LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

north across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. But neither were the Maltese fools—far from it—they could spot a lie at a hundred paces, and many were wary of the Strickland rags, which they knew to be slanted towards the British Establishment.

      Hence the Information Office, whose Daily Situation Report and Weekly Bulletin offered up for public consumption a cocktail of cold, factual and apparently unbiased news. In essence, the Daily Situation Report was a scorecard. How many of their bombs had found their mark? And how many planes had both they and we lost in the course of that day’s raids? There were grey areas, of course, not least of all, the often conflicting claims made by the RAF and the Artillery. In the wild confusion of a heavy raid on Grand Harbour, who could say with absolute certainty that a diving Stuka had been brought down by ack-ack fire and not the Hurricane on its tail?

      Mediating such disputes had ruined many a pleasant evening for Max, all thanks to the Late Situation Report—an update to the Five O’clock Report which he was expected to put out at 10.45 p.m. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been summoned to the phone in the middle of an enjoyable dinner party to listen to the tedious bleatings of HQ Royal Artillery and RAF Intelligence, each so eager to stake their claim to another precious scalp.

      He thought it best to hold this information back from Pemberton. He certainly didn’t explain that the main reason he’d lobbied the Lieutenant-Governor’s office for an assistant to take over the editorship of the Daily Situation Report was so that his own evenings might remain uncluttered by such irritations.

      Instead, he played up his own onerous workload, spelling out in some detail the other activities of the Information Office: the monitoring of enemy radio stations in the Mediterranean; the translation of BBC broadcasts and speeches by the Governor into Maltese; and the production of light entertainments, which, along with the relentless stream of news items, were put out over the island’s Rediffusion system.

      ‘Gilding the pill,’ said Pemberton distractedly, when Max was finished.

      ‘Nicely put.’

      ‘But not propaganda.’

      ‘Perish the thought.’

      ‘Well, not ostensibly.’

      ‘Never ostensibly. Before the week’s out, I’ll be up in front of the Finance Committee fighting to justify the additional expense to the department of one Edward Pemberton.’

      No lie there. He would have to make his case, then the Maltese representatives would haul him over the coals, and then they would agree to his demands. In its own small way, this predictable little theatre, played out with tedious regularity, laid bare one of the grander themes of colonial administration: Allow them a voice, then tell them what to say.

      ‘I think I get the picture.’

      ‘Excellent. Now, where are you staying?’

      ‘The Osbourne.’

      ‘We’ll have to find you more permanent digs. There’s a drinks party later. It would pay you to show your face. We might be able to rustle up something for you.’

      ‘Sounds good.’

      ‘If you don’t mind riding pillion, I can pick you up around five.’

      ‘You have a motorcycle?’

      ‘Technically, it’s three motorcycles, held together with wire and will-power.’

      Pemberton flashed his film-star smile.

      Yes, thought Max, Rosamund will be most pleased with her unexpected guest.

      She was.

      Her hand even went to her hair when she greeted them at the door, something it had never done for Max.

      The house sat near the top of Prince of Wales Road in Sliema, just shy of the police station. It was typical of many Maltese homes in that the unassuming façade gave no indication of the treasures that lay behind it. The wooden entrance door was flanked by two windows, with three more windows on the upper floor united by a stone balcony overhanging the street. Perfectly symmetrical, the front of the house was unadorned except for a brass nameplate set in the white stucco—Villa Marija—and a small glazed terracotta roundel above the entrance which showed a disconsolate-looking Virgin clutching her child.

      Rosamund was wearing an oyster-grey satin evening gown, and once her hand had tugged self-consciously at her auburn locks, Max made the introductions. Rosamund offered a slender hand, drawing Pemberton inside as they shook, which permitted her to fire an approving look over his shoulder at Max as she did so.

      The entrance hall was cool and cavernous, impeccably decked out with antique furniture. A Persian rug sprawled at their feet and a handful of colourful, impressionistic paintings hung from the walls. Pemberton looked mildly stunned.

      ‘Tell me, Edward, you aren’t by any chance related to Adrian Pemberton, are you?’

      ‘If he lives in Chepstow Crescent, then he’s my cousin, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Why should you be afraid?’

      ‘You obviously haven’t heard.’

      ‘No, but I can’t wait.’

      She hooked her arm through his, steering him across the drawing room towards the large walled garden at the rear of the house.

      ‘Has he done something terribly wicked? I do hope he’s done something terribly wicked. It would bear out all my suspicions about him.’

      Max dumped his scuffed leather shoulder bag on the divan and followed them outside.

      Rosamund had three rules when it came to her ‘little get-togethers’. The first was that she personally greeted everyone at the door. The second was that it was unforgivably rude to speculate about the source of the copious quantities of spirits on offer, when it was barely possible to locate a bottle of beer on the island. The third rule stated quite simply that there was to be no ‘talking shop’ after the first hour, to which end she would ring a small hand bell at the appointed time.

      ‘All week I get nothing from Hugh but barrages and Bofors and Junker 88s. For a few small hours, I’d like to talk about something else, and I’m sure you all would too.’

      Hugh was her husband, a lieutenant-colonel in the Royal Artillery. A mathematician of some standing before the war, it was Hugh who had worked out the intricate calculations behind the coordinated box barrage over Grand Harbour—an impressive feat, and one which had seen him elevated to the position of senior staff officer at RA HQ. In his early forties, he looked considerably older, which played to his private passion—the theatre—making him eligible for a host of more senior roles, which he scooped up uncontested every time the Malta Amateur Dramatic Club put on one of their plays. He was always trying to get Max to audition for some token part to make up the numbers: butler, chauffeur, monosyllabic house guest.

      While Rosamund abandoned her first rule in order to parade her new catch around the garden, Max made for the drinks table in the grateful shade beneath one of the orange trees. True to form, there was no one to pour the drinks. It wouldn’t be good for relations if the Maltese staff were to witness the excesses of their brothers-in-suffering. Max was concocting a whisky-and-soda when he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

      ‘Ah, thou honeysuckle villain.’

      ‘Henry the Fourth,’ Max responded, without turning.

      ‘Not good enough and you know it.’

      Max swivelled to face Hugh, whose forehead, as ever, was beaded with perspiration. It was an old and slightly tedious game of theirs. Hugh liked to toss quotations at him, usually Shakespeare, but not always.

      ‘Henry the Fourth, Part II,’ said Max.

      ‘Damn.’

      ‘Mistress Quickly to Falstaff. I studied it at school.’

      ‘Double damn. That makes three in a row.’

Скачать книгу