.

Three days ago, I stepped out into the road, not checking for cars.



I thought of my Lord. I thought that if He was there, watching, listening, wanting, then He would do as He wished.



Three days ago, I did not care.



I had nothing.

I walked a.



~z – ig.

a.



~z – ag.

across the road.



Cars stopped, waited, beeped. Drivers moved their lips, cursing. I could not hear their words. Tourists gathered at the bottom of the grey steps. Some spilled from the shop, some stood very still, eyes fixed on the cathedral, mesmerised; others listened to a guide who spoke of architecture and history. I pushed through, I divided a tour of day-trippers, huddled under huge yellow umbrellas. I climbed the steps leading up to, down from, the overwhelming cathedral.

The doors opened, automatically, dramatically, sensing my movements on the welcoming mat. I walked in, demanding, needing.

I had been sitting, staring, searching the inside of the cathedral for some time. Father Sam knew me, he knew my grief, my rejection. He came to me, sat next to me, cupped my hands in his.



‘I’m being punished.’ I spoke in a hush, a respectful hush.



‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Father Sam spoke softly, carefully, his hands joined over mine. I remember seeing a blue ray reflecting over our hands. For a moment I dwelled on the light, on my Lord’s breath, on union.



‘I don’t trust your faith.’



‘Why Nina? Tell me,’ he asked.



‘I failed to keep a promise. I broke a promise to my parents, to my island.’



And then, suddenly, I was sobbing and as I started, it grew, increased, my weeping was uncontrollable.



the tears fell, my shoulders shuddered.



~shud – der.

~shud – der.

~shud – der.

I was beyond restraint.



‘Tell me, Nina,’ he said.



‘I thought that I couldn’t cry any more, that I’d forgotten how,’ and with those hushed words all of the tears that had failed to be shed were released.



My tears formed into a puddle.



‘We have choices in life, Nina. You are clearly distressed. You are living in a hell of your own making.’



‘My son, Christopher, has gone,’ I sobbed.



‘I know.’ Father Sam lowered his head and began reciting a prayer.



‘Please don’t.’ I began to rise. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t be here.’



‘You need to find your way, Nina. You need to allow God into your heart.’



‘I have nothing.’ I stood, I turned, my knees shook as I staggered towards the exit.



‘You have a husband, a daughter. Think of how you are affecting them, of the punishment that you are binding onto them.’



I kept walking, ignoring his words, lurching towards the exit. I heard him, fast, catching up to me. I felt his palm, heavy on my shoulder. I stopped.



‘Go to Malta. Speak to your family and tell them that God sent you,’ he whispered into my ear.



I carried on, forward. I did not look back. I could not turn. I could not articulate.

I stopped when I reached the top of the steps leading up to, down from Paddy’s Wigwam. I tried to breathe in and out, in and out. I thought of my life, of my inability to love since Christopher passed.



It had been six short years and in those six years I had never considered that I was affecting Molly and Matt. I had never considered the burden, the punishment that I was tying to them.



I had thought that I was protecting them. I had thought that if I loved my husband, my daughter, that if I devoted myself to them, then my Lord would come, that He would punish me, that He would pick them away from me, one by one.

Father Sam had told me that I was living in hell, perhaps, perhaps not.

Three days ago, I stood on the steps leading up to, down from Liverpool’s Catholic cathedral and I thought about my view, my vision of hell. My hell was burning damnation, with a devil, with chained slaves stoking eternal fires. My hell would not contain an innocent child. I felt confused. Father Sam’s words were shooting in, out, through me. He did not make sense to me.

Three days ago, I thought of my daily life. I still had Christopher. I felt him, I heard his voice, I saw him. He was still there. I thought of how his coming back to me had been unexpected. At first I had thought that it was my mind playing tricks with my grief, that I was imagining his presence. But I was not, I am not. He has been back with me for two years.

It is simple. I can see my dead son and his spirit brings me peace.

Three days ago, I began to walk down the steps.



I heard my name.

Voice: Nina.

I stopped, I turned.

Voice: I am Jesus.

I expected to see, something, someone. I felt a chill sweep through me then the smell of stale alcohol covered me, enveloped me. I carried on walking, slowly. The smell travelled with me. I heard the voice, again, my name, his name.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

The voice was gravel filled, harsh, guttural. I turned, I spun. He was not there. I was standing, alone, my Lord’s tears falling onto me.



I began to descend the steps, again. The same chill swept through me, quickly, the same smell of stale alcohol covered me, stilted me. I was stunned. I stopped. The rasping voice had a familiarity, it connected, it stuck into me.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

The voice existed, without a body, there was no physical presence.



I did not move.



He spoke, again, with the same gravel-filled harshness.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

‘Stop it. Stop it,’ I shouted the words.



I held my hands to cover my ears. His voice, inside of my head, stayed at the same volume, constant, continuous, on a loop. We were talking through tin cans, connected by nothing.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. You blame your Lord.

‘Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.’

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. I sent him back to help you. I thought he could help you.

‘Shut up!’



My knees crumbled, I fell to the steps. With my palms clutching my ears, I bowed, forwards, backwards, rocking, sobbing.



The voice was silent, minutes passed by, silence, more silence.



I waited, I lowered my hands to the step; I steadied myself as I stood.

Jesus: Go to Malta, my Nina. I am Jesus. Bring Cadbury’s chocolate with you.

Matt,

I dreamed of you last night, the ‘of you’ was in a feeling, in the sensation that it evoked.

In my dream, I was sitting at Manchester airport. I was sitting on the floor, next to that backpack of yours that you loved so much, when we were students. A shabbily dressed lady staggered over to me. She was carrying a basket of handmade lace.

She spoke to me, ‘X’temp hazin! X’temp hazin!’

I couldn’t understand her words. She spoke in my tongue. She thought that I would understand. She thought that something within me would make me understand. I tried. I tried to pick out the words, but I could not.

She spoke again, in English. ‘What awful weather! What awful weather!’ I smiled at her. She laid her sunblessed finger onto my head. She spoke in whispered tones, ‘Gara in.cident. There’s been an accident. Gara in.cident.’

I woke from my dream sobbing. You do not come to me in the night, instead you send me old women with tongues that, with darkness, I can no longer understand. They speak words that I have, that I know, that I knew, once. And all the time I am longing. I am aching. I feel that I am dying inside to out. There is no life. There is no breath. There is nothing without you in my life.

I wish that I could tell you, that I could send this, leave this, that you would begin to understand. My love for you grows, it is deep rooted within me and even if I try to deny it, if I ignore or block it, it still grows. My love matures, stronger with each neglectful day. I am truly lovesick.

But Matt, I am leaving you; tomorrow I am flying home to Malta.

Nina x




êamsa (#ulink_aa1c6777-17a2-5993-80e0-9de90ef73fb9)


~five

Christopher Robinson, born 20 December 1991.

Christopher Robinson, killed 5 February 2002.

Ten years old.

The plane is taxiing, gradually, searching to meet the metal stairs.



‘You look sad, Mama.’



Christopher breaks my thoughts.



‘I’m just thinking, Cic


io,’ I say.

‘About when I passed over?’



‘Yes, about when you died.’ I whisper the words.



‘I can hear you, even when you don’t speak.’



He tells me.

Speaking to my dead son helps me, to remember.

The fifth of February. It was an insignificant day, the date meant nothing. I dwell on this, sometimes. I think about how life can change, can fall, crumble with ease.



I made the wrong decision, a mistake, a split second error in judgement.



The weight of consequence is beyond measure.

I do not work, I never have. I like it that way. I love to be at home, making a home. I cook, I clean, I wait for the end of the school day.



It was the same then.



I would wait for the end of the school day, for my Cic


io. It was how I wanted it to be. I was happy, deeply happy, pretending to be happy. We had enough money; Matt was working his way up the company. He was clever, a genius.

He still is.



Christopher was ten; he was keen to be independent, to help. He loved food, the combining of ingredients. He would watch me cook, his questions were intelligent. I would describe food, cuisine, Maltese traditions to him. He would eat up my words, my snippets of language, my customs.



I would tell him about my special place in Malta. I would tell Christopher how I used to go to a café with my mother, after school. I would describe how my mother and I would sit near to the window, how we would talk and look down onto the bay of Mellie


a. I would tell Christopher about the food that we would eat, always the same food. I would talk to Christopher about that time, I would try to describe ftira bi


-


ejt.

~Maltese flat bread seasoned with salt, with peppers, with tomatoes, with capers, with olives, with olive oil.



His eyes would light, his taste buds tang. I longed for him to savour. He never did.



I gave him words without flavour, without texture.

Sometimes, in life, we put off, we think that there will be a tomorrow.



We are told that we will blossom and then wither.

I guess that I gave my son the skeleton, the remains of a culture. I spoke an outline of a country that he was drawn to, that he needed to understand. I offered him words without images that he could attach to. I lacked commitment; I feared the joining of him to his roots, my roots. I barely spoke with my mother tongue, not until after Christopher’s death, not really.

We lived close to the primary school. Christopher pestered to walk home with a friend. He would have to cross one main road, but they knew where to look, how to look left and then right and then left again. They were sensible boys, I gave in. They had managed the walk home for six, maybe even seven weeks.



School finished at 3.20 p.m.



On 5 February 2002, Christopher’s friend James was ill. His mother had called in the afternoon, just to let me know that Christopher would be making the walk home, alone.



I began to worry.



I decided that I would wait for him, on the home side of the main road; that I would almost pretend to be shocked to see him.



It was a simple plan.



I got to the main road at 3:20 p.m. I stood down slightly, out of sight, almost, as if I had come up from the village and was making my way home. Christopher had not seen me. He was standing at the opposite side of the main road, waiting to cross.



I called his name, shouted out Cic


io.

He looked at me, a huge grin on his face.



And, then, he stepped out onto the main road.

He was killed on impact.

There was nothing that I could do.

But that is not the complete story of our relationship, not really. Christopher knows that my recall lacks context, depth, texture. That is the story that I have formed, developed to convince people to offer sympathy, to empathise. There is a truth, blocked, hidden where only the spirits can see. There was another side to our mother and son relationship.




Sitta (#ulink_81412bd4-39a2-57c6-b861-7f54ef933da0)


~six

Malta’s top 5: About Valletta

* 1. The Knights of St John

Valletta is indebted to the Order of the Knights of St John, who originally designed the city as a sanctuary to tend to wounded soldiers during the defence of Malta against the Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century. Before this, the order was situated in a little watchtower, named St Elmo, the only construction on Mount Sceberras, which lies between two harbours. The valiant conqueror of the Great Siege, Grand Master La Valette, understood that for his order to uphold its grip on Malta they would have to build sufficient fortifications. A plan was devised for the fortified city which was given the name Valletta, in honour of La Valette.

The air steward’s voice is monotone, floating over the bustle of the tourists.



‘Please stay seated until the aircraft is stationary.’



They do not, of course.



within the minute the click.



~cl – ick.

~cl – ick.

~cl – ick – ing.

of metal is heard.



People stand, push into the aisle, pull coats and bags down from the overhead lockers.



The stairs are being attached. The door opens.



I squeeze into the queue in the aisle, clutching my handbag and my shawl to my chest. Christopher follows, pinching in behind me, invading my personal space, again. We do not move.



I am impatient.



I want to be off the plane, I need to be in the open space, breathing in the dust of Malta. I want to scream. I want to tell the tourists to move out of my way.



We begin to move.



We take small steps, we shuffle; I do not let other passengers step in front of me. I avoid eye contact. I ignore the pregnant woman, I ignore the goodbye from the air steward; I walk down the metal steps.



the heels of my boots clip clap.



~cl – ip.

~cl – ap.

~cl – ip.

~cl – ap.

but there is no blast of heat, no warmth from my Lord’s smile, not today.



the heavens are spitting, spatting.



~sp – it.

~sp – at.

~sp – it.

~sp – at.

I lift my face up to creation. The sky is grey, sullen, moody.



His rain falls onto me. He spits on my face.



My Lord blesses my soul.



Mer


ba.

~welcome.

I walk in my Lord’s spit, following the trail of people, staying in between the yellow guide lines that direct into arrivals. We are close to the terminal, no bus is needed.



I hear the engines thrusting their whirs.



they whirl.



~wh – irrrr.

~wh – irrrr.

~wh – irrrr – llll.

The airport is calm, quiet. I wait for my suitcase to churn around on a conveyor.



I feel a chill. I shiver shiver, shiver shiver.



My bones are cold.



The airport smells of popcorn.

I am hungry; the sweet airport air has increased my need. I cannot remember when I last ate. My stomach churns. I am famished in Malta.



I lug, I wheel my suitcase. I do not collect a metal trolley.



I walk through customs, nothing to declare, I step onto the escalator. I travel down, slowly. I look onto the crowd that stands waiting for people to arrive. My eyes search, in vain.



I walk, I stagger through the crowd and out, into His rain.



I queue for a taxi.



Christopher follows, several steps behind me. He does not speak.

We are in a taxi, going to Valletta, my suitcase is in the boot. It will take twenty-five minutes, I think. We are going to my mother’s house, home. I dwell on the word home.



I long for a home.

I watch through the taxi window; the island rushes, blurs past my eyes with colours, with whites, with greens. The sandstone constructions are greying through the drizzle, they look weary, lost. I watch cars slip and slide past us, some are shiny, promising wealth and importance; they dance in the rain. We travel along a new road, an unknown journey. I search for familiarity, I need familiarity. I could be anywhere, any Mediterranean country, any foreign soil.



I seek acquaintance, for something to connect me to my roots. My eyes rest on golden arches, McDonald’s.



Time has altered my island.

‘John Lennon lives in Malta.’



My son says. I laugh, ha ha ha.



‘Oh Christopher! Who told you that?’ I say.



‘Jesus did.’



My son tells me.



‘I’m hoping to meet with Jesus,’ I say.



The taxi driver looks in his rear-view mirror, his dark eyes meet with mine. I smile at him, I raise one eyebrow. He looks away, quickly, back to the road.



‘Geordie shares Cisk with him in Larry’s bar.’



~Cisk lager was first available in Malta in 1928. It has an alcohol content of 4.2 per cent.



‘Geordie?’ I ask.



‘Elena’s husband.’



‘Elena?’ I ask.



‘Geordie’s a spirtu, a spirit, like me. He’s waiting for Elena to pass over. She’s your mother’s aunt, lives in Newcastle.’



Christopher is right. I recall, the words connect, ignite.



I have heard the stories of Elena, the family shame, the ostracism. She met Geordie, an English soldier in Malta, during the war. The family rejected her union. I do not know the full story. I know only fragments.



‘Geordie told me Jesus sent me back to help with your grief.’



My son breaks my thoughts.



‘Well his plan backfired, didn’t it?’ I say. ‘And I’ll tell him so when I see him.’



The taxi driver tuts.



Christopher does not speak for the rest of the journey. We travel in silence. The taxi driver switches on the radio; it crackles, interference. I hear a voice, loud, clear, through the rustles, through the static.

Jesus: Welcome home, my Nina.

The taxi driver does not speak.

I am unsure if my mother knows of my arrival. I suspect that Christopher may have told her. He tells me that he visits her, often.



He tells me that he can do that.



He says that he can be with different people, in different places, at the same time.



He tells me that he is like God, but very different. He tells me that he is like God because God can also be in so many different places at the same time.



I believe in Christopher more than I believe in my Lord.

The taxi drops us outside of the walls of Valletta. The driver keeps his eyes down as he speaks of the money that I must pay.



I fumble with my purse, with my euros.



The taxi driver does not move from his seat. He presses, something, inside of the car. There is a click. The boot springs open, slightly. The taxi driver waits, in his seat. I struggle with the boot of his car and then with my suitcase.



Christopher has not the strength to help me.

I wobble with my suitcase.



~cl – ip.

~cl – op.

across the bumpy pavements.



I am clumsy, I walk.

I walk through the City Gate and into Valletta, il-Belt.



~the City.



My heeled knee-length boots feel awkward, clumpy.



The roads and the pathways of my Capital, of Valletta, are uneven. I wobble over them; I am cautious, fearful of falling. Malta could never be smooth, perfect without blemish, there is too much history, there are too many marks, injuries, scars. Today, I am fearful of the cracks swallowing me.



I walk, gracelessly, slowly, as the Renaissance streets open up before me.



I.



~cl – ip.

~cl – op.

along the side of the road, pulling my suitcase behind me, watching my son lead the way.

Last time I walked these cobbles I was with Matt and with my five-year-old Christopher. The memory stings. I remember our walking through the City Gate and into Valletta. I remember the blistering warmth. I remember that Christopher was tired, the early morning journey and the high temperature were taking their toll. I remember Christopher was dragging behind us, no hand to hold, no comfort to be found. I remember Christopher asking me why the Opera House was broken. I remember ignoring his question, walking up again, then down again. I remember that it was busy, packed with tourists wearing as few clothes as possible, yet still dripping in sweat. I remember that Christopher moaned with each step. He wanted to go home. I remember that Matt did not complain, that Matt never complained.

I look up, I feel His spit on my skin. I look to the buildings. They embrace the past, leaning to me, crumbling, neglected. The details speak of disregard, of bombardment.



I turn right, I.



~cl – ip.

~cl – op.

past the broken down Opera House, up again.



‘It was bombed,’ I tell Christopher.



‘I know, Nanna told me.’



He says.



I turn, left, down again. The course is familiar, instinctive, unchanged. I have walked this route before, alone, with others, with my sisters, with my mother, with my father, with cousins, with Matt, with Christopher.



All streets slope down to the harbour.

It is morning, spitting, cold and busy. Tourists still visit in February.



I bump my suitcase down each of the stone steps, making my way down the slant of the steep street. The roads are narrow, the buildings tower, built to provide shelter from the overpowering heat of the summer. Today they would say that it rains lightly, I would say that my Lord spits, but the narrow streets of my home offer protection, of sorts.



I am wet, cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

I reach my mother’s green front door.




Sebg


a (#ulink_b8a3ccf9-2345-5d28-900e-8c350af2f3e6)


~seven

Malta’s top 5: About Malta

* 2. Language

Spoken by over 360,000 people on and off the Mediterranean islands of Malta and Gozo. Malti is the national language. It is a Semitic language, filled with borrowings from Italian, Arabic and English, written with a Latin script. The co-official languages of the islands are English and Maltese, making Malta an ideal holiday destination for English-speaking tourists.

I stand on the bumpy pavement facing my mother’s front door. I am very still, I am a statue, I think about holding my breath. I think of a childhood that was filled with laughter, with noise, with warmth.



I listen, the sounds are unfamiliar. Doors slamming, footsteps, muffled radio, rain.



I think of my sisters, Maria and Sandra, and of how we would play il-passju.



~hopscotch.



We would draw onto the pavement and curse the slope. The slope would ruin, make the game almost impossible, but still we would play. I look to the pavement, searching for chalk lines, for remnants of my past.



I think of noli.



~hide and seek.



I think of bo





i.

~marbles.



I long for this home, for my mother’s house, behind a green front door in Valletta.

I knock.



~kn – o – ck.

~kn – o – ck.

on the green front door.



I long to see marble, rich embellishments, beautiful paintings, elaborate chandeliers. I know what I expect to see.



No one answers.



I knock.



~kn – o – ck.

~kn – o – ck.

again, louder.



No one answers.



My eyes begin to focus, to notice. I look up to the balconies, there are two. The house towers, leans forward, slightly. The wooden balconies look as though they will crumble with a gust of wind. I look to the façade, discoloured, flaking plaster, cracks. I look to the green front door, weathered, drained of colour. There is a rusted padlock, a tarnished chain, to keep those in.



I need to be inside.



It is Christopher’s idea.



Of course he has been near to me the whole time. I was not really focusing on him; he was probably behind me, in front of me, over me. I do not really know.



‘Don’t worry, Mama, I know how to get in.’



He tells me.



‘You do?’ I ask.



‘Of course, through a cracked window in the basement. Nanna told me. Tilly broke the window.’



He says.



‘Tilly?’ I ask.



‘The


ares.’

~ghost, usually the protector of a house but may become resentful.



And so, Christopher slips through the crack and into my mother’s house.



I hear a key turning.



and a.



~cl – unk.

as the barrel revolves.



The chain and padlock come undone.



I hear the chain clunk.



~cl – unk.

~cl – unk.

to the floor.



And then it is gone.



I cannot explain where it has gone; only that it no longer keeps those in, those out.

I walk into my mother’s house, dragging my suitcase over debris. My eyes begin to adjust. I see through the dust and the rubble and the rubbish. The smell hits me, decaying, riddled.



I stop. I begin to hold my breath, to count, in Maltese.



I close my eyes.



Wie


ed, tnejn, tlieta, erbg


a,


amsa.

~one, two, three, four, five.



I open my eyes.



My eyes transform the tumbled ceilings, the broken banisters and within moments I am standing in my mother’s hallway. A grand sweeping staircase is on my right. A wooden coat stand, garnished with elaborate carvings, is to my left. I take off my shawl. I drape it onto the stand, next to my mother’s lace shawl. I release the grip of my suitcase, resting it near to the wall.



I shiver. It is cold in Malta. I feel cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.



And then, my mother walks in from the kitchen.



She is ahead of me, rubbing her hands over her hair, shaping her black backcombed locks into a ball. She looks young, fresh, alive. She looks my age, mid thirties, I see my shape in her curved figure. Her lips are covered in red lipstick; she is wearing her house clothes, covered with an apron. She has been cooking, I smell, I am hungry.



‘Nina, qalbi!


ejt lura d-dar, g


alija!’

~Nina, my heart! You came back home for me.



She holds out her arms, wide, and as I move towards her I become enveloped in her scent.



‘Jien qieg


da d-dar,’ I whisper.

~I am home.

The embrace is broken.



‘Christopher, where is he?’ I ask.



My eyes search, I panic.



‘He will be with Geordie, Aunt Elena’s Englishman, don’t worry. Ikunu qed jaqsmu l-birra ma’


esú.’

~they will be sharing beer with Jesus.



My mother is smiling.



‘Cic


io says that Jesus lives in Malta.’

‘He does, you’ll meet him.’



My mother says.



‘Why are there so many dead people here?’ I ask.



‘All troubled souls come to Malta, qalbi.’



~my heart.



‘But why, Mama?’ I ask.



‘You don’t remember, qalbi? To heal, the good come here to heal.’



My mother says.

We are in the kitchen.



My mother stands near to her cooker; two plates, a bowl, two forks and a large silver spoon are laid out, ready. I lean my bottom onto one of the wooden chairs; there are six surrounding the kitchen table. In the centre of the table, a glistening crystal bowl contains one single orange.



‘Cic


io told me that you were coming.’

She says, spooning out aran


ini.

~baked rice balls filled with cheese, meat sauce, peas, rice. The outside is covered in breadcrumbs.



I watch my mother.



I look as the perfect rice balls are transferred from bowl, to spoon, to plate, with ease. It was my favourite dish as a child, my mother has remembered, she has cooked them to welcome, without words. Her rice balls are filled with mozzarella, the taste used to linger, melt. The taste was unique to my mother’s recipe, different, special.



I smile.



I cross my arms over my chest, my hands rubbing to warm the tops of my arms. My mouth is filled with anticipation, juices.



‘Are you cold, qalbi?’



~my heart.



‘I am cold in my bones,’ I say.



‘You will find warmth, come, eat.’



She hands me a plate and a fork, the aran


ini roll, slightly. I uncross my arms, pull out a wooden chair and place my plate onto the table.

I think to how Christopher and I would attempt to replicate, to make aran


ini and how frustrated I would become. I used to think that I was cursed, that my inability to perfect aran


ini was my punishment for breaking my word, my promise. I was naïve. My Lord does not punish people with an inability to make rice balls. My Lord punishes with the death of a child.

I shiver.



I think of Molly. I have never cooked with Molly. Her daddy has, I cannot.



I shiver.



My mother sits next to me.



‘You cooked my favourite, thank you.’



I want to talk, to spill, to tell my mother all in the hope that she will help me, that she will make me better. I cannot find the words, not yet. My mother reads my thoughts.



‘Listen. Eat, relax and then we will talk, but not of our past, qalbi. You came home, I forgive you, qalbi.’



~my heart.



She says and then brushes her cold hand over mine.

I eat.



And when I have finished my mother peels me the last of the oranges that have fallen from a neighbour’s garden, into her backyard.



‘Listen, I have had too many this year, that neighbour should trim his tree. You remember that I hate waste, qalbi.’



~my heart.



She tells me.



‘But you like oranges so,’ I say.



‘There are many wasted this year. They have been rotting on my floor. Listen, there are too many spiders in the backyard and you know that I have such fear of creepy crawlies, qalbi.’



~my heart.



She tells me.



I think to my mother and remember her screams each time a spider, a cockroach, any insect and sometimes a simple house fly would enter into our home. My mother’s screams would be heard all the way down the slope and from boats within the harbour. I lift the orange segments, smiling.



The orange taste tangs, bitter sweet. I lift my fingers to my nose, I inhale. My fingers are covered in the smell of home.



‘G


andek swaba ta’ pjanist.’

~you have the fingers of a pianist.



My mother says and then laughs, ha ha ha.



‘I never had the patience to learn, my feet liked to patter too much,’ I say.



There is a silence, slightly too long.



‘Go into the parlour, qalbi, you look so tired, rest in my chair, use my blanket.’



~my heart.



She speaks softly, clearing the dishes from the table, placing them into the plastic bowl in her sink. My mother has her back to me.



‘Your bedroom is the same as when you left. You will feel safe in there, qalbi. It will help you to remember.’



~my heart.



I move into the parlour, I curl onto the chair.



I turn my knees, my body, so that I fit. I drift into sleep in my mother’s chair, with my mother’s crocheted blanket wrapped around me, warming my cold bones, but still I shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

Matt,

I dreamed of you last night.

I was sitting on the steps outside of the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta. The midday sun was beating down onto my shaven legs. They were itching; I had nipped the skin around my ankle, the itch was forming a scab. I was beginning to heal. I had hitched up my white cotton dress and enveloped the skirt to under my thighs. I had forgotten my sunglasses. My right hand shielded my eyes from the white glow. I was squinting. I was waiting, for you. I will always wait, for you.

In my dream, I tag on to the flowing skirt of a passer-by. She is Maltese. Her skirt is harsh between my fingertips. In my dream, I open my mouth, poised to ask her the time. But the Maltese words will not flow from me. I have forgotten my words. I have forgotten the words that I was born knowing, that are woven through my lives. In my dream the words escape me. They do not grip to my tongue. ‘Sku.zi. Tista’ tg


idli x’


in hu?’ (Excuse me. Can you tell me the time?) In my dream I long to speak these words. I long to find words that are beyond me.

I said that I dreamed of you. I did not tell you that you were not present in my dream. Instead, I was covered with a feeling and that feeling has become you. A covering that is longing.

You are the tongue that I long for. I ache with lovesickness,

Nina




Tmienja (#ulink_524e9989-1138-5311-9170-8adc7195389d)


~eight

Malta’s top 5: About Malta

* 4. Transport

For those who do not wish to risk hiring a car and driving around Malta, the buses on the island are easily recognised by their bright yellow bodies and orange stripe. They are a cheap and convenient mode of transport, offering a slow but scenic ride. Most journeys begin at the bus terminal in the capital city Valletta.

I have been back in Malta for one day, I think. It feels longer. Already time has little importance, is being blurred, lost.



I am sitting at my mother’s kitchen table. My mother has opened her cupboards and is balancing on her tiptoes, stretching in, moving around tins, jars, pasta, vegetables, flour. She has her back to me. Her dress has risen to the fold in the back of her knee. I look to see the perfectly formed muscles on her stretched calves. She always loved dancing with my father. My mother talks into the wood of the cupboards, ignoring my responses to her food-related questions.



She wants me to eat more, she wants to prepare something additional, extra, indulgent for me, but I am full to my throat. I refuse, over and over. She does not listen.



My fingers are trailing the rim of the empty crystal fruit bowl.



‘L-aqwa li


ejt lura id-dar, dak biss li jg


odd.’

~you came back home, that is all that matters.



My mother breaks my thoughts.



‘I’m too late,’ I reply.



‘Listen, when you left I told you naqta’ qalbi.’



~I cut my heart, I lost hope.



‘I remember,’ I say.



‘But you came home to Malta and now again I have hope.’



‘I have no hope. I’m lost Mama.’



I sob.



‘No, qalbi, no. There is always hope.’



~my heart.



‘I’m here; I’ve abandoned my husband, my daughter. I don’t know what to do next. Please will you help me?’ I ask.



‘Search the island Nina, find yourself. And then we will talk.’



My mother tells me.



‘Come with me, guide me, please,’ I say.



‘I cannot. I will only leave this home one more time.’



‘I don’t understand,’ I say.



‘You will.’



She speaks the words softly and then moves to me. My mother places her cold hands onto my shoulders and looks into my eyes, then over my face.



I shiver.



‘U qalbi.’



~and my heart.



She says.



‘Inti g


arwiena ming


ajr lipstick.’

~you are naked without lipstick.



She tells me and then pulls me into her scent.



‘Have you seen your bedroom?’



My mother asks.



‘Not yet,’ I say, into the material of her house clothes.

The wooden banister is smooth under my fingers. My great-grandfather had carved it, a wedding present for my grandfather, my mother’s father. My mother and I would polish it every day. It shone, it gleamed, it was proud and glorious. My fingertips tease the surface as I walk the marble steps of my mother’s grand sweeping staircase.



My bedroom door is open, welcoming; the morning light, my Lord’s smile, shines in through the window’s net covering. I stand in the doorway and my eyes flick around the room, as I hold my breath from fear that I will exhale and puff the image away. It all feels so fragile, delicate, temporary.



Everything is as it had once been. My summer clothes hang in the open wardrobe, all pressed and blemish free. My bookcases are crowded with childhood books, Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, with bootleg cassettes bought from Valletta’s Sunday morning market, with frilly favours from family weddings and baptisms, with statues of Cinderella, so many statues of Cinderella. I dare not step into my room. Instead, I look at my walls, at the framed photographs of my cousins, my sisters, my grandparents, of me. And then I look at my bed, my Rosary lies across my pillow, a crucifix is nailed to the wall above; a photograph of my parents is framed, is perched on my bedside cabinet, is making my stomach churn.



I step back, I close my bedroom door, I walk down the marble steps and I drag my suitcase from the wall near to the wooden coat stand and into my mother’s parlour.

I am dressing, clothes spilling from my open suitcase and onto the floor, next to my mother’s chair.



I hear banging, glass smashing. I run half-dressed, my white cotton dress unbuttoned, into my mother’s kitchen. I am full of fear.



My mother is at the sink, safe, facing the doorway, water is dripping from her hands and to her sandalled feet.



there appears to be a swirling.



~s – wir.

~s – wir.

whirling see-through ghost swishing around the room. She is grey, rotating the kitchen at top speed.



‘Mama?’ I shriek.



My mother smiles, calm, then raises her eyebrows, a frown.



‘It is just Tilly. She is our resent-filled


ares.’

~ghost, usually the protector of a house but may become bitter.



My mother says the words in a loud, a stern voice.



‘Mama, why is she here?’ I ask.



‘She is healing.’



My mother says.



Tilly stops spinning, flipping on the spot, instead.



‘You’re a lucky cow.’



She says to me; then she drifts, floats, spins out the kitchen, out through me.



‘Mama?’ My voice is high pitched.



‘It is just Tilly. You will get used to her, qalbi.’



~my heart.

I return to my mother’s parlour, buttoning my dress with trembling fingers.



Today I wear layers, a white cotton dress, a shawl, a cardigan, to unpeel. I am an onion. I discard my knee-length boots. I find flip-flops next to my mother’s chair, perhaps they once belonged to one of my sisters. My mother has told me that it is hot outside, unexpectedly for February; my mother tells me that my Lord is happy.



I frown.



‘Will you move your suitcase to your bedroom, qalbi?’



~my heart.



My mother asks.



‘Maybe later,’ I say, I lie.



Christopher walks in from the kitchen.



‘Will you come with me today?’ I ask my son.



‘No, I can’t. Go find yourself, Mama.’



He tells me.



I know that he has been talking to my mother.



‘But what will you do?’ I ask.



‘I’m meeting Geordie.’



He tells me.



‘Why is he in Malta?’ I ask.



‘He’s waiting, like me.’



He tells me.



‘What will you do today?’ I ask.



‘We will share beer with Jesus, of course.’



Christopher says and then laughs, ha ha ha.



I think, you are too young to be drinking beer. I think, Jesus should know better.



Christopher runs out through the door, laughing and shouting over his shoulder.



‘Mama you worry too much. Age does not matter in my world.’



I smile.

I am leaving my mother’s house.



I open the green front door and stand on the step.



The door closes behind me, I hear a key turning.



and a.



~cl – unk.

as the barrel revolves.



I am forced out onto the cobbles.



I look, the chain and padlock are connected, have reappeared.

I flip, I flop up the slope.



~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

hurrying to catch a yellow Maltese bus.



The sun beats down. I walk in shadows, in shade. I look to the floor and I concentrate on the sounds that flip and flop behind me. My feet offer rhythm. I smile. I focus on my musical feet and alter my flip-flopping to create patterns that are flowing, melodic, light. I offer small leaps; I twirl as I flip, as I flop.



I must look ridiculous, but in this moment I do not care. I feel different, already, today. I do not know if this is good or if this is bad.



I feel lighter. I feel that I could float, or fly, or hover.

I want to fly.

I leave the protection of the city walls and the buildings that lean inwards, that shelter. I walk out through the City Gate. The sun beats down, bubbling my blood. I sweat.



I am at the bus terminal. The pavement is curved with kiosks in varied sizes, in different colours, each selling drinks, snacks, newspapers, cigarettes, magazines, souvenirs. The kiosks mark a line, a curved line, for where the buses will stop, where people must wait, must buy.



I pick up a bottle of water from the smallest blue kiosk. A little girl stands on an overturned plastic crate, behind the counter. The kiosk smells of stale alcohol, the girl is alone. She looks to be the same age as Molly, small, innocent, unaccompanied. I look around for an adult, for her parent.



‘Fejn hu il-


enitur tieg


ek?’ I ask.

~where is your parent?



The child does not speak. She holds out her palm, with her almost black eyes drilling into my face. I stare at her palm. There are no lines marking the skin, it is smooth, clean.



I fumble, I place a single euro into her hand. The child does not speak, she does not smile, she does not retract her hand, she does not remove her eyes from my face. I turn, I walk. I feel her stare following me as I flip-flop away, to the bus.

I climb the metal steps, one, two, three, of the first bus that I reach.



The white roof, the yellow paint, the orange stripe, they comfort.

As the bus pulls out onto the road, I look to the kiosk. The child has gone. A bearded man wears a pink sun visor. He tips the pink plastic peak to me and then, inside my head, I hear his gravelly laugh, ha ha ha.

The bus is not busy. I am glad.



I rest the side of my head onto the cool window and I move with the bus. We bounce, we swerve, we dip, we jolt. I press my face, harder, onto the glass. It cools me.



I think, I am invisible.



I close my eyes and I breathe the dust, in and out, in and out.



I listen to the quiet prayers that the bus driver mutters.



He is blessing my soul.



I wonder if he is too late.

The creaky bus is fast.



I watch from the window.



The bus takes me through Birkirkara, slowing to a crawl past the house where my grandmother was born. I look to the balcony, to the room where she entered the world. I see her. She waves.



The bus picks up speed.



The bus hurries past familiar houses, past shops, past families walking the crooked pavements. They are blurred. The buildings vary in size, in purpose; they are known, almost untouched, unaltered during the missed years.



I smile.

The bus stops. Its final destination.




Disg


a (#ulink_5582ccec-e65a-5861-b4ce-e7a99b3beb80)


~nine

Malta’s top 5: Churches and Cathedrals

* 5. The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta

The magnificent dome is said to be third largest in Europe and was targeted during World War II. While a congregation prayed, a bomb penetrated the dome and fell to the ground, yet no one was harmed. The bomb is displayed within the church.

I walk to the stone steps, those in front of the church of Mosta whose dome dominates the beautiful skyline of my island. The steps are insignificant, lost beneath the mighty church. The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta marks the heart, the soul, the essence of the island.



I sit down.

I am on the top step.



my feet are moving.



~p – it – ter.

~p – it – ter.

pattering, restless.



I am looking at my ruby red toenails, at the cracks in the layers, the imperfections. I always do that; I know that Matt would agree. I see negatives in myself, beauty in others. I wish that I had thought to remove the nail varnish, to repaint my toenails and then I laugh, ha ha ha. I had not planned this journey, I had not thought.



My toes are covered in a fine layer of white dust, Maltese dust, the leftovers of lives. A fine layer of white dust has already settled onto the smooth steps; I wonder which fragments of lives, of memories exist beside me, covering me. Some of the remnants will be lost within the white cotton of my dress. I think, I will not wash my dress.



I rub my hands down the cotton material. I turn my palms to look, to see. A fine layer of white dust coats my skin. I smile. The dust should sink into me, become me. I hunch over, leaning forward, my breasts point down towards my lap. I stroke my dusty palms over my calves, the hairs are soft, relaxed. I rarely shave in the winter. I should have thought, I laugh again, ha ha ha. I can see the hairs, dark on pale skin, others will too.



I can no longer pretend to be perfect.



I smile.

I sweep my hair around to my left shoulder, twist it smaller, tighter, twirling down the hair until it pulls at my roots. My hair is thick, too thick, neither straight nor curly, just thick. My hair has character, I am told. As I grip the twist in my hair, my neck is exposed, hoping for a breeze to swirl over. I long for a cool gush of breath, the blowing of my Lord’s breath onto, into my being.



The midday sun is peaking, uncharacteristically hot for February. I wonder if my Lord is happy with me. I wonder if this is another test, endurance of sorts. Sweat trickles from beneath my thick hair, down my neck, slowly, down my spine.

I refuse to move from the step. I stay. I take His torture.



My eyes are searching, for Christopher, for Matt, for Molly.



I am an adult, I remind myself.



I need to gain control, I remind myself.



My right hand attempts to shade my eyes from the burning sun. I am scanning the beeping cars, the hustle, the queues of traffic, the lines of buses. I am searching faces. I am squinting into eyes. I am searching for people who are no longer there, here, not really. I do not want to go into the church, alone.



I wonder if Christopher can hear me.



I shout to him, inside my head.



I shout to Jesus too.

Christopher does not appear.



Jesus does not appear.

The dust is rising, circulating.



I am lost within the moment. My Lord’s emotions are controlling me, His blood is the bubbling sun, the dust is in His swirling breath.



I have no choice.



Life is not full of choices, not in the way that we are taught, that we believe. We are being controlled, guided, influenced. There is no free will.

I grab my shawl; my cardigan is shoved between the straps of my handbag. I snatch my almost empty bottle of water. I stand, push my toes until they rub into the bar of the flip-flops. They are pink flip-flops. I think of Molly. I sweep the shawl round to cover my naked shoulders, a church entry requirement.



I turn, I flip-flop.



~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

up to the Rotunda.

I stop, in the doorway, in the shaded, the cool. I look into the vast, the beautiful space within the church. Rays of sunlight shine down through the dome, into the centre, bringing illumination, bringing focus. I look to the empty wooden chairs that are lined, facing the intricate altar. I think to the congregation.

The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta in Mosta stands tall and proud. It is a church where an incontestable miracle occurred. The ninth of April 1942 is a date etched within Maltese roots. It is a date that has been passed down through generations. The air bombardments of World War II were destroying the island of Malta. My people feared for their lives, yet as a nation they did not wait helplessly for death. The people of Malta pulled together, united in prayer; they trusted in their God.



On that very day in April, it is said that around three hundred of my people were praying in the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta, as a German bomb penetrated through the huge dome, falling into the heart of the congregation.



It is believed that a miracle happened. They say that the impossible occurred.



It is said that that Axis bomb bounced to the floor and failed to explode, that no one was injured.



When I was a child, my mother would tell me that the bomb not exploding was God’s answer to our people’s prayers for protection. She told me that God had rewarded their united faith. She told me that the bomb not exploding was evidence of God’s existence and that belief in His being was beyond doubt, beyond question. The bomb was faith.



I think that a renewed conviction connected those people, those who had seen that miracle, who had had their prayers answered. Their world, their island was crumbling to ruin, but their God had shown them that He was trying, that He was there and that they would be rewarded, eventually. There could be no questioning of faith, of God, not after the bomb that failed to explode.



I understand that.



Their reward, I guess, came in the renewed sense of community, of belonging, from a faith that was beyond question.

I do not have that faith. I do not have a miracle to pass through generations.

I am standing in the doorway, away from the sun that bubbles my blood.



‘I doubt you,’ I say.



‘Are you listening?’ I ask.



‘I don’t believe, I doubt,’ I say.



Then I hear that voice.

Jesus: Then answer this. Who do you talk to, my Nina?

He says and I hear, but I do not speak.



instead, I flip-flop forward.



~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

As people enter the great domed church in Mosta, the Rotunda, they can be heard to gasp. There is beauty, there is magnitude, there is scale, there is decadence.



Within the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta there are blue walls, frescos, statues, gold, ornate exhibits of worship, of united faith. The church speaks of wealth, of generous donations made to please, to compete with other villages. All is lavish, a magnitude of curves, with intricate details into each arch, into every nook.



I enter the Rotunda and stop.



I make no gasp.

‘Support the church, support our cause.’



He rattles a wooden box. His accent is broken, clearly spoken English with a Maltese twang. The sound is more of a . I smile, I have the same. I have tried so hard to pronounce the digraph . I think of Matt, of how he would tease me and giggle as I tried to sound English, to act English.



I never could, not really, of course, because I am not, I am not English.



I turn to face him, the man rattling the wooden box.



‘Jiena Maltija,’ I say.



~I am Maltese.



The man with the box does not respond.



He is not too close, arm’s length perhaps, but I can still smell stale beer. The smell is strong, covering him. I think that it is pouring from him, with his sweat.



I fumble in my handbag, in my purse for a euro.



I miss the Maltese Lira. The euro puzzles me.



I place a euro into the slot on the top of the wooden box. I hear it drop onto the other coins. The man does not thank me. Instead, he rattles his wooden box and he chants his mantra.



‘Support the church, support our cause.’

Minutes have passed, I have not moved. I am still standing at the mouth of the church. I am clutching my handbag tight to my chest.



I have been here before, of course, but today I am a tourist. I have lost what it is to be Maltese.

My eyes they flick, they flack, left, right, forward, upward, downward.



my eyes, they.



~fl – ick.

~fl – ack.

~fl – ick.

~fl – ack.

rapidly, until they find a point of focus.



There is a highly decorative marble baptism font, close to the door, on my left. The font is covered now, no longer used. That font reeks of death, not of birth, not of celebration. Infant mortality was high; baptisms were made within a few hours of birth, once upon a time. The death of a child was almost expected.



My eyes rest on the covered font, a sign of progression.



I think of Christopher, of his body, broken and bloody, in the road.

My bones feel weak, they will buckle and bend; I need to sit.



There are wooden chairs, in front of me. They form rows for the congregation, for those who have faith. The hardbacked, not cushioned, chairs face the intricate altar. They are not there for comfort, or to offer rest, they are for those who believe, for those who have no doubt.



I cannot allow myself to sit there, not on the congregation chairs, not there.



My eyes search for a place to rest.



I want to see the bomb, but my legs will not work, they are crumpling.



I.



~sp – in,

~sp – in,

~sp – in.

slowly, spiralling on the spot.



I go around and around and around, searching for a place to sit.



I drop my handbag, it makes no sound.



I fall to my knees, to the marble floor.





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