SUMMER ON A SUNNY ISLAND
Sue Moorcroft

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © Sue Moorcroft 2020

Cover design by www.headdesign.co.uk 2020 © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover illustration by Carrie May © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Sue Moorcroft asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008321826

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008321833

Version: 2020-03-23

Dedication

For The Romantic Novelists’ Association

in its Diamond Anniversary year

I’ve been a member of this amazing organisation for two of its six decades, during which it has given me:

a ‘can do’ attitude,

massive support,

industry knowledge,

career opportunities,

and an army of fantastic friends.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Rosa twirled her wine glass, trying to choose her words over the chatter and clatter of Gino’s pavement café and the rumble of traffic along the seafront road. Here in the busy area of Sliema, new buildings outnumbered the old and the promenade was filled with people selling harbour cruises to tourists. Rosa preferred Ta’ Xbiex, where she was staying, about a mile along the coast, with its traditional stone villas. Sliema’s air was punctuated by the sound of car horns but in Ta’ Xbiex you could sometimes catch the mellow sound of church bells rising into the blue sky above the boats bobbing on the sparkling sea.

The Maltese sun was setting in a blaze of lilac and pink. In the sea creek, a row of red and blue ferries bobbed at their moorings. Over the buzzing traffic Rosa could see their lights coming on. Beyond them, the skyline of the capital city, Valletta, on the other side of Marsamxett Harbour, was becoming a silhouette of ramparts and domes and spires.

Across the table, Zach Bentley watched her. His short dark hair was silky, eyes brown, skin golden. When he’d been working shirtless in the garden near the apartment she was sharing with her mum, Rosa had seen a tattoo of upswept wings across his shoulders. Now she could see ink above his wrist, too – a Maltese cross from which dangled a birdcage, its door swinging open.

She spoke in a rush. ‘I’m afraid I’m not exactly dating. Mum thinks I need a “summer romance” to get over my last relationship. And with her being there when you asked if I was doing anything this evening and her having been to school with your dad Steve here in Malta …’ She shrugged, silently cursing her warm and welcoming mother, Dory Hammond. ‘She trotted out “How nice! Now Rosa won’t be bored while I Skype Andy,” as if I can’t amuse myself while she chats to her boyfriend.’ It had been hard for Rosa to do anything but accept Zach’s invitation. Now, instead of brooding about Marcus, back in England, she was having to get to know this man.

Zach sipped his beer and she thought she saw amusement flicker in his eyes. ‘I understand.’ The slightest hint of Cornwall in his voice contrasted with her own short Yorkshire vowels. Then his grin flashed and he leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘To be truthful … my sister Marci and her little girl Paige are staying with me at the family apartment. As Marci’s pretty new here and you’ve just arrived, what I was actually intending to suggest was that you and Marci go out while I babysat Paige.’

‘Oh!’ Rosa almost choked on her next sip of wine, mortified heat flooding her face. ‘And Mum shoved me at you instead!’

‘Don’t think I minded,’ he assured her, eyes still dancing. ‘But not-dating me is probably a good choice.’ He seemed to have no trouble both enjoying the joke and gently turning it against himself.

Reluctantly, she gave a small laugh though she said wrathfully, ‘My flipping mother!’

He sobered. ‘Marci seems to think she has to hang around the apartment once Paige has gone to bed. She swims or explores with Paige during the day but I think it would be great for her to have an evening out now and then.’ He paused. Then, ‘I don’t think Marci would mind me telling you – she’s off work with stress. Her new boss expects a level of commitment to short-notice overtime that doesn’t work for a single parent with child care to consider.’

The nearby cars had formed themselves into a traffic jam and Rosa lifted her voice over a hooting of horns. ‘Hopefully Marci and I will get on when we meet. Mum told me she was here when I spotted Paige with you in the garden and asked who she was. Mum always knows everything about everyone.’ Dory, who’d been in Malta since the beginning of May, had also been able to inform Rosa that Zach and Marci had a younger sister called Electra, presently travelling elsewhere.

Zach seemed to realise Rosa might not be any keener on Zach fixing up a girls’ night for her than she had been on her mum wangling her a date, and returned to treating their not-date as a joke. ‘I could drive you straight home, if you want, but it might make your mum think I pounced on you or was too boring to bear. And I’ve kind of got my mind on spaghetti rizzi.’

Glad to fall in with his mild teasing, she took up the menu. ‘Let’s eat. Mum doesn’t need more excuses to get involved.’

A lithe, blonde waitress halted at their table, pen poised over her notepad. ‘You are ready to order?’

The menu was printed in English as well as Maltese. Rosa saw rizzi were sea urchins. Deciding she’d have plenty of opportunity to taste unfamiliar food with her mum, she said, ‘Penne chicken and another glass of white wine, please.’

Zach gave his order then turned back to Rosa as the waitress whisked away. ‘Does your mum often arrange your dates?’

Rosa managed a smile. ‘Only when she’s encouraging me to forget my ex.’

Over Zach’s shoulder a cheer went up from a group watching football on a TV suspended from the canopy. The clientele at the close-packed tables was divided between those glued to the screens and others socialising all the louder over them.

Zach’s gaze softened and he let his joking drop. ‘In my experience you find your own pace with these things.’

Though he got points for both apparently understanding what she hadn’t said and refraining from swivelling in his seat to see whether a goal had been scored, Rosa searched for another subject. ‘If your dad was an army kid like Mum, how did your family get to own Ta’ Xbiex Terrace House?’ Her wine arrived. She thanked the waitress and took the first sip while it was still cold. Though she’d arrived on the island only two days ago, she’d already discovered cold drinks didn’t stay cold on hot June evenings.

He settled into his chair, the breeze disarranging his hair, which had begun the evening combed diagonally back. ‘My grandfather was here with the army, like yours. Grandad Harry met and married grandmother Rebekah, who’s Maltese. Nanna and my great-aunt Giusi inherited the property from their parents. When they were children the road was called Ta’ Xbiex Terrace rather than Ir-Rampa – “The Ramp”.’ His pronunciation of ‘Ta’ Xbiex’ was subtly different to Rosa’s ‘Tash Beesh’ – his ‘sh’ holding something of a soft ‘j’ that made Rosa aware of her own limitations with Maltese pronunciation. Lucky for her that English was an official language of the island.

‘“Terrace” is a good description,’ she put in. ‘I love the way it’s like an upper deck to the more ordinary road below.’

Zach nodded. ‘The house was too big to rent easily so Nanna and Aunt Giusi decided to convert it into four apartments, owning two each. After the structural work was complete they offered me the job of fitting them out.’

An image of the bathroom where she’d stood naked a few hours ago flashed through Rosa’s mind. It was odd to think Zach had tiled the turquoise and white walls. ‘Mum was delighted to find our apartment through your dad Steve on the Barracks Brats Facebook group. It’s lovely. You’ve done a great job.’

He looked almost surprised at the compliment. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy your summer there.’

She shrugged. ‘It feels odd at the moment because I’ve only lived in three homes – two with Mum and one with my ex, Marcus, all in our home town of Liggers Moor. Have you lived here long?’ Their waitress approached, threading her way through the tables to set their meals before them. Rosa shook out her napkin.

He picked up his fork and loaded it with spaghetti. ‘I was brought up in the UK too but I love Malta. I suppose I’ll have to go back eventually but I haven’t finished Aunt Giusi’s lower apartment yet. She hasn’t chosen a kitchen or bathroom because she’s tempted to sell her house in Lija and move in herself. Also, I do some of my own work and help out at a cousin’s place.’

‘Is your dad coming over for the Service Kids’ Malta reunion next week?’ Rosa had begun to enjoy herself. Her penne chicken was delicious and Zach was proving easy company.

He shook his head. ‘He’s just begun a new job and Mum has severe rheumatoid arthritis, which makes travel tricky. He’s asked Marci to go to the reunion for him.’ He paused, eyebrows lifting. ‘How would you feel about Marci going along with you and Dory?’

Rosa nodded, thinking a group situation would make it easier to get to know Marci and decide whether they might like one another. ‘Of course, if she’d like to. Aren’t you going?’

‘I think Dad and Marci have it sorted out.’ Zach laid down his knife and fork. ‘Dory tells me she hasn’t been back to Malta since she was a child.’

The next table was full of noisy tourists. Rosa had to lean in to be heard. ‘Till this summer,’ she agreed. ‘Dad wasn’t around much after I was born so money’s been an issue. She’s thrilled to be here until October. I was able to take unpaid leave from my job to be her assistant for the summer and Mum sorted out the residency permits.’

Zach’s eyes had darkened as lights came on and the last of the short dusk faded into dark night. ‘She seems to be doing OK as a cookbook writer. What’s your job normally?’

‘Events and sponsorship.’ Rosa made her reply brief, not particularly wanting to go into the whole sorry story of how she and Marcus splitting up had impacted on her career. ‘Were you in construction in the UK?’

He paused while they gave orders to the blonde waitress for iced coffee for Rosa and espresso for Zach before he answered. ‘My last job was in data and report writing for a multi-academy trust.’ He grinned at what she knew must be a blank expression. ‘You don’t have to pretend to know what that is. I collected data from the different schools in the trust, consolidating and presenting it to the trustees, managers, staff, students, parents and OFSTED.’

‘Not much like fitting out apartments,’ she observed.

He glanced away from the chattering population of the pavement café and across the seafront road to where a large tourist boat was backing up to the quay, its passengers jostling to disembark. ‘When I first left home I used to work weekends for a small building company, so I picked up some skills. I’m doing some freelance report writing for income to live on.’ The iced coffee and espresso arrived and Zach dropped sugar into his cup.

Rosa sipped her drink, cold and creamy, glancing around at the people milling from café to café, Maltese and English mingling with other languages, palm trees rising up over nearby cars. ‘This must have been a cool place for our parents to be brought up.’

Zach shifted and his knee brushed hers briefly beneath the table. ‘I’d have loved it. It’s as if I’ve only just become fully conscious of my double connection to Malta, with my Maltese grandmother and my grandfather being stationed here with the British Army. I used to sigh when we came on family holidays, visiting relatives or trudging around old barracks when I would have liked to have been snorkelling.’ His smile flashed but it sounded as if his words came from the heart.

‘Is your grandfather coming out to stay with you?’ Rosa went on. ‘Grandpa won’t. Grandma died three years ago and he doesn’t want to come without her.’ She felt a pang as she pictured her beloved grandparents, Lance and Bette McCoy. The loss of Bette was now reflected in the distant expression she often saw in Lance’s eyes.

‘Afraid not.’ Zach’s shoulders moved as if he sighed. Around them people laughed and chattered, answered phone calls and called to waiters but Zach stared pensively towards the sea as if her questions had triggered a change in his mood.

Then he snapped back into focus and changed the subject. ‘Paceville’s the place to go if you want to get your party on. As well as the shopping area at The Point in Tigné, there’s plenty in and around Sliema. The ferry to Valletta goes from over there, where Sliema Creek becomes Marsamxett Harbour.’ He nodded in the direction of the boats. ‘The buildings in Valletta are amazing and so’s the view of Grand Harbour on the other side of the city. And don’t miss Mdina …’

Rosa blinked as Zach went on about Malta’s attractions. It was as if he’d flipped a switch that turned him into a tour guide. ‘Thanks,’ she answered, at last. ‘I’m helping Mum, starting tomorrow. She’s here to write a new book so I guess sightseeing will have to fit around that.’

He acted as if her words were a prompt. ‘I’ll ask for the bill.’

When it arrived Rosa put down enough euros to pay her half.

A corner of Zach’s mouth quirked. ‘Ah. The etiquette of not-really-dating.’ But his smile was no longer natural. He pulled out his keys and Rosa took it that he was ready to take her home.

In the car, as he reversed into the stream of headlights with the air of one who knew the other vehicles would stop, she wondered, for the mental exercise, how the evening would have ended if they had been on a date.

That sudden change of mood would have been a proper bummer.

Chapter Two

Zach drove Rosa back to Ta’ Xbiex along the seafront road. Two lanes of cars teemed in each direction. On their right, lights flared and music blared from bars. To the left, lights between the palm trees reflected in squiggles on the black surface of Sliema Creek. The Maltese harbours and creeks swarmed with boats: motor yachts, sailing yachts and catamarans, rowing boats, inflatable boats, ferries, cruise liners, party boats, harbour cruisers and water taxis. They, and the sea in all its seasons, were as much a part of the scenery as the golden stone of which the island was built.

When he reached The Ramp he parked outside Ta’ Xbiex Terrace House. Everything in its three storeys was stone: walls, balconies and elegantly ornate balustrades. At street level stood the garages and basement. The lower apartment and terrace – presently rented to Dory and Rosa – were on the floor above and reached via a flight of graceful stone steps. The garden next to the terrace, where spiky agaves and shady palms grew behind elegant black railings, the upper apartment and the roof terrace were all reserved for the use of the Bentley family.

Rosa climbed from the car and Zach walked her up to her front door, not because he thought she needed protecting but because he felt he’d been boorish enough when, at the end of the meal, his thoughts had slithered off into the grey lands of unhappiness he knew so well. Her gaze had become wary and she’d said little on the journey home.

He hadn’t wanted to explain that neither his dad nor grandfather would be visiting him in Malta. Zach and his dad had barely spoken for the last couple of years and Grandad Harry’s dementia would transform the sunlit island he’d once loved to a frighteningly unfamiliar place. Nanna looked after Grandad so she wouldn’t come either.

Now, Rosa turned with a polite smile. ‘Thanks for driving me home.’ She put her hand on the door.

‘My pleasure,’ he returned equally courteously. ‘See you around, no doubt.’ He thought about adding, ‘Hope it was OK for a fake date,’ but decided the moment for jokes had passed.

When she’d gone inside he turned not towards the next flight of stairs leading up to the family apartment but the one back down to the street. Once on the pavement he pulled up a cab app on his phone and booked a car to carry him to the bars of Paceville.

At a small sound behind him he turned.

And there was Rosa, hesitating on the stairs.

They gazed at each other. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘I thought you’d be in your apartment.’ He watched her hover.

She took a few more steps. ‘It’s early. I thought I’d go and sample the nightlife you told me about.’

‘In Paceville?’ He hesitated. ‘That’s where I’m going. I’m waiting for a cab.’

‘Oh.’ She laughed uncertainly. ‘Could we share? I don’t expect you to hang out with me or anything. I fancy getting my bearings.’

‘OK. Of course … Look, you’ll get a cab home again, won’t you? Malta’s a pretty safe place but—’

She jumped more decisively down the last two steps. ‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’ They waited in silence except for the sound of traffic on the road below The Ramp.

Zach thought about the woman beside him: delicately made with freckles on her high cheekbones and light brown eyes that sparkled in sunlight. He’d seen her from the roof terrace yesterday afternoon and stopped to watch her tangly, toffee-coloured bob bounce around her head with every quick movement as she chattered to Dory. When she’d laughed, her eyes had crinkled to slits.

He’d watched her finely drawn mouth and experienced strong sexual attraction.

Being sexually attracted to someone was great. It became fantastic if the person you were attracted to was attracted to you too. Though judging by the way she’d been at pains to tell him their evening together was not a date, this time that wasn’t the case.

That was OK. One thing he knew about sexual attraction was that though it heightened your senses and prickled your skin you didn’t have to act on it. It was like gazing at an expensive painting he liked in the art gallery in Sliema: Boats at anchor in Spinola Bay, early morning. He’d never own it but that didn’t stop him enjoying the sight of it. Beautiful things were good to look at – though a painting might not provoke the same tingling eddy of arousal that Rosa did.

His thoughts were given a new direction when headlights cut through the night and a black saloon halted at the kerb. He opened the nearest door for Rosa then went to the other side to climb in beside her. ‘Paceville?’ the driver said and grinned as if to say, ‘Clubbing, huh? With her? Wow.’ Zach sat back as the car cruised around the bend and smoothly down the slope, leaving the rarefied neighbourhood of The Ramp for the seafront road, then striking inland to cut past Sliema and most of St Julian’s Bay. The road swarmed with headlights and taillights, the journey stop-start. Rosa gazed out of the window, her expression one of serene interest.

The ironic thing about this evening, Zach thought, swaying with the movement of the cab as the driver raced a red light, was that he would have loved to date Rosa but they were living in too close proximity for anything casual and he wasn’t available for more. He was wary of relationships. Twice he’d been unceremoniously dumped and once he’d been accused of callously breaking a heart. He’d hated that.

It would be better if Rosa and Marci became friends. Anxiety had his sister in its slimy grey grip and he hated to see her so listless that even responding to Paige was an effort.

As if picking up his thoughts Rosa said, ‘So you really don’t mind babysitting your niece?’

‘Any time,’ Zach responded. ‘Paige is a big favourite with me. Maybe it’s not cool to be entertained by a four-year-old but I love her.’

It occurred to him that he and Rosa were now not-dating for the second time in one evening. It made him want to laugh out loud, which at least lightened his mood.

Not convinced Rosa would see the joke if he shared it, he turned his mind towards the booming clubs and neon-lit bars that tumbled over each other down Triq Santa Rita – or St Rita Street. Formed of a giant flight of stairs and open twenty-four/seven, Triq Santa Rita came alive at night.

For many female tourists it was Holiday Hook-Upsville and he was happy to be part of that. Sex stopped him thinking about everything that had gone wrong in the past couple of years. Everything he’d done wrong.

But now he had Rosa along. He hesitated, then said, ‘Paceville can be a walk on the wild side. Maybe you should take my phone number?’

He got the impression that she smothered a sigh, but they did exchange numbers. When the driver pulled over in Paceville Pjazza she jumped out of the cab and meticulously split the fare with a quick, ‘Thanks!’ and took off through the crowds of holidaymakers as if to emphasise that she didn’t expect to tag along with him.

After watching her head for Triq San G·org·, which was, at least, less crazy than Triq Santa Rita, Zach threaded his way through the crowds and past the incongruously situated Arkadia supermarket. In moments he was plunging into the heated air beneath a jumble of neon signage advertising bars and clubs, the uneven steps familiar beneath his feet. Halfway down was a bar called Spirit, its name in blue neon over big glass doors set in a matte black frontage. Shisha bars stood either side and a ‘gentlemen’s club’ above. Zach liked Spirit because its clientele was made up of thirty-somethings and alcohol prices weren’t as inflated as in some of the Paceville bars. Once he’d been inside to buy a couple of pints of Cisk – one for each hand – he claimed an elbow-height table outside to lean on.

Up and down the steps nightlife lovers jostled beneath the welter of multicoloured lights, crossing from bar to club and back again. Promotion staff dished out cards that promised money off entry fees, drinks or specialised entertainment. Competing sound systems boomed from doorways.

At a nearby table, four women sipped cocktails. They looked Zach’s type. Bright, happy but not drunk, pretty but not obvious, ring fingers unadorned. When no men had arrived to join the group after a few minutes, one of the four – a cool blonde – let her gaze tangle with his, and Zach moved closer. She gave her name as Elsa and said she lived in Edinburgh. She asked him about restaurants in the Bay Street complex across the road. ‘I’m not taken by this street,’ she explained. ‘It’s seedy.’

‘That’s what I like about it,’ he told her solemnly. Her hair was long enough to blow against him and he enjoyed its silky tickle on his bare arm as she leaned closer to laugh. Her friends glanced at her and smiled but then returned to their own conversation.

Elsa had just begun telling him about her holiday when he glanced down the steps and caught sight of a group of young men. A profile illuminated by a flashing light distracted him. He shifted slightly to try and single out the face again.

There.

Luccio.

Twenty-year-old Luccio, a Sicilian, triggered protective feelings in Zach, who hated to see him in his present company, a group led by a little shit he seemed in awe of – Beppe. Zach hadn’t formed bonds with many people in Malta but he felt almost brotherly towards Luccio, who was on a youth support worker apprenticeship with Zach’s cousin Joseph at Nicholas Centre. Zach volunteered at the centre, a community youth facility, and Luccio was the staff member he was most often paired with to supervise games between the teenagers who came to the centre to hang out. Luccio didn’t seem much removed from the older children and he was always happy to carry on past his scheduled hours if a fun activity was in progress. Many of the kids came from less-moneyed homes and identified with Luccio. His parents had died when he was only sixteen and he’d had to leave Sicily for Malta when his aunt Teresa, who’d married a Maltese man, offered him a home in Sliema.

Still very young, he could definitely do with good people around him. Unfortunately, in the last year Luccio’s friendship group outside Nicholas Centre had changed and to Zach, who saw them hanging around Paceville, Beppe and his buddies didn’t look like good people. Beppe was the oldest and hardest; Luccio the youngest and most eager to please. Zach understood exactly how that combination could lead to manipulation.

Luccio’s aunt Teresa was concerned, Joseph had confided in Zach. Luccio had become reluctant to discuss his activities or hear criticism of his friends and seemed to be viewing her home like a hotel that never presented its bill. The more she tried to talk to him the more uncommunicative he became. Zach, who’d often worked with Luccio over the past eighteen months, could see the young man’s mood and attitude had changed.

Only half in the conversation with Elsa now, Zach finished his first pint and began on the second as he monitored the group fifteen or so steps below him. All of them were significantly younger than Zach’s thirty-two years. Beppe might be in his mid-twenties, he supposed, and the rest all younger. He noted the ‘friendly’ wrestling that was too rough to be friendly, despite accompanying laughter, plus the occasional ugly look from Beppe that turned Luccio’s expression apprehensive.

The ringleader.

The easily led youth.

It was uncomfortably familiar because, back in the day, Laine Fitzmaurice or ‘Fitzmo’ had been the ringleader and Zach the easily led youth. He could almost have written the script as he watched Beppe begin to bestow smiles and Luccio blossom in response, then Beppe grasped Luccio’s arm and murmured in his ear. Luccio, though he looked wide-eyed and unsure, eventually nodded.

Shit. Luccio was being put up to something.

Zach started forward, remembered Elsa and swung back long enough to mutter, ‘Sorry, I’ve seen someone I have to talk to.’ Elsa’s eyes widened in obvious affront but, with another apology, he turned away.

Still grasping his beer, Zach took the steps casually, glancing about with a show of aimlessness. Then he let his gaze fasten on his young friend and changed direction to clap him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Luccio.’

Luccio jumped. ‘Oh. Hey, Zach.’

Zach turned to the group as if he was their friend of old. ‘I’m glad to see you guys. I’ve been feeling like Billy-no-mates tonight.’ He shook Beppe’s hand, knowing the value of paying lots of attention to the big shot. ‘Want a drink?’

From the scornful glances Beppe gave his buddies he obviously interpreted the offer as an attempt to ingratiate himself. He bent his gaze on Luccio then indicated Zach. ‘Maybe you should stay with your friend.’ He said ‘friend’ as if he meant ‘loser’. Beppe turned and headed inside and the rest of his group herded along.

‘But—’ Luccio gazed after his departing buddies.

Zach put his arm around Luccio’s shoulders. ‘We need something to soak up the beer. Let’s eat.’ Using ‘we’ was persuasive and inclusive language, Joseph had taught Zach.

Luccio frowned uneasily but he let Zach usher him up the steps towards Triq San G·org· and Paceville Pjazza. Bellowing over the sounds rocking out of bars, Zach tried to keep Luccio’s attention. ‘Think the teams promoted from the Championship will make it in the Premier League next year?’

Luccio, though usually an avid fan of British football, just shrugged.

Then, when they’d nearly reached the top of the steps, Zach caught sight of Rosa again. Oddly, as he was pretty sure those she knew in Malta was limited to the occupants of Ta’ Xbiex Terrace House, she seemed to be leading five or six laughing women in a dance along one of the steps, singing along as she wiggled and clapped. Then a swaying man, grinning foolishly, grabbed Rosa’s arm and said something with a leer. ‘Piss off!’ she snarled, glaring into his eyes. ‘Women make their own decisions about who they sleep with.’

‘Yeah!’ chorused a couple of the dancing women and one yanked Rosa’s arm from his grip.

Was it his night for rescuing people? Zach had almost forgotten Rosa while he interfered in whatever Beppe had had in mind for Luccio but he couldn’t stand by while some guy gave Rosa trouble. Hoping it wouldn’t get him into a ruckus that might catch the attention of the police, he changed course so he could loop an arm loosely around her, feeling her slight body recoil but then relax when she realised who he was. In a voice filled with bonhomie and beer he created a scenario she could easily fall in with. ‘Look, I’ve found my friend Luccio. We’re going to get something to eat. Why don’t you come along?’

After a last narrowing of her eyes at the swaying man, Rosa muttered, ‘OK,’ called a casual goodbye to the women she’d been dancing with and allowed herself to be steered away. Zach glanced back and saw the man make an obscene gesture in the direction of Rosa’s rear view. Luckily, Rosa didn’t see it and Zach thought the wisest course was to pretend he hadn’t either. He made the introductions and Luccio brightened enough to grin at Rosa. ‘You told him off.’

‘He deserved it.’ Rosa fell in beside the two men, her expression still stormy. ‘I appreciate your help there, Zach, but women shouldn’t need protection. Children need protection. Men need to understand when to back off and when they don’t it’s up to women to speak up.’

‘Completely agree,’ Zach put in peaceably as he led the party through the piazza and down to Spinola Bay where the restaurants were of the calm and civilised variety, pleased when Rosa went along. If she wished to continue to wander around late at night it was none of his business, yet he’d rather she didn’t. He agreed that women shouldn’t need protecting but as the elder brother of two sisters he was aware that her desire that certain men learn when to back off might prove optimistic.

Intuiting that Luccio wouldn’t appreciate the seafront restaurants bulging with middle-aged tourists he chose a small bar up Triq San Ġuzepp, another stepped street – though smaller and quieter – where a mainly Maltese clientele enjoyed the evening air. He grabbed the last empty table and, remembering he’d fibbed to Luccio that he needed to soak up beer, instructed his belly to forget it had already eaten this evening. He ordered a platter of flatbreads with dips. Rosa chose a chocolate cake and a glass of wine. Luccio ordered a burger and chips with a pint of Cisk. Zach ordered a pint too. He’d drunk enough alcohol but switching to lemonade didn’t seem the way to bond with Luccio.

While they ate Zach questioned his motives in separating Luccio from his mates. He’d felt compelled to do so but had it changed anything? Luccio was almost silent and Zach suspected he hadn’t endeared himself to his young friend.

Zach heaved a sigh. Who was he trying to save here? Luccio? Or himself?

Luccio’s phone alerted him to message after message and in between scoffing chips he tapped out replies, the downturned corners of his mouth suggesting that nothing he read made him happy. Then the phone rang and he surged to his feet, stepping away to take the call. His side of the conversation consisted of, ‘Yes, yes,’ and the occasional half-begun sentence.

When he’d finished he shoved his phone in his pocket, scowling, and returned to the table. ‘I must go.’

‘Must?’ queried Zach, softly. He ached to show Luccio that being sucked into the wrong crowd could end badly. He’d decided a while ago that he’d share his story with his young Sicilian friend when the time seemed right but he hadn’t bargained on having Rosa in the audience. ‘Luccio,’ he said before he could talk himself out of it, ‘I came out here because I got in trouble.’

Luccio’s gaze flew to Zach’s face. Zach didn’t look at Rosa to see how she took his pronouncement but ploughed on, encouraged that Luccio – wide-eyed – resumed his seat. ‘When I was eighteen my best mate moved away. I started hanging around with a guy called Laine Fitzmaurice – Fitzmo – who’d been two years ahead of me at school. He wasn’t a good influence. I didn’t see it, of course. I thought he and his friends were cool and we drank a lot. Dad’s attention was on coping with my mum because she was developing rheumatoid arthritis and as the eldest of the kids I was sort of catapulted into adult status. It went to my head and I acted like a twat.’

Luccio looked interested despite himself. ‘What did you do?’

Zach hoped he was going about things the right way. ‘I didn’t do much myself but I was there when the other guys did. Vandalism. Petty theft. Once, Fitzmo took a car and I piled in the back with the others. I kidded myself that it wasn’t a crime because I hadn’t stolen the car but that didn’t make it true.’ He took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘We all felt it was important to please Fitzmo. When he wanted somewhere we could hang out and drink I was proud when I was the one to find a place. It was an empty building behind a shopping centre. We trashed it, smashing light fittings and stuff. It seemed like high spirits rather than actual crime.’

Luccio frowned but Zach was pretty sure it was with the effort of translating unfamiliar phrases like ‘high spirits’ more than judgement of Zach’s juvenile misdemeanours.

Zach pushed aside his beer and asked the waiter for coffee. Whether it was the alcohol or the story, he felt sick. ‘The youngest of our group was called Stuart,’ he continued. ‘Most of us were eighteen, Fitzmo was twenty, but Stuart was only sixteen and he hero-worshipped Fitzmo. One Saturday afternoon we were hanging out and drinking. Stuart had way too much and Fitzmo bullied him into punching a window to smash it. Stuart tried. But he was small and had to jump up to punch the glass. It smashed but a shard of it—’ he drew a long pointed shape in the air in case Luccio hadn’t before encountered the word shard ‘—caught him on the way down. Sliced into him. There was blood everywhere, spurting from Stuart’s wrist.’

His nausea threatened to choke him as he remembered the blood splattering on the concrete floor, Stuart clutching himself and slurring, ‘I’m hurt!’ in tones of almost comical surprise.

He had to swallow and when his coffee arrived he found he didn’t want it. ‘The others ran off,’ he explained. ‘Every one of them, including Fitzmo. Even fourteen years later I can’t believe they did that. Stuart was squirting blood and they left him. So I grabbed his arm—’ hot and slippery with blood ‘—and I dragged him out of the building and up the alley to the shopping centre where there was a pharmacy. The pharmacist got a tourniquet on Stuart to slow the bleeding while her assistant called the ambulance.’

Luccio’s brown eyes were wide and disbelieving. ‘You saved your friend’s life.’

Zach gave an angry snort of laughter. ‘That part wasn’t emphasised. The police arrived with the ambulance and they followed the trail of blood back to the building and found it all smashed up. Stuart and I admitted to being involved in causing the damage. I was eighteen so I got a fine and community service and it caused a tremendous row with my dad. Stuart got a supervision order. Fitzmo and our “friends” told me I was stupid for sticking around. They said, I should have rung the ambulance and run. When I asked why they hadn’t bothered with the ambulance part, just run, they tried to joke it off.’

He sipped his coffee because his throat was closing around the ball of emotion that had lodged there. ‘I saw Fitzmo and the others for what they were. So I cut them off.’

Luccio took a gulp from his beer. ‘But you were eighteen? That was a long time ago. You came out here early last year, no?’

‘I got in trouble again.’ Wearily, Zach rubbed his hand over his face, conscious of Rosa, having demolished her dessert, sitting statue-still. ‘Stuart was permanently affected by the accident. He had a couple of operations but his hand never worked properly and became a withered mess. He doesn’t have a job. He’s into alcohol and suffers mental illness. He hangs around town, looking so defeated. I tried to help but …’ He let his voice trail off. ‘Stuart took the money or clothes I gave him and swapped them for cider.’

He took a deep breath. Luccio seemed to be listening and maybe Zach’s excoriating confession was doing some good, even if Rosa’s silence felt like judgement. If there was any chance he could stop his young friend Luccio turning out like Stuart – or even like Zach himself – then it was worth exposing his messy past. ‘A couple of years ago I was in a pub in the centre of Redruth with some mates on a Friday night. I saw Fitzmo about six feet away and I should have left but I didn’t want a loser like him to have any impact on me. I’d kept my nose clean since the trouble twelve years earlier. I thought I could ignore him. But I’d had a few beers.’ His gaze fell on the almost untouched pint in front of him. ‘Stuart was there too. It was noisy but I could hear Fitzmo ridiculing him. Stuart kept trying to smile as if it was just teasing. Then Fitzmo grabbed Stuart’s bad hand, twisting it. He was hurting Stuart … and I saw red. I marched over and smacked Fitzmo right in his horrible, toxic mouth. I really lost it. Broke two of his teeth.’

Zach found himself flexing his hand as if he could once again feel the pain involved while Luccio gaped as if Zach had sprouted horns. ‘At first I thought Fitzmo would murder me,’ Zach continued. ‘He’d been brought up hard. He’d also spent a few years in jail and had come out even harder. Then his expression changed and he began cowering, pleading with me not to hit him again, clutching his face and groaning. And why? Because he’d seen police officers walk into the pub and they were on their way over to check out the disturbance. They collared me. Fitzmo knew how to construct a compensation claim and insisted the attack was unprovoked. He said to Stuart, “He hit me for no reason, didn’t he?”’

Luccio’s black eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair. ‘And …?’

Zach held his gaze. ‘Stuart said, “Yes,” and I was arrested. Fitzmo got a kick out of the whole thing, especially when I was charged, got community service and had to pay him a small amount of compensation.’

He paused, longing suddenly for his bed. Soul baring was exhausting.

‘So why come to Malta?’ Luccio was obviously engaged in the story. His hair caught the light from a nearby bar, threading his dark curls with red.

Zach groaned. ‘I hadn’t intended to advertise my problems to my family but Dad saw me collecting litter at the side of a main road with “Community Service” written on my back and nearly had a stroke. It soured our already difficult relationship. My grandmother suggested I come here to get me out of the firing line because Mum wasn’t coping with the animosity. She’s in constant physical pain and doesn’t deserve a war zone around her.’

Mentally, he compared the phone conversations he enjoyed with his mum, hearing about the little bit that happened in her life, her sweet, familiar voice telling him about his little sister Electra’s last call home from Thailand where she taught English or talking about Marci and Paige.

His dad? They texted. Hope all’s well with you. Tenants you got are working out well. Interesting to hear Dory talking about the same army primary school you went to. He didn’t make the effort to ring Steve and Steve didn’t ring him either.

He forced himself to complete his story, though it felt as if each word was being hacked out of him. ‘Fitzmo sent me a message that I didn’t hit as hard as his mum. When I didn’t react he sent another saying Stuart felt so bad about what had happened he’d taken an overdose and had to get pumped out. I went looking for Stuart in town and he was fine so Fitzmo was obviously trying to goad me, manipulate me. I realised I could be sucked in to dangerous situations again and decided to accept my grandmother’s offer.’

He could hardly look at Rosa. She must be thinking she’d been on a not-a-date with a hooligan but he couldn’t let that deter him from getting his point across. ‘Luccio, that guy Beppe, he’s as toxic as Fitzmo. I recognise his type. He’s a coward who controls and uses people.’

Luccio recoiled, glancing around as if worried someone would hear.

Zach leaned closer. ‘Just cut him off,’ he urged. ‘Avoid him. Find new friends. Believe me, when things go wrong you’ll turn around to look for him and he’ll have vanished.’

Luccio seemed to have no reply, gazing into the distance as he drank his beer. After a while, Zach used his app to book a cab. Luccio got in the back, though Zach had more than half-expected him to head back to Paceville. Zach joined him, leaving the front seat for Rosa. When they arrived at Luccio’s aunt’s house in Sliema, Luccio got out and Zach said, ‘You know where I am if you want me.’

Then, drained, he sat in the car for the final few minutes to Ta’ Xbiex Terrace House.

Once again he walked Rosa to her door. Insects danced in the yellow halos of light around the terrace lamps. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have spilled all that crap in front of you but I’m trying to help Luccio. He’s a good kid, a youth support worker at the centre where I volunteer and I hate to see him being lured off-track. You don’t have to worry that there’s a madman living upstairs. I just—’ He halted, defeated by the task of justifying himself; that he’d first been a young fool and then let himself be goaded into fury when he’d thought himself older and wiser.

She gazed at him, eyes solemn. ‘A saying Grandpa’s fond of is that someone is “more sinned against than sinning”. I think he’d say that about you. You saved your friend’s life when everyone else abandoned him and you stuck up for an underdog when you didn’t need to get involved. I think it was brave to try and let Luccio benefit from your bad experiences.’ A quick smile, then she was gone, into her apartment.

Zach was shocked how relieved he felt that Rosa wasn’t disappointed in him.

Chapter Three

In the morning, Rosa was surprised but pleased Dory didn’t question her about going out with Zach. Maybe she realised she’d been a little too busy on Rosa’s behalf?

Or maybe she was too focused on jumping into her little white car and driving Rosa to a fish restaurant in Marsaxlokk in the south of the island. Her career as a food writer had fallen into her lap after a reality TV show featured the school where she was cook and brought on its heels ‘The Cafeteria Cook’ books. Dory’s attention was firmly on being the best food writer she could be. ‘Being here for the summer is an ideal opportunity to gain a broad view of menus and the use of ingredients,’ she enthused as she cautiously sidled onto a teeming roundabout. ‘The resto we’re trying today looks authentically Maltese but Marsaxlokk draws a lot of tourists so the menu’s bound to reflect their tastes. Perhaps you can go online later and search out places off the tourist track?’

‘Sure,’ agreed Rosa, wincing as Dory put in a skull-jarring emergency stop to avoid a lorry lumbering out from a junction. She was glad when they hit quieter roads after a place called Paola, leaving built-up areas behind in favour of terraced farm fields separated by uneven dry stone walls. She pointed to cacti tumbling over the walls. ‘They look like a spiky green Mickey Mouse ears.’

Dory laughed. ‘Prickly pear. Ooh – idea! Can you grab my laptop from my bag and make a note to include a section in the new book on foraging for wild-growing foods like prickly pear, capers and wild asparagus?’

Note made, Rosa settled back to enjoy the ride, reading road signs for places like Zejtun and Ghaxaq and trying to say them aloud.

Dory tried to be helpful. ‘J’s sound like British y’s, gh’s are silent and x makes a sh or ch sound. I’m never sure about q’s. A Maltese man once told me they were “halfway between a k and a vomit”. But sometimes they seem to go silent altogether.’

At the restaurant, they ate outside gazing out at the pretty harbour of Marsaxlokk. Compact, high-prowed fishing boats, bluer than the sea and piped with red, green, brown, white and yellow, bobbed beside a quayside scattered with nets. Most of the boats had eyes painted or engraved on the prow. ‘Those traditionally guard the fishermen from evil,’ Dory explained, before moving on to what was preoccupying her – work on her new book The Cafeteria Cook Does the Mediterranean.

‘The traditional Mediterranean diet’s heavy on plant-based foods. Next comes fish, then chicken, and last and least of all, red meat and sweets. If you follow the right proportions you’ll be healthy and avoid weight gain. You find most touristy places serve British chips and Italian pasta more than Maltese food, though.’

The sunlight danced on the rippling waves between the fishing boats sheltered by the broad sweep of the bay. Tourists strolled between cafés or browsed shop windows and the sun relaxed Rosa’s shoulders as she let her mum chatter happily about her twin favourite topics of food and Malta.

A beautiful Maltese teenage girl brought menus and Dory pored over hers, discussing with the waitress whether the swordfish was farmed or wild. As it was wild she ordered it, followed by grilled, stuffed squid – klamari – with green herb sauce.

Before Rosa could open her mouth Dory continued. ‘Rosa, you don’t mind if I order for you, as it’s for research and a business expense? It gives me twice as many things to taste and I won’t order anything you don’t like.’ She returned to the waitress. ‘Parmigiana of aubergine with nut pesto and shrimp ravioli. Wine, Rosa? White? And still water, please.’

Rosa wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or resigned. Her mother had offered her a job as her personal assistant and kitchen porter for the recipe trials to be conducted at the apartment and was paying her pin money as well as covering her expenses. Her mum hadn’t stepped in and ordered her lunch. Her employer had, and for a purpose.

Though her meal wasn’t what she’d have selected, it was delicious. And it was fun, tasting each other’s meals and discussing the ingredients. ‘Mm, isn’t the orange with the swordfish unusual?’ Dory mused. ‘I wonder how it would be with blood orange? I love Maltese blood oranges.’

‘Would readers be able to buy them in the UK?’ Rosa took another forkful, this time without sauce to get the flavour of the fish.

‘Not sure. Can you check British supermarkets online?’

By the end of the meal, Rosa had documents open on the laptop on the tasting, jobs to-do and research to carry out.

She was on her second glass of wine before her mum – sneakily – got in the enquiry Rosa had expected earlier. ‘How did the date with Zach go?’

‘We ate together and then he showed me the nightlife in Paceville. It wasn’t a date and I told him it wasn’t.’ Rosa watched tourists meandering by the sea while she batted flies away from her face. She didn’t tell her mother about Zach’s troubles because he was entitled to choose with whom he shared his secrets. Rosa had lain awake last night thinking about the story he’d told Luccio to show him what could come of getting in with the wrong crowd and concluded he was too hard on himself. Most people who got in scrapes would try to forget them and hope everyone else did too. ‘There look to be a few market stalls further up the road. Shall we have a look?’

‘I want to get back and experiment in the kitchen,’ returned Dory impatiently. Then, refusing to accept the change of subject: ‘Zach seems a nice man. And handsome!’ She took Rosa’s hand, wearing an earnest expression. ‘Don’t you think a lovely summer romance will cheer you up?’

‘Do you mean an affair?’ Rosa grinned.

‘I said “romance”,’ Dory protested, though with a distinct twinkle. ‘A nice man can really take your mind off an old flame.’

Although she knew Dory wasn’t purposely being dismissive, Rosa felt she had to say, ‘When a five-year relationship goes wrong, even if it’s my fault, it’s OK for me to be upset. Saying I’ll get over my “old flame” with a “lovely summer romance” and a “nice man” is optimistic.’ Marcus’s face swam into her mind’s eye. His anger when she’d wrongly accused him. What he’d done next …

Dory looked contrite. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry if I sounded flip.’

Any tension forgotten, they drove home chatting about the flat-roofed buildings around them and spiky vegetation at the roadside, an open-topped tourist bus, the domes and cupolas of distant churches, the elegance of palm trees, a small horse trotting smartly before a cart – in fact anything but Rosa’s personal life. Presently, Rosa let Dory do the talking. She’d forgotten her sunglasses and her head was aching. The sky was so blue, the sun beating on the square-cut limestone houses and dazzling her. The car’s air conditioning was inadequate and seemed to emit dust that she could taste. She was about to suggest that when they got home they swim off the rocks in the beautiful turquoise sea across the road from their apartment when Dory broke in, ‘We’ll try that nut pesto sauce when we get back while the flavour’s fresh in my memory.’

Oh, yes, she was still at work. Rosa closed her eyes, regretting the second glass of wine.

Once home, she took two paracetamol, changed out of the summer dress she’d worn for lunch and into shorts, washed her hands and opened her laptop, creating a document for the recipe trial while Dory went out onto the terrace to pick handfuls of basil and parsley that somehow seemed to smell of sunshine.

‘We’ll make four batches,’ Dory said, returning briskly. ‘One with walnuts, one with pine nuts, one with a combination of the two and one without nuts for comparison purposes.’

Rosa, who’d grown up cooking with Dory, washed the herbs and patted them dry while Dory toasted the walnuts and garlic. Then, Rosa gazed through the window at the terrace and the towering wall behind it. If she craned her neck she could see, probably twenty feet above, another large house. Maltese builders definitely understood how to work with the contours of the island but even the stone cut into big blocks instead of the red bricks of Liggers Moor in Yorkshire felt alien to Rosa.

Dory might have slipped back into her childhood home like a favourite pair of slippers but Rosa hadn’t lived anywhere but England. As amazing as Malta was, she hadn’t expected to feel homesick. She wiped her forehead – still aching – and switched on the air conditioning. Malta was hot. There were lots of insects, too many cars and endless construction going on. Maybe she’d been rash saying she’d stay till October.

At least the nightlife seemed vibrant. OK, discovering Zach at street level when he’d already escorted her back to the apartment had been awkward but sharing a cab with him had turned out to be a good stepping stone to discovering what kind of thing she’d do with herself in this tiny country for months on end. She already missed her friends in dance class at the gym and the pubs and clubs of her home town … though not her one-time friend Chellice.

‘Can you grate the parmesan?’ called Dory, interrupting Rosa’s thoughts.

‘Coming right up.’ Rosa found the grater and as her arm made the mechanical movements she chided herself for her low spirits. Hardly been in Malta two minutes and homesick? For England or for … Marcus? She did miss Marcus, even if he’d changed from the steady, smiling man she’d once known to a disillusioned, discontented thirty-something with a problem.

She didn’t want to miss him, because too much trust had been lost for their relationship to ever recover – even leaving aside the question of whether Chellice had maintained Rosa’s friendship only so she could draw Marcus into her web like a sultry, curvaceous spider with a fly. Marcus denied it, of course. Rosa had met Chellice first at someone’s hen night, he pointed out. They’d become friends. It was coincidence that when Rosa invited Chellice for dinner Marcus had discovered they’d had crafting in common. Marcus turned and carved wood while Chellice practised Kintsugi, the art of repairing broken pottery using lacquer dusted with powdered gold or silver to create shiny veins.

Later, they joined forces to form a part-time business, Spun Gold, which now had a website and shops on Etsy and Notonthehighstreet. But Rosa had come to believe that though Marcus’s ambition for Spun Gold might genuinely have been to make it successful enough to let him quit his hated day job … Chellice used the business as a reason to spend time with Marcus.

Rosa also missed her job at Blackthorn’s youth centre. She’d begun her leave of absence less than two weeks ago but she missed the role, her colleagues – especially her boss Georgine – and the kids. She missed weekend raft races or camping trips and schmoozing companies to donate equipment like mountain bikes then creating a Blackthorn’s cycling event.

When Rosa had taken over improving Blackthorn’s social media channels, social-media savvy Chellice had seemed happy to coach her. Had it been to keep Rosa occupied while Marcus devoted time to Spun Gold? The thought made her sick. She’d thought their friendship real.

Now, like a child touching a candle to see if it was hot, in a break between taking notes, loading the dishwasher and whizzing things in the food processor, Rosa peeked at Chellice’s blog and Instagram. Both proved to be full of Kintsugi and woodcraft for sale.

The blog, Chellice Reviews Life, demonstrated the sardonic humour her audience lapped up. She reviewed her journey to work, her own performance on a YouTube vid or the day’s weather. Instagram got a one-star review because it didn’t allow links in posts and Brexit minus one. Marcus got five stars for being ‘the best biz-buddy in the universe and doing all the driving to fairs and markets. Read my review of Marcus’s radio interview here.’

A sweat of anger broke out on Rosa’s brow. Her memory of Marcus’s local radio appearance was fresh and raw. At a craft fair he’d made the connection with a radio presenter, eagerly taking up an invitation to join her on her chat show. His motivation might have been to grab opportunities to mention Spun Gold but instead he’d kicked around more shit than a dung beetle, all of it rolling in Rosa’s direction with devastating effect.

Dory’s voice came from behind her, sympathetic but still making Rosa jump. ‘Oh, Rosa, are you trying to get news of Marcus? I’ve trivialised your feelings about him, haven’t I?’ She dropped two dishes of pesto on the counter with a clatter and her arms, warm and soft, gave Rosa a big hug.

Rosa tried to laugh. ‘I know you were glad to see the back of him.’ She returned the hug as if she were a little girl again.

‘I’m sorry. You know I’m prone to expecting the worst of men.’ Dory’s eyes were guilty.

Rosa felt guilty in her turn. Dory was the best of mothers. Rosa had had a settled childhood only because Dory had been self-sufficient and able to give Rosa a double dose of love to make up for the shortcomings of Rosa’s dad, Glenn. He’d contributed little, financially or emotionally. When Rosa had been old enough to understand, Dory had explained how she’d been ambushed by Glenn’s complete lack of engagement with his child. ‘They’d call it Attachment Disorder now but at the time we called him a crap dad.’

And Rosa had long ago overheard Dory telling a friend that Glenn had been revolted by Dory’s pregnant body, disgusted by the process of birth and frightened by Dory’s post-birth bodily functions and what he referred to as ‘a shitty baby’. It had stuck with her.

She scarcely saw Glenn now but Rosa remembered all too well him dismissing opportunities to attend school plays as ‘not my thing’ and never taking Rosa out. When he’d visited her at home a couple of times a year she’d treated him like one of her mother’s friends, someone who asked vague but polite questions to which she gave vague but polite answers. By the age of seven, Rosa had realised her dad was not like most other dads and when she reached her mid-teens his visits had faded away along with even infrequent attempts at paying child support.

His parents had barely seemed to notice her either, apart from small cheques for birthdays and Christmases, so maybe his lack of parental instinct was learned.

Luckily, Rosa had had Dory’s parents living in Liggers Moor to shower her with love and also, living only an hour away in south Lincolnshire, Dory’s sister – Aunt Lizzy – with her husband – Uncle Eddie – and three boisterous sons.

Straightforward, capable, jolly, hardworking Dory had fulfilled all other roles.

What Rosa and Dory had learned from Glenn was not to rely on men. Probably that’s why Marcus’s increasing self-orientation had eventually got to Rosa. It had all begun with online gambling and his losses affecting their disposable income. He’d changed. Rosa had been judgy. She admitted it. She’d had experience of an unreliable man from which to judge. So Marcus had promised never to gamble again …

‘Are you homesick?’ Dory asked suddenly, jolting Rosa back to the conversation.

She answered unguardedly. ‘A bit.’

I’ll pay your fare back to England if I you want to go.’ Dory’s voice shook. ‘I thought it was such a fantastic way of solving a few issues for you that I didn’t stop to consider that it was my dream to have an extended stay here, not yours.’

She sounded so woeful that Rosa’s heart gave a huge squeeze. Dory had been generous and Rosa hadn’t given Malta a chance. ‘I know it’s paradise to you but it seems strange at the moment. Maybe when I know it better—’

‘I’ve scarcely given you a moment to enjoy it,’ Dory declared, looking ever guiltier. ‘Let’s clear up and then we’ll have a few days off so I can show you more of this gorgeous island. We’ll wander by the sea, eat in cafés, take a boat into Grand Harbour, go to Valletta – be touristy.’

‘That sounds great. And I’d love to swim. The sea looks glorious.’ Rosa beamed, feeling better immediately. ‘But we haven’t done the tasting of the pesto.’

At that second a knock fell on the apartment door and a woman’s voice called, ‘Hello?’

Dory snatched the door open. ‘Hello, Marci. And hello, Paige! This is lovely. Come in and meet my daughter, Rosa.’

‘Hello,’ echoed Rosa, welcoming their visitors in. Marci was a rounded woman with similar dark glossy hair to Zach but worn in a long bob. Four-year-old Paige, who shouted, ‘Hello, hello!’ and beamed happily, was much more chestnutty.

‘Can you spare a few minutes?’ Dory demanded, not giving Marci a chance to say why she and Paige had called. ‘We were just going to do a pesto tasting. And,’ she added, seeing Paige looking unimpressed, ‘I made pudina last night, so we can taste that too.’

Marci looked uncertain. ‘Are you sure—’

‘Pudina is cake! I had it in Valletta with Uncle Zach.’ Paige bounced on her toes, the end of her French plait bouncing with her. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Then let’s sit on the terrace.’ Dory ushered them all outside. ‘Oh, look, there’s Zach working in the garden.’ She raised her voice. ‘Zach! We’re going to taste pesto and pudina.’

Zach’s voice floated back. ‘In the same mouthful?’

Dory laughed. ‘Not unless you want to. Rosa, if you can take the pesto and get people drinks then I’ll slice bread and get the pudina from the fridge.’

Soon the five were gathered around the patio table, the adults sampling different batches of pesto on flat bread while Paige went straight for pudina on the grounds that pesto was green and looked yucky. The pesto with walnuts was pronounced the favourite of Zach, Rosa and Dory but Marci liked the mix of walnut and pine nut.

Zach seemed relaxed and apart from murmuring to Rosa, ‘Don’t think Dory’s trying to fix us up this time,’ didn’t refer to yesterday evening.

Rosa laughed and turned to Marci, intending to draw her out in view of what Zach had said about his sister not having made friends on the island. Marci was a bit reserved but Rosa warmed to her when she rolled her eyes in the direction of her brother and said, ‘The pesto’s lovely but I actually came to apologise that Zach has tried to stick you with me for the reunion on Sunday.’

Rosa answered frankly. ‘I’d be glad to have someone to talk to when Mum’s yakking on to the other army kids about the good old days.’

‘Are we all going together? That will be lovely! And I shall be swapping fascinating stories about my childhood, not yakking on,’ Dory put in with mock indignation, cutting pudina into bite-sized squares. Paige was taking the pudina tasting ultra-seriously, carefully nibbling the traditional one with mixed dried fruit and glacé cherries, then the one with fresh figs and finally the one made with fresh dates.

‘So, what’s in pudina?’ queried Zach, trying a piece. ‘I’ve eaten it in Caffe Cordina in Valletta. Is it a very Maltese cake?’

‘I’ve only come across it on Maltese recipe sites.’ Dory made sure everybody had pudina from each batch. ‘It’s like bread pudding with a chocolate topping. It contains traditional cake ingredients like fruit, sugar, chocolate and milk but instead of flour it has bread. I’m experimenting to find the healthiest version with less sugar and different fruit.’

Under cover of this conversation Rosa said to Marci quietly, ‘If you’re not comfortable coming to the reunion with us, don’t feel you have to.’ She thought from a twitch of Zach’s head that he was listening in, but he didn’t interrupt.

Marci wrinkled her nose. ‘I promised Dad I’d go but I feel … odd.’

Though she nodded as if she understood, Rosa rolled the word around in her mind. Odd as in unfamiliar? Odd as in panic attack pending? The odd one out? Asking might be awkward.

Zach turned to regard his sister, his dark eyes serious. ‘Would you prefer me to go instead, Marci? I could, if that’s what you want. But Dad asked you and I’d be happy to babysit Paige.’

Marci made a face. ‘That’s just Dad being Dad. I assumed you were staying away because he didn’t ask you.’

Zach gave a grin that suggested he wasn’t going to argue with that conclusion. ‘If you’d like me to go instead, I will. I’ll take pics to send back to him and chat to a few people and then it’ll be done.’

Marci mulled that over. ‘Can’t we all go? It’s a buffet lunch in a restaurant garden in Mdina so Paige wouldn’t have to sit still for hours.’

Paige cried, ‘Yay! I want to go to lunch. Will there be cake? Can I wear my best dress?’

At the same time, Dory chimed in. ‘That’s a great idea. I’ll message the organisers with the new numbers.’ She commandeered Rosa’s laptop to log onto the Barracks Brats Facebook group.

Marci, looking over her shoulder, became interested in photos posted on the group of grinning school kids of the Fifties, Sixties and Seventies. Winter uniforms were trousers for boys and gymslips for girls, worn with shirts and ties. In summer boys wore shorts and open-necked shirts, the girls summer dresses, all sand coloured and looking slightly military. Backdrops of prickly pears, palm trees, spiky agaves and flat-roofed buildings were recognisably Malta, though today’s towns had become very high-rise and crowded in comparison.

Paige, presumably seeing her mother otherwise occupied, backed up to Zach, shoving her hair out of her eyes. ‘My plait’s coming down, Uncle Zach. Can you do it, please?’

Rosa felt her eyebrows shoot up. ‘You can do a French plait?’

Zach grinned lazily. ‘Is that disbelief I hear in your voice?’

‘Watching with interest,’ she responded affably.

‘He can,’ Paige assured her, holding still while Zach pulled the elastic out of the bottom of the plait and teased it apart before combing it with his fingers. Beginning with three locks from the top of the small head before him, he pulled in sections from each side in turn to weave deftly until he got to Paige’s downy little neck, then he plaited normally to the bottom, between her shoulder blades. ‘Marci taught me,’ he informed Rosa smugly.

‘Impressive. But can you do Dutch?’ she asked. Then flushed because ‘can you do Dutch’ sounded like something from an erotic novel.

Judging by the gleam that sprang into Zach’s eyes his mind must have run along a similar track, though he answered gravely. ‘I don’t know what that is. Maybe you could show me?’

‘What’s Dutch?’ Paige demanded.

Rosa gave the little girl her attention so she didn’t have to look at Zach. ‘It’s similar to a French plait but the plait’s raised up.’

‘I want one!’ Paige switched allegiance and presented her back to Rosa.

Rosa quickly unravelled Zach’s handiwork and began the plait anew. ‘All you do is weave each strand under instead of over. Then the braid stands proud.’

‘I’ll have to practise,’ he said solemnly, and took a photo of the back of Paige’s head so his niece could inspect the result.

Under cover of Paige clamouring for Marci and Dory to pause their conversation and admire her Dutch plait, Zach tilted his head closer to Rosa’s. ‘I hope you don’t mind me joining you at the reunion lunch?’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘It’s not as if it’s a date.’

She found herself laughing. ‘Let’s hope my mother understands that! Of course I’m happy for us all to go together. It’s nice to have friends here in Malta.’

Then Marci joined the conversation with the perennial ‘What will you wear?’ As Rosa talked summer dresses with Marci, she could hear Zach chatting to Dory about Malta’s post-World War II history and the tunnels under Valletta.

Marci, obviously hearing too, nodded in Zach’s direction, stretched out in his chair. ‘He’s developed a big interest in Maltese history. I think it’s his way of trying to find himself.’

Zach caught the comment and shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m the only one looking.’

Rosa laughed, though, after hearing his story last night, she wondered if there was a spark of snark in his answer. ‘Maybe I’ll start trying to find myself too,’ she said. It would be better than feeling lost.

Chapter Four

Over the next four days, Dory devoted herself to encouraging Rosa to fall in love with Malta.

They ambled to Sliema along what Dory referred to as The Strand, though it said Triq ix-Xatt on the map – the seafront road, dotted with graceful palm trees. They strolled the hilly streets of narrow pavements and busy roads, browsed the shops and ate in bustling pavement cafés. Rosa got her head around Sliema being situated on a promontory so having a coastline that on one side looked over the calm waters of Marsamxett Harbour, past Manoel Island to the ramparts, golden buildings, balconies, domes, spires, lookouts and towers that was the capital city Valletta. On the other it faced the open ocean and she could gaze along towards the towers and hotels of St Julian’s Bay, which encompassed Paceville.

They crossed Marsamxett Harbour to Valletta on the tubby white catamaran ferry, a journey of a few minutes over the sparkling blue sea, yachts, tourist boats and ferries manoeuvring around each other and leaving behind them a cat’s cradle of white wakes. After queuing with a hundred others to leave the ferry they puffed towards the centre of the city up streets so steep that Sliema’s seemed gentle in comparison. The narrow pavements, in the Maltese way, occasionally turned into stairs and, in fact, so did whole streets. Most of the buildings were traditional limestone that glowed in the heat of the day, many heavily carved into graceful ornamentation around windows or coats of arms on parapets. The enclosed balconies known as ‘galleriji’ were painted in green and red. Rosa craned to inspect a frontage towering several storeys above. ‘A gallerija is like a cross between a balcony and a bay window.’ Dignified statues met them on street corners. The air was filled with the sounds of engines in low gear, chattering voices and church bells.

Some streets were broad, others narrow, many opened into squares set with open-air cafés, parasols in cream, green or burgundy hoisted against the sun. When they reached the part of Republic Street that was both pedestrianised and fairly level, they paused to catch their breath. Dory panted, ‘Let’s begin with me showing you my favourite view in all the world.’ They crossed the little city in a few minutes, some streets offering shade but others only dazzling sunlight and Dory steered Rosa to the Upper Barrakka Gardens. Entering through a gated arch, Rosa paused. ‘It’s beautiful!’

A simple but graceful fountain danced in the centre, circled by flowerbeds and benches. Following one of the geometrically laid-out paths they passed through two rows of graceful arches.

Then they stepped onto a terrace so high above a harbour that they were actually looking down on massive moored cruise ships.

‘Wow,’ Rosa breathed, trying to drink in the vista before her. The afternoon sun bounced on the cerulean sea upon which boats of every size drew white criss-cross wakes: industrial-looking vessels with battered red hulls and grey deck cranes, tiny motor boats, blue freighters and bobbing tug boats. From tankers to cruise ships, water taxis to ferries, Grand Harbour teemed with nautical life from the breakwater and lighthouse at the mouth of the harbour to an expansive dockyard area in a creek opposite where they stood.

‘This is Grand Harbour,’ Dory announced impressively. ‘Valletta’s built on a peninsula, like Sliema, with Manoel Island between. On a map they look like arms curving around a fish. Over the other side—’ she gestured towards the area across Grand Harbour ‘—are the Three Cities, also known as the Cottonera area.’

‘Wow,’ Rosa repeated inadequately. The harbour was magnificent. Vibrant. Surrounded by reminders of Valletta’s history. On a saluting battery below them stood a row of cannons; watchtowers hung from the massive sloping curtain walls protecting the city, tunnels disappearing into them here and there. Dory went into tourist guide mode, pointing to a soaring modern silver structure. ‘There’s the Upper Barrakka Lift, which carries passengers between these gardens and Valletta Waterfront, where the big ships moor.’ She pointed across the harbour. ‘That’s Fort St Angelo, there’s Fort St Michael, and the naval museum that was Bighi Hospital when I was a kid. I went there when I broke my nose, and Aunt Lizzy had to go when she trod on a harpoon someone had left out.’ She went on, spouting far too much information for Rosa to absorb, though she recognised some of the places Dory and Zach had talked about: the War HQ Tunnels, Lascaris War Rooms, Fort Rinella.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dory McCoy Hammond

School: Tigné Barracks Infant and Junior

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course not,’ Zach replied politely.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Go on,’ she said, politely.

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

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

Marcus’s gaze became guarded. ‘I probably shouldn’t even have told my solicitor because it doesn’t actually matter.’

Rosa’s senses prickled. She’d known Marcus for too long not to recognise the signs of him trying to misdirect her attention. Her mind began to work. The only way money still connected them was via the mortgage. Her heart sank. If he was unable to meet a payment then she’d have to do it instead because the formalities of transferring it into his name alone were incomplete. ‘You haven’t run through all your money already?’ She didn’t have her usual salary right now and, thanks to Marcus, she’d come out of their relationship with precious few reserves.

Marcus’s expression froze. ‘Your faith in me is touching, as always. My bank balance is still healthy, thanks.’ There was a touch of smugness in his words.

Rosa was losing patience. ‘So what’s the problem?’

Marcus cleared his throat again. ‘I didn’t want my money to vanish while trying to make a go of Spun Gold full-time so I took a lodger to help pay the mortgage. In the bloody backwards way solicitors do things, they’ve mentioned it to the mortgage provider, who says they need your formal consent before switching the mortgage into my name. I should have got their OK before taking in a lodger, apparently, so I have to cross their T’s and dot their I’s retrospectively.’

Rosa just about followed this. ‘So it doesn’t really affect me? I sign a consent and everything goes through?’

Marcus smiled. ‘Exactly.’ The smile remained pinned to his lips. ‘Something else I should probably tell you because it will be on the paperwork. The lodger is Chellice.’

‘Chellice?’ Rosa broke in. ‘The same Chellice you absolutely swore you weren’t having a thing with?’

‘She’s a lodger,’ he snapped, smile switching off. ‘It makes sense because it’s cheaper than her last place and means she can put more into Spun Gold.’

Rosa heard her voice rising. ‘Either you’re a gullible idiot for believing that’s all there is to it or you think I am. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Email me the details of how I go about signing so we can end this. But I just want to say, MARCUS, YOU’RE A SHITTY BASTARD!’ With shaking fingers she ended the call.

Slowly, she came back to herself, realising she was still at a party. At the shady end of the garden she saw several people swiftly turn their gazes away. Great. Her outburst had been heard.

Zach had obviously caught it too as he uncoiled himself and left the bench to perch on the coping beside her. ‘More sticking up for yourself. Love it.’ But there was so much sympathy in his voice that Rosa’s eyes boiled for a moment. ‘Are you OK?’ he added softly.

‘Yes, it’s just … men.’ She gave a watery smile.

‘Yeah. Shitty bastards,’ he agreed contemplatively.

Shakily, she laughed. ‘Possibly not all of you.’

He patted her arm. ‘How about you keep an eye on Paige for a minute while I go get us more wine?’

‘Plan,’ she agreed, grateful to have a few moments to herself.

The event began to draw to a close at about six, which Rosa didn’t think was bad going for ‘lunch’. As the afternoon had grown hotter and hotter, Dory, Zach, Rosa and Paige waited in the shady function room for Marci. When she finally joined them she looked a bit pink. ‘I’ve been talking to this guy, Jake.’

‘Really? Hadn’t noticed,’ Zach said, deadpan. ‘It’s only been about three hours.’

Marci flushed still pinker. ‘He’s invited me for lunch on Wednesday … if I can get a babysitter.’ Her eyes sparkled hopefully at her brother.

‘I’ll have Paige for lunch,’ Zach agreed easily.

Paige’s ponytail swung as she whipped round to regard her uncle with a winning smile. ‘On the pirate ship?’

Marci’s eyebrows shot up. ‘We use the word “please” when we ask for big favours, Paige, don’t we? Even if you can wind your uncle round your finger? Restaurants cost money.’

‘Sorry,’ said Paige, not sounding particularly so. ‘Please, Uncle Zachary, would you take me to the pirate ship for lunch, please, please?’

Zach smiled down at her with such affection that Rosa’s heart expanded. ‘Wellllll …’ he mused.

Paige all but batted her eyelashes.

‘OK,’ he agreed.

‘Yay!’ She bounced on the spot, clapping her small hands. ‘Can Dory and Rosa come too? Please?’

‘I was about to suggest the very same.’ Zach gave his sister a wink before she could butt in with more parental objections.

‘The pirate ship is pretty cool,’ Dory said, ‘so thank you. I’d love to join you.’

Rosa felt a stirring of misgiving. A ship? ‘Can I wait and see if the sea’s still calm? I get seasick.’

Paige giggled. ‘It’s a pirate ship on the ground.’

‘Firmly on the shore,’ Zach confirmed.

‘Oh! In that case, thank you. I’ve never eaten on a pirate ship.’ Rosa smiled at Paige’s beaming delight.

As the group finally made their way downstairs Zach fell back to where Rosa brought up the rear of the party. ‘About lunch,’ he growled theatrically out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m not dating at the moment.’

She stifled a giggle. ‘I’ll tell my mum we’re just good friends.’ Then, before he could make a joke of that too added, ‘I could do with a friend out here.’

The merriment in his eyes faded away. ‘I’m your man,’ he said, which left Rosa with a surprising case of the warm and fuzzies. She kept seeing Zach being kind to people and it was heart-warming to find herself included.

Chapter Five

On Monday morning, Rosa was happy to return to her role as kitchen porter. Dory was working on several versions of bigilla, the dip made of beans and garlic popular in Malta, but she was content for Rosa to join the sea clean later. Rosa texted Zach to tell him.

He arrived at their door at three p.m., jingling his car keys. ‘Do you have ID to show Joseph? I don’t want to put him in an awkward spot if he doesn’t identify you and you turn out to be a criminal.’

‘I’m not!’ she returned shortly, then realised that, unless Dory had been spilling beans, he wouldn’t know the ups and down – mainly downs – of why she and Marcus had split up and she flashed a smile to offset her terseness. ‘Give me a second to grab my UK driving licence.’

After they’d driven along the seafront road, Zach had shoehorned his car into a spot in a side road in Sliema. The public beach on Tigné seafront had a breathtaking view across Marsamxett Harbour to where Valletta shimmered in the heat haze. Rosa managed to get down onto the rocks without dropping fins, mask, snorkel or towel and was introduced to Joseph, who, in the mixed-culture way of Malta, had an English mother. ‘Joseph’s dad was a cousin of Nanna’s,’ Zach explained. ‘We say we’re cousins because the exact relationship takes too much working out.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Joseph was a stocky man with a waistline that suggested he didn’t totally adhere to the healthy part of the Mediterranean diet. He introduced his wife, Maria, who when she’d kissed Zach on each cheek, shook hands with Rosa and eyed Rosa’s snorkel gear with a smile. ‘I think you wish to be in the water rather than on the shore to give out snacks and drinks?’ She indicated two coolers of drinks and a cardboard box containing crisps and fruit.

Rosa felt sympathetic, remembering the times she’d drawn an uninteresting task at Blackthorn’s events. ‘I could do some of each,’ she offered.

Maria laughed and patted Rosa’s arm. ‘You swim. It’s good to clean the water. I have Luccio to help me.’

Rosa hadn’t noticed Luccio nearby but now he sent a grin her way. ‘Let her give out drinks, Maria. Then I can cool off in the sea this hot afternoon,’ he teased and kissed Rosa on both cheeks.

‘Great to see you again.’ Rosa had forgotten Zach had mentioned that Luccio worked at Nicholas Centre. He looked much younger than when she’d seen him last time, happier and cleaner cut, although his outfit of T-shirt, flip-flops and skinny shorts that showed the tattoos on his legs was much the same. It was ‘the look’ for young men on the island. Older men tended to wear roomier shorts and – usually – no tattoos.

Teenagers began to arrive as Rosa chatted to Luccio about how he liked working as a youth support worker. They approached Joseph to sign in to the sea clean project, collecting bottles of water or soft drinks from Maria, pulling off shorts and T-shirts to reveal swimming gear beneath.

Rosa was introduced to the other adults present: Peter, Axel and Malin. Peter was Maltese and Malin was a pretty Swedish blonde woman who was in Malta for the scuba diving which, she explained, she funded by working at Nicholas Centre and casual work in bars. Axel, a German in his early forties, had lived in Malta for years and was the assistant manager at Nicholas Centre.

Joseph gave a ‘housekeeping’ talk to the teens while cool drinks were consumed. ‘You will each be assigned to a group. Zach will lead one group with his friend Rosa; Peter and Malin will lead the other.’ Each of the teens was given a rubber sash and belt combination, blue for Zach’s group and red for Peter’s. The sash part could be seen from above the water and the belt from below. ‘I will be on shore to check Zach’s group is safe and Axel will provide surface cover for Peter’s.’

Zach and Peter took over, assembling their respective groups of eight. They’d work in pairs, one diving for debris and the other loading it into floating baskets. Zach made sure he had the attention of everyone in his group. ‘This is our area and you’ll see it includes the cave. You’ll stay away from that,’ he declared in a no-nonsense tone. He pointed at the crevice – which was like a gaping, triangular mouth in the rocks – in case anyone had any doubt what he was talking about. The cave narrowed sharply, tumbling every wave that entered and boiling it white before spitting it back out to sea. ‘We all know it’s fun to let the waves take us in but I can’t save you all at once.’

The teens laughed, nudging one another.

‘And,’ Zach emphasised, ‘if anyone does go into the cave, even if they pretend the sea took them, I’ll set Rosa on them and she’s very fierce.’

Familiar with this kind of ‘instructing under the guise of joking’, Rosa bared her teeth and pulled her eyebrows into a grotesque frown. The teens laughed again.

‘Seriously, if you get too near the cave I’m afraid you’ll have to get out of the water,’ Zach finished with more gravity.

Rosa, fully aware that if you took young people to a public place you actually had very little leverage over them other than to bar offenders from activities or premises, nodded emphatically, which encouraged the teens to nod back.

Before long they were all in the water, pumping their feet energetically while they made adjustments to masks and snorkels and gathered baskets from those on the shore. Zach and Rosa supervised four kids each, putting their faces in the water to spot bottles or cans.

Zach tried not to get distracted by the sight of Rosa’s body underwater. A swimming costume, even one-piece and plain purple, left little to the imagination and one glance told him she had an hourglass figure. In the green-blue marine world he observed several of the lads in his team risk quick glances at her too. Boys would be boys but he wasn’t going to have her made uncomfortable. He tapped the arm of the nearest lad and pointed at a yellow Cisk can between two rocks. It was more than six feet down so the effort of retrieval would give him something else to focus on.

He did have to keep glancing at Rosa because she was on his team and so he needed to know how strongly she swam and whether to bring Luccio in to relieve her. She seemed at home in the water, even if, as she informed him, she’d only recently snorkelled for the first time.

They took a break after an hour. Most of the Maltese kids swam as naturally as walking but there was no harm in taking a breather, drinking a bottle of water and eating an orange. He sat down next to Rosa on a towel because the rock was hot.

‘Is your name really Zachary?’ she demanded, peeling her orange with her thumbnail.

He blinked. ‘Yes. Why, what did you think?’

‘I don’t know. I heard Paige call you Zachary yesterday. I suppose I hadn’t thought Zach was short for anything, maybe because people often think Rosa is short for Rosalind or Rosamund and in my case it’s not.’

He shrugged. ‘Some Zachs are Zachariah or just Zach. Our parents are Steve and Amanda and as they grew up always knowing about five others with the same name they called each of us something less usual. Marci is Marceline and our little sister is Electra.’

She’d put on sunglasses but her face was turned towards his. ‘Electra’s a great name. Is she coming over this summer?’

‘She’s in Thailand, teaching English.’ He felt the hollowness that often accompanied thoughts of Electra and found himself explaining, ‘Truth is, it’s not just me who’s not getting on with Dad – she doesn’t either. He’s had a rough few years, trapped in a cycle of being made redundant, taking a less prestigious job then being made redundant again and so on. Mum’s rheumatoid arthritis prevents her from working so the financial burden falls on him and his age of retirement has moved further away.’

Silently, Rosa’s hand settled gently on his on the towel between them. Surprise tingled through him but he wasn’t about to object to the friendly gesture.

Zach went on. ‘Because he can’t control the big things, Dad’s trying to control the small ones or those that are, frankly, not his business. Electra went home two years ago and Dad told her he expected her to get a proper bloody job and stop gallivanting.’

‘So she went straight off again?’ Rosa guessed.

He nodded. ‘He’s turned very “my way or the highway” and one by one his family members are choosing the highway. Marci only came out here for a month or so but she’s begun finding out about residency and schools.’

‘Really?’ He heard the surprise in her voice. Marci probably didn’t seem that adventurous to her.

Zach grimaced. ‘I don’t know if she’ll follow through but I wouldn’t be completely shocked. When she got pregnant with Paige it wasn’t planned. Dad went all Victorian and tried to make her move in with him and Mum because no doubt she’d expect help with “the child” and he “couldn’t do everything for everyone”. He managed to alienate both Marci and Mum in one go and when Paige arrived, though he loved her to bits, he’d already built a wall between them because Marci was adamant she’d never look to our parents for child care.’ Nearby teenagers chattered loudly, sometimes in Maltese and sometimes in English. One even spoke Italian with Luccio, who, apparently, spoke it along with Sicilian and English. Peter, Axel, Malin, Joseph and Maria all joined in in one language or another.

Zach carried on. ‘My latest bout of trouble was the catalyst for Dad really losing it. He and I squared up to each other at one point before Nanna stepped in.’ He sipped from his bottle of water. ‘She’s the one Dad really talks to and she probably makes more allowances for him than the rest of us.’

‘She’s his mum.’ Rosa moved closer.

He nodded and swallowed painfully. ‘Grandad Harry has slithered into dementia and Nanna needs help with him but she offered me the work at the apartments and said she wanted me to take it. I said she’d have less help with Grandad if I did that but she wouldn’t take that into consideration. She said Dad and I needed time apart. I checked with Mum whether she minded and she said no. Mum’s always the understanding, gentle one. Dad overheard and said he could look after his own wife. As she’s the one he’s capable of showing love to, I took her at her word and left.’

‘I’m sorry things have been so tough.’ Rosa removed her hand from his as if realising it was there and began to part the flesh of her orange. ‘I scarcely know my dad because he found fatherhood didn’t suit him. He’s a distant stranger who visited, rarely, and gave Mum money toward my keep, also rarely. Still, you have my sympathy.’

He struggled to find a reply, shocked by her casual statement. ‘And you have mine.’

‘You can’t miss what you never had.’ She licked orange juice from her hand and he watched the quick movement of her tongue.

Then Luccio arrived to gather empty bottles and orange peel and they moved on into the second part of the sea clean.

Joseph declared the sea clean over at the end of the second hour. The last of the drinks, fruit and crisps were handed out and some of the teens moved further up the beach to throw themselves and each other off the rocks with a lot of good-natured shrieking. Others packed up and drifted off. The adults gathered the equipment belonging to Nicholas Centre and stowed it in the boot of a people carrier.

‘Rosa works in a youth centre in the UK,’ he said to Joseph.

Rosa nodded. ‘My title is Development Officer. I don’t have the right qualifications to be a youth worker but I’m good at organising events and getting publicity and funding for them.’

‘Funding?’ Joseph pounced on the word. ‘Tell me how you do it in the UK because in Malta we’re always looking.’

‘In the UK too,’ Rosa admitted. ‘One of my favourite tricks is to work with firms who like to organise team-building exercises. For example, we got them to design and build gym bars at our centre, Blackthorn’s. A local joiner donated his time to oversee the project but the company paid for the materials and its employees did the work. I, obviously, have a whole pitch about team building in terms of better communication and group strategising. Then I do all the attendant PR, which makes their budget work twice as hard.’

Zach looked at her with new respect. ‘They go for that?’

Rosa grinned. ‘Often enough for me to keep doing it.’ She asked Joseph about Nicholas Centre and Zach zoned out, familiar as he was with the story of how Joseph’s great-uncle Nicholas had always helped kids with less-than-ideal backgrounds so Joseph had begun the centre in his name. He found himself watching the way Rosa’s hair jiggled around her face as the breeze dried it. Gold streaks shimmered in her drying locks and gold flecks glittered in her eyes. It was as if she had some special relationship with the sun: it loved her best. She took his breath away.

He tuned back into the conversation when he heard Joseph say, ‘Will you visit us? We’re always pleased to have guests at Nicholas Centre.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘And we can talk more about fundraising when I have a pad and pen to take notes.’

Rosa’s eyes lit up. ‘That would be great! Maybe I could bring Mum? She’s been to Blackthorn’s to put on cookery demonstrations, like how easily kids can make a healthy stir-fry rather than buying takeaway. She could do the same for you. Our kids loved it because she’s been on TV but I’m sure she’d bring a book with her so they can see her face on the cover.’

‘That sounds fantastic,’ Zach and Joseph said together. Joseph and Rosa exchanged phone numbers so they could make plans after Rosa had spoken to Dory.

Eventually, Joseph and Maria drove off. Zach stretched. ‘Right, this is when I have to get all that crap out of the cave.’

‘But you said it was dangerous,’ Rosa objected, frowning.

‘Dangerous for the kids,’ he amended. ‘But I can bear a scratch or two if I get washed against the side. I’ve done it before. The cave’s a natural collection point for whatever blows into the water.’ He ferreted in his backpack and pulled out a thin, lightweight netting bag.

‘Nice to know you’re in favour of saving the ocean. I’ll hang back and take the debris from you.’ Rosa settled the bag crosswise on her body and reached for her snorkelling gear.

Once again they made the transition from the hot rocks to the cold salty ocean then finned up to the cave, avoiding an area where young men hurled themselves into the sea from the rocks with howls of glee. Zach checked Rosa appeared to be dealing with the choppy foam of the inlet then got her to tread water while he swam into the shallow cave, judging the waves, sculling backwards when they tried to fling him against the rocky sides, grabbing floating bottles and tossing them to Rosa. Soon the bag floated in front of her, buoyed by the mass of plastic bottles.

When it was full and cumbersome he swam back to her. ‘Let’s get rid of that lot on shore.’

At the ladder, he paused to ease off his fins and toss them onto the rocks before climbing out, a technique he’d learned from scuba-crazy Malin. Once on dry land he took the bag from Rosa. She copied his action in removing her fins before exiting.

Taking a bin bag from his backpack he emptied the bottles into it and they headed back over the rocks to the sea. He fell in behind Rosa, from which position he couldn’t help noticing her rear view. Quickly, he wrenched his gaze away. Maybe that was where the convention of men allowing women to go first had arisen from – not good manners but the instinct to check women out unobserved. However, after witnessing the pithy way she dealt with the Paceville guy who’d crossed her boundaries and Jim at the reunion who’d offended her sense of respect, he didn’t intend to get caught ‘noticing’. It was possible to enjoy her directness when it was focused on others, without particularly wanting to draw fire himself.

When the bag was once again full he towed it back to the ladder. ‘We’ve cleared it for now.’ He let her go first again but made an effort not to watch her female charms this time. There would be no cold water to hide any reaction once he was out of the water.

After resting on the sun-heated rocks to dry, Zach offered to buy Rosa a beer and an ice cream and they pulled their clothes on top of their swim things, stowed in Zach’s car their snorkelling gear and the sacks of flotsam to be recycled, then headed down the road towards the row of outdoor cafés, one of which was where they’d eaten on their accidental date, and found a table not too close to the road.

It was only when he tried to pay for two pints of Cisk and two ice creams that Zach’s stomach dropped to the floor. Something was missing. ‘The cash has gone from my wallet!’ Automatically, he patted his pockets, although he knew the notes couldn’t have leapt out of his wallet and into another place.

Rosa’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, no! You left your wallet on the beach while you swam?’

‘Yeah. It sounds stupid when you say it like that but Malta’s usually safe,’ he explained, feeling both angry and foolish. ‘It was only after the others had gone that there was no one on shore with it. I’ll have to buy one of those waterproof belts for when I’m in the water.’

She unzipped her backpack. ‘I have thirty euros in a hidden pocket, so I can get the bill.’

‘It’s OK,’ he muttered. ‘My credit cards are still there.’

What he didn’t tell her because he didn’t want to even think it let alone say it out loud was that this was the third time he’d lost money recently. Joseph had lost some too.

And each time Luccio had been around.