‘It’s not a problem. You know that.’ She paused, turned back to the other man and stood motionless, her heart beating furiously. ‘So, how are you, Bobby?’ she managed to say.
He nodded. ‘Well enough.’
She glanced around. ‘And your wife?’
‘Died five years ago. Cancer.’
She nodded and took a deep breath, stifling a rising feeling of bitterness. ‘Right. Sorry, Addison, but I have to go back to Valletta.’
‘Won’t you stay for a coffee?’ Bobby said, and as he took a step towards her, she could see he was walking with a limp.
No longer a pilot then, she thought as she shook her head and made for the door. ‘See you later, Addison.’
She paused on the landing to steady her breath and heard Bobby say, ‘Doesn’t she live here any longer?’
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘She lives with Otto, you know, the journalist in Valletta.’
She didn’t wait to hear any more and scurried down the stairs.
On Sunday night she heard the whine of a bomb, then a deafening crash and the sound of gunfire. There had been no warning siren. Otto’s apartment shook again, and he ran into her room to see if she was hurt.
‘Were we hit?’ she asked, her heart thumping.
‘I don’t know. You okay?’
She nodded. ‘We’d better get the hell out.’
He ran after her, racing down the stairs at breakneck speed while crashes and roars thundered around them. When they finally reached the junk-filled cellar, he held on to her, both panting from the effort and cowering in fear. The attack went on and on, until Riva’s head was throbbing with sound of engines and explosions and anti-aircraft fire. Hell. Sheer hell. No other word for it and she didn’t feel prepared.
In the morning they surveyed the broken windows, theglass-strewn streets and the dust, so much dust, though so far most of the buildings close to theirs seemed intact. But the people tramping the streets were angry, shouting and swearing and many so distressed they barely knew what to do. Riva comforted the elderly among them and brought them blankets and hot drinks. Reassured, they picked themselves up and carried on.
Eventually the night-time horror exploding in the purple skies above them became such a regular occurrence, they became accustomed to it. When she lay awake at night listening, she allowed herself to think of Bobby. What had he been doing in Malta? Why had he been at Addison’s place in Mdina? There had been an all-out evacuation of most British civilians so it was odd that he should be there. As much as she tried to forget him, he haunted her thoughts.
Months later, at the end of a terribly long day, Riva heard from Lottie that Hugh Lloyd, the RAF AOC, or commanding officer, was looking for women – on the quiet – to be trained for duties in the plotting rooms. The war rooms were overwhelmed and needed more staff, but it was top secret work and they had to be careful who they took on. Riva, excited at the thought of it, went directly to the address Lottie had given her, but was worried they might just want Englishwomen.
She was ushered to a room where a stern-looking woman officer who called herself Roberts handed her some sheets of paper. ‘It’s an intelligence test. You have half an hour.’
Riva sat at a small desk in the corner and bent her head, feeling nervous. It was like being back at school with only half an hour to get it right.
When the time was up, which to Riva didn’t seem like half an hour at all, the woman rang a bell and beckoned her forward. ‘You are French,’ Roberts said, glancing down at the top sheet where Riva had written her name. Then she pressed a button on her desk and another woman came in. ‘Mark this would you, Giovanna?’
The second woman, Giovanna, nodded and took the sheets of paper away.
‘I am French,’ Riva said. ‘But I’ve lived here since 1925.’
‘Indeed. I have heard of your efforts to rectify the problems with prostitution. Very outspoken, I understand.’
‘I did what I could.’
‘Your command of English is the most important thing, although you still have to pass the test and be cleared by security. As you have been here for so long and have a good track record, that shouldn’t be a problem.’
Riva crossed her fingers behind her back.
Giovanna came back in and gave the officer the papers.
Roberts glanced down at a number at the top encircled by green. ‘Well, you have top marks. You have the go-ahead from me. Giovanna, take her to security please.’
In security a bald man went over her application and asked her a few questions about her background and whether she visited Italy much before the war and did she have any German ancestry. When she replied in the negative, he asked about her work for Addison. The questions went on and she worried her false papers might be herundoing. But she now had medical cards and an insurance number in her new name, plus her false passport, and nothing was said. But still when he let her go she felt sure she must have failed.
