Mark Mills - The Information Officer

The lieutenant governor assured the men that they wouldn’t be disappointed with the new governor, and even shared an anecdote to bear out his point. As luck would have it, the seaplane base at Kalafrana had suffered a heavy air raid soon after Lord Gort’s arrival, the first bombs raining down right in the middle of the swearing-in ceremony. A very large egg, possibly a two-thousand-pounder, had narrowly missed the base commander’s house where they were all gathered, sending everyone diving for cover—everyone other than Lord Gort, who had barely flinched.

He’ll learn , thought Max.

“Something for you to use, Major Chadwick, when the time’s right.”

“Absolutely, sir. Stirring stuff.”

He saw Colonel Gifford’s nostrils twitch, sniffing for sarcasm.

The meeting over, the men filed out of the office, past Hodges, and into the corridor. Colonel Gifford followed close on their heels.

“Major Chadwick …”

He evidently wanted a word in private, so Max hung back. Gifford waited for the others to drift out of earshot before speaking.

“No hard feelings about the other day, I hope?”

“No, just suitably chastened.” He threw in a coy and contrite little look. “I was a bloody fool. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Gifford appeared to swallow it. “That’s war for you. It messes with our perspective on things.”

“Not yours.”

“No, even mine.”

This admission of fallibility was accompanied by an almost beatific expression.

Just think of Busuttil , Max told himself, out there at this very moment, digging for the truth .

“Well, we’re all going to have to stay focused over the next few days,” said Gifford. “The time of reckoning is here.”

“Let’s hope,” replied Max.

Mother hen was seated at the counter, talking to the barman, and her lined face lit up when she saw him.

Josef dumped himself at a table well away from the other girls and waited for her to join him. She made her way over with a small glass of something brown.

“On the house.”

Josef sneaked a sip. It was whisky, and it hadn’t been watered down. He flattened a larger sip against his palate, savoring it.

“I need to know if you were lying.”

“Lying?”

“About Ken.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because of your nephew.”

“I told you what Mary told me.”

“She definitely said he was with the submarines?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else? Dark, fair? Thin, fat?”

“How many fat people do you know on Malta?”

“True.”

“Gozo, maybe. I hear they still eat like kings on Gozo.”

She reached for one of his cigarettes, and he lit it for her.

“I see him as having a mustache, but I don’t know if that’s because of something Mary said.”

“Can you think of anyone else she might have talked to about him? Maybe someone from her family?”

“She wasn’t close to her family. She wasn’t close to many people. She lived alone in Hamrun.”

He didn’t bother asking for the address. He had enough on his plate already without a trip to Hamrun.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“No,” replied Josef. “But you’re going to tell me the name of your nephew and I’m going to see what I can do for him.”

“There’s no need to take it so personally. We’ve all been through it.”

Pemberton shifted in his chair. “You’re asking me to lie?”

“To exercise a certain discretion. The press correspondents are out to make a name for themselves. Good news, bad news, it’s all fair game to them.”

Pemberton had made the mistake of being honest with one of the correspondents about a couple of Beaufighters that had failed to return to Luqa after a mission. It was the sort of news you didn’t want going off the island.

“All I’m saying is, be a bit more guarded in your responses to them.”

“Guarded?”

“Gray. Until you’ve spoken to me.”

Pemberton fumbled for a cigarette. Poor boy , thought Max, he’s probably never put a foot wrong . It was written all over him: top of the class, captain of sports, victor ludorum , head boy, handsome as hell, and now this—a small blunder that had tarnished his perfect record.

“Rosamund says no one reads the Daily Situation Report,” Pemberton moaned.

“Does she?”

“She says it’s a joke.”

“Not for the men whose deaths you’re recording.”

Max was beginning to lose his patience, but Pemberton didn’t appear to notice.

“She says no one reads it and the Maltese don’t believe a word of it.”

True enough; he knew that from Lilian.

“Surely they have to read it in order not to believe a word of it.”

“That’s semantics.”

“Semantics is our business. The sooner you understand that, the better it’ll be for you.”

This time, Max invested his voice with a firm touch of authority that startled Pemberton into silence.

“Look,” sighed Max, “whatever you think, whatever you’ve heard, they’ll all be reading it over the next few days. It’s my guess you’re about to chronicle one of the great moments of this war.”

“You think so?”

“I do. I think we’re going to show the Germans a thing or two tomorrow. I think they won’t know what’s hit them. I think we’re going to be standing on the beach when the tide turns.”

It was hardly Churchill, but it seemed to lift Pemberton’s spirits.

“I like that image of the tide turning. I was brought up by the sea, you know?”

Probably swims like a fish, too , thought Max.

The moment Pemberton was gone, Max lit a cigarette and reflected on the exchange. He felt bad for having raised his voice. He knew he had only been taking out his own frustrations on his young charge, the most recent conversation with Tommy Ravilious still fresh in his mind.

Max had thought about heading over to the submarine base in person. Remembering Busuttil’s warning to tread carefully, he had picked up the phone instead.

“Tommy, it’s Max.”

“Ahhhh, Max …” There was something strange in his tone.

“A quick question—”

“I should stop you there, old man. I’m under orders not to speak to you.”

“What?”

“Apparently you’ve become persona non grata. I told them you always were.”

“Who’s them?”

“Does it matter? The powers that be.”

“Tommy, this is important.”

“So’s my pension, old man.”

“Ken.”

“Come again?”

“I’m trying to find a chap called Ken. He’s one of yours, probably an officer.”

“They said you weren’t to be trusted and I was to let them know if you tried to make contact.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I most certainly can, but I’m not going to. I’m going to hang up.”

“Is he one of yours? Yes or no?”

“Sorry, no ken do.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s code, you idiot. We don’t have a Ken—not now, not ever.”

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“What for? We never spoke.”

A dead end. There was nothing more he could do to move matters along. The waiting game was messing with his head, and young Pemberton had paid the price for it.

He was thinking about taking another turn on the roof when the phone rang. It was Maria, and she had Hugh on the line.

“Your presence is requested for dinner at ours this evening, seven for seven-thirty. You won’t guess what we’re eating.”

“I’m so hungry that dog would do.”

“Try duck.”

“Duck? Not Laurel and Hardy!”

Laurel and Hardy were two plump mallards who’d inhabited the pond at the end of Hugh and Rosamund’s garden. They were part of the family, like surrogate children. Max had spent many an hour gathering snails to feed them.