Keeping Faith

This powerful short story by Jacqui Cooper is set during World War II.

The war had arrived in Malta, and Faith missed Cliff more than she could put into words . . .

LAND!” Faith heard the cry and hurried on deck. She loved the first glimpse of her Maltese home. Today, however, instead of the warm glow of Valletta’s skyline and the colourful fishing boats in Grand Harbour, she was confronted by huge, gunmetal-grey Naval ships.

It was a grim reminder of the war she’d left behind in England.

The sight had a subduing effect on the other passengers, too.

Instead of excited chatter, there was silence as they disembarked.

Thankfully, though, some things hadn’t changed, and she spotted her cousin, Marco, beside the pony and trap, waving madly.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she told him, eyeing the barbed wire and the signs warning: No Swimming; No Fishing.

“Otherwise I’d think they’d dropped me on the wrong island.”

Marco’s smile flashed warm and familiar as he grabbed her bag.

“We’re not allowed to take boats out,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Then he winked and Faith laughed, relieved that while her home city might look different, nothing had really changed.

The islanders’ indomitable spirit lived on despite the madness the world had descended into.

“How is Mama?” she asked as they climbed into the trap and set off.

“Good,” Marco replied. “Her operation went well and she picked up when she heard you were coming.”

He gave her a sideways look.

“Not that she’d ever admit to missing you.”

Faith nodded. Her mother wasn’t an easy woman to understand.

In fact, she’d told Faith in no uncertain terms after her hysterectomy that a visit was not required.

But Faith had been worried about her. War or no war, she’d had to come.

Marco dropped her at the top of a cobbled alleyway that led down to a small square with four neat houses.

Flowers spilled from window-boxes, and a black cat paused in his ablutions to watch her approach.

The door to the house wasn’t locked, of course, and she pushed it open.

Immediately the smell of home hit her – Mama had been cooking.

A small dog, stiff with age, approached Faith.

Recognising the visitor, the little Maltese terrier let out an excited yip and Faith dropped down on one knee.

“Hello, Missy.” When she looked up, her mother was standing in the kitchen doorway.

Cara was a fine-looking woman, upright and slender, her once jet-black hair neatly pinned in a bun.

But her skin was sallow and Faith didn’t miss the shadows under her eyes.

“Hi, Mama,” she said, rising to her feet.

“I told you not to come.” It was no surprise to

Faith to get more of a welcome from the dog.

Cara had never been one for displays of affection, but the smell from the kitchen told a different story.

“Rabbit stew,” Faith said appreciatively.

The rich, dark, slowcooked dish had always been her favourite.

“Sit,” Cara ordered.

Only a slight lift at the corners of her mouth showed her pleasure.

Faith was a good sailor but even she had succumbed to sea-sickness on this crossing.

Now, though, faced with her mother’s cooking, her appetite came rushing back and she realised she was famished.

Sitting in her usual chair, she watched Cara ladle out thick, fragrant stew.

Eagerly, she broke off a chunk of fresh, crusty bread.

“Aren’t you having some?”

“I ate earlier,” Cara said. Faith wasn’t sure about that. Cara had lost weight and there were new lines around her eyes, but she knew her mother wouldn’t thank her for mentioning it.

“So,” Cara began. “The hospital let you come?”

Faith nodded, her mouth full.

Matron had been annoyed at losing a nurse temporarily, but had understood.

“And this fiancé of yours,” Cara continued. “You’ve left him?”

Faith’s fork clattered on to the plate, splashing gravy everywhere.

She was glad of the momentary distraction as she cleaned up.

“Left? No . . . I mean . . .” “In England,” Cara said. “You left him in England.”

Faith kept her gaze lowered.

“Well, yes. Cliff is a pilot. There was no chance of him getting away.”

“He didn’t buy you a ring?”

She should have remembered that her mother missed nothing. Faith glanced down at her bare left hand.

“Of course he did.” She pictured the beautiful sapphire she’d ripped off in fury and thrown at his feet. “I helped in sickbay on the ship to pay for my passage.

“I don’t wear it when I’m working.”

Her mother gave her a long look, but said no more.

****

“Mama, no!”

Faith’s yell stopped Cara as she was about to lift a box of oranges on to the table.

“No lifting,” she reminded her. “Not for six weeks. Let me.”

It had quickly become clear to Faith that Cara hadn’t been able to keep the house to her usual high standards.

Glad of something to do, Faith set about remedying this, sweeping and cleaning.

Despite the Naval ships dominating the harbour, Faith was pleased to discover that life in Valletta was continuing pretty much as normal.

Unlike England, where the war was beginning to bite, the shops here were well stocked and market stalls full of colourful produce.

Every day, when out shopping, she stopped to catch up with old friends, offering congratulations on marriages and babies, while dodging questions about her own circumstances.

Most of her days were so full she could almost believe she had never left.

But she had left, and met a wonderful man.

Then she had ruined everything.

“You don’t write,” Cara said one evening.

Now that Faith had insisted they eat together for every meal, her mother was already looking better. “Write?”

“To your fiancé. You’ve been here for weeks now and I haven’t seen you write a letter.”

She was wrong. Night after night Faith wrote long, long letters.

Every morning she tore them up.

“There’s a war on, Mama. He might not even get it.”

“He will never get a letter you don’t write,” Cara said.

“I’ve booked my passage back to England,” Faith replied. “I’ll see him soon.”

To her relief, Cara let it drop.

Although the war felt far away, it was still the main topic of conversation, and islanders spent many hours speculating about the events going on in the world.

On a bright summer day in early June, the news that Italy had joined the war on the side of the Germans was met with shock and disbelief.

After all, Sicily was their nearest neighbour, a mere 60 miles away. Everyone had family there or at least close friends.

And now they were enemies? It made no sense to the crowds gathering in the streets.

The consensus was that it probably wouldn’t come to anything.

Except the very next day, Italy attacked.

Faith was outside, watering the window-boxes and wondering how the previous day’s news might affect her voyage back to England the following week.

She was just thinking that Matron wouldn’t be happy with a delay when the sound of aircraft made her look up.

Planes flying over

Valletta were an everyday occurrence, but today they sounded different. Louder.

When they flew into view, they were much bigger.

Engaged to a RAF officer, Faith was good at identifying planes and her blood ran cold.

Drawn by the noise, people came out of shops and houses, shielding their eyes to gaze at the sky.

No-one seemed frightened, only curious.

Until the bombs began to fall.

There was a moment of stunned immobility, then all hell broke loose as everyone began running for cover, frantically snatching up children on the way.

But Faith couldn’t move. She stood, shocked, as a plume of smoke rose from Grand Harbour.

Suddenly more planes darted into view, smaller and faster, as the island’s defences responded to the attack, harassing the bigger bombers.

The sound of these new aircraft was so familiar to Faith that immediately she was pulled back to

England, her heart in her mouth every time planes from the nearby airbase scrambled, wondering if Cliff was one of them.

Watching the sky now, a familiar wave of fear and nausea washed over her.

“Faith!” It was Mama, tugging urgently at her sleeve. “Come inside.”

Faith resisted, but her mother was determined.

Seconds later both women were safely inside the thick stone walls of the little house.

Cara slammed the door and Faith ran to the bathroom and threw up.

When she came back, shaking, Cara led her to the table and made her sit down.

Outside, the bombs continued to fall, each explosion shaking the thick walls of house.

“It is a mercy that we have someone to protect us,” Cara said, crossing herself.

Faith couldn’t answer. She closed her eyes and saw Cliff, so dashing in his RAF uniform, like a character out of a film.

She gripped the glass to keep her hands steady.

“I don’t know if he’s alive, Mama,” she whispered.

Another bomb whistled down and Faith flinched.

“Tell me about him,” Cara said gently.

Faith didn’t want to talk about Cliff. Just thinking about him brought so much pain.

But suddenly she couldn’t stop.

“He was a schoolmaster before the war,” she began. “A good teacher. His pupils loved him.

“He didn’t have to join up, but I understood why he did.”

Cara nodded her encouragement but didn’t

Faith stood, shocked, as a plume of smoke rose from Grand Harbour

say anything.

“He was so excited to be accepted for pilot training,” Faith went on. “He said most of those places went to toffs, not to ordinary men like him.”

She shook her head.

“He was so clever, but somehow not quite clever enough to figure why they always needed so many new pilots.

“He loved flying, though. Loved knowing he was doing his bit. Once he finished training and started going out on missions, he changed.”

Tears filled her eyes and Cara nodded again.

“Just like your father.” Cara had married an English sailor who had returned home to fight in the Great War.

“I waved away one man, but a different one came back.

“He was closed down inside. Like your Cliff?” “No.”

Closing down would have been easier to understand, but the gentle, reserved man she had fallen for had disappeared.

Instead, Cliff came back from every mission exhilarated, alive with the thrill of the chase, reliving every moment in detail, laughing off the danger.

Faith could understand the physical reaction: the adrenaline rush the body produced to combat the desperate fear.

What she couldn’t understand was the cheering, backslapping and laughter as Cliff and his buddies replayed each battle over and over.

Most of all, though, it was their apparent disregard for the men they had killed – men with families who loved them – or for their own safety.

Afterwards, on the way home from the pub, she’d remonstrate with him.

“They were trying to kill me,” he would say, annoyed.

Which was true, of course. Looking back, Faith could see that she was raging against the insanity of war, not Cliff.

That last night, Cliff’s squadron had returned without him.

Faith, finishing a double shift at the hospital, had been out of her mind with worry.

She’d made her way to the airbase, her presence there tolerated by men who didn’t know what to say to her.

She was there when a cheer went up. Cliff had been spotted!

She was there for his hero’s welcome.

And she was there to see his plane riddled with bullets.

Everyone was celebrating. A flask of whisky was passed round.

Cliff had laughed and swung Faith around.

But all she could think of was how close she’d come to losing him and something inside her had snapped.

“This is just a game to you!” she’d yelled, pushing him away. “You don’t care about me.

“You just care about the thrill. It’s like a drug to you!”

On any other day Cliff might have seen through her anger as fear and responded differently.

But he was still too hyped up from his recent adventure to be rational.

“How can you say that?” he’d demanded. “I’m doing this for us. For our future!”

They’d had a huge row, culminating in Faith ripping off her engagement ring and tossing it at his feet before storming off.

Faith’s passage to Malta was already booked.

Early the next day, without hearing from Cliff, she’d set sail.

“Mama, I love him so much,” she whispered.

Cara didn’t hesitate, drawing her daughter into her arms, rocking her as she sobbed.

****

With the Italians now blockading the harbour, there was no way Faith could return to England.

The day after the attack, she took the bus to the nearby hospital to offer her services.

She breathed in the familiar scent of the hospital corridors, surprised how much she had missed it.

The matron was reassuringly efficient. She listened to what Faith had to say.

Then she sat, scrutinising Faith in silence for a long time, before gently refusing her offer of help.

“I know we’re at war,” she said, not unkindly, “but there is no place for a woman in your condition on my wards.”

Faith was confused.

“My condition?”

Matron looked at Faith’s bare left hand.

“I’ve been doing this job a long time,” she said quietly. “You’re not the first young nurse to make the same mistake.

“When is the baby due?” The baby? Faith was still reeling by the time she reached home.

She’d had no inkling that she was pregnant.

But the signs were all there – the sea-sickness on the way over; the nausea she had put down to stress.

“I did wonder,” was all Cara said when Faith blurted out her news.

Things rather caught up with Faith after that and she went to pieces.

The tables were turned and Cara fussed quietly, making sure she ate and rested.

But a few weeks later Faith felt well enough to make a trip to the airbase. The Wing Commander was kind. He listened to her tale, but without a wedding ring on her finger, to him she was just another foolish girl who had fallen for a false promise.

He took the letter she had written and swore to do his best to ensure it reached Cliff.

In January, baby Mikel was born.

From the very first

moment he opened his eyes, he had his mother and his grandmother wrapped around his tiny, precious little fingers.

The war was really beginning to bite now.

Food had been scarce for a while and every day more buildings were reduced to rubble.

Still Faith heard nothing from Cliff, but she refused to give up.

She stopped going to the airbase.

While she was generally met with kindness, her visits drew her attention to the alarmingly high turnover of pilots.

****

By the summer the bombing was relentless.

Houses, churches and beautiful palaces that had stood for hundreds of years: all were razed to the ground.

Anyone in Valletta who had family inland moved away from the port.

Those who didn’t have that option moved underground into the vast shelters that were being hewn out of the rock.

They were dark and smoky from cooking stoves, but people made the “rooms” their own, painting views on the walls and tiling the floors.

It was no place to raise a child, but at least Mikel was safe.

Food ran out as the siege of the city continued relentlessly. Faith and Cara both went hungry to ensure the baby had enough.

Against all orders, Faith’s cousin, Marco, and the other fishermen slipped out in their boats at night, putting themselves in danger to feed the people they loved.

How Faith missed Cliff! Daily she sent her hopes and dreams into the sky, hoping that somehow Cliff would know she was thinking of him.

She was working at the hospital one day – they were so busy that Matron had had to lower her standards – when she was called to the office.

Faith wasn’t particularly curious about the summons because curiosity was a luxury reserved for happy, well-fed people.

She listened without reaction to Matron’s tale of another convoy attacked.

A single ship had limped into Grand Harbour, bringing much-needed supplies but with heavy casualties on board.

“I’ll go and help,” she said, throwing her cloak over her shoulders.

In her nurse’s uniform it was easy to hitch a lift with one of the many military vehicles speeding towards the port.

They arrived in time to see the ship stagger in, listing badly.

A huge cheer went up from the gathered people, anticipating the food and medical supplies.

They soon fell silent as the ship drew nearer and they saw the devastation on board: the injured – and worse – lying on the deck.

Above them the RAF planes circled protectively, escorting the ship home.

Then there was nothing but work.

Faith did her best to alleviate suffering while concentrating her attentions on those most likely to survive.

More and more people arrived to help – off-duty military personnel and townspeople alike.

Faith issued orders which were followed to the best of each person’s ability.

She was exhausted, close to collapse, when she heard someone call her name.

She turned wearily to face a new wave of volunteers, knowing she had no reserves left – and came face to face with Cliff.

He was filthy, his face smeared with soot and worse, but she would have known him anywhere.

They stared at each other over the smoking, bloodstained deck.

“I’ve been trying to get posted to Malta for ever,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Faith couldn’t speak. Nor could she tear her gaze away from him.

“I’m sorry,” Cliff said. “When rumours began to reach us about what was going on in Malta, I was half out of my mind.

“I finally understood what it must have been like for you, waiting at home. I’m sorry for all those things I said.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Faith replied, finding her voice.

She sobbed – with relief, exhaustion and love.

“I understand, too. I know why you fly. I know that some things are worth fighting for, whatever the price.”

Then they were in each other’s arms, everyone giving them space amidst the chaos.

“I love you,” he said, covering her face with kisses.

“I love you, too. But why are you here? I mean, how . . .?”

He laughed.

“Didn’t you get my letters?”

She shook her head. “I arrived two days ago, but there was no time to find you before we were ordered into the air.

“It was torture, potentially being so close to you, but not knowing . . .

“Then, today, those of us that were off duty came here to help.”

Suddenly he fished in his pocket and drew out a ring. Her ring.

“I brought this with me. If you still want it, that is . . . If you still want me . . .”

“Of course I still want it!” Faith slipped the ring on to her finger. “You didn’t get my letters? Any of them?”

“No,” Cliff replied. “But that doesn’t matter now. We are here now. Together.”

Faith gazed deep into his eyes.

They were the same eyes she saw every morning looking back t her from her baby’s cradle.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” she whispered.

“Your mother?” Cliff asked.

Faith laughed and grabbed his hand.

“Her, too. Come on.”

The End.