Novels with a surprise ending

The British Expeditionary Force was retreating, defeated and harassed by the German army and pounded by the German air force all the way from the plains of France to the beaches of Dunkirk.  British, French and Belgian soldiers were gathering in their thousands for what was to become known in war history as ‘the great escape’ or ‘the miracle of Dunkirk’. 

Ritchie Cassar, only son of a Maltese immigrant, Londoner from the East End, 24 years old and Jimmy McLean, Glasgow boy from the Gorbals but now living in Clapham, 25 years old – both survivors of the 20th Battalion of the London Regiment which was decimated by the enemy – had been on the run for three whole days. Cold and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, they run, hid and ravaged for morsels of food. Their uniforms were splattered and torn from diving into ditches or under hedges whenever Stukas came hurtling overhead. 

Ritchie patted the pocket where Betty’s last letter was secured and allowed hurriedly to wonder whether he would ever see her again. The tiff they had on his last leave weighed heavily on his mind. She wanted to start a family but he wanted to await the end of the war. She did not want to wait forever but he did not want her to be burdened with a baby in case he failed to return home. But both loved each other dearly and fiercely. 

Suddenly he was pushed sharply from the back and sent sprawling face down into the ditch as Stukas came screaming overhead peppering the road with bullets. When the enemy planes passed, he struggled back to his feet muttering “Thanks Jim that was very close indeed!”  “Where the hell were you mate? Did you not hear them coming?” said his friend. “Thinking of your wife, I suppose. Be careful mate or you’ll never see her again” he continued. 

They looked out towards the beach below. The scene they saw was unbelievable, like seeing an epic film at the cinema. Thousands of battle-weary soldiers were spread exhausted on the sand. There were boats of all types as far as the eye could see – warships and fishing boats, yachts and paddle steamers, lifeboats and tugboats and other kinds of sea craft imaginable. And all around them was the constant screaming of enemy planes flying low and causing havoc on these men waiting their chance to escape and save their lives. 

Jimmy put his hand in his back pocket and retrieved a crumpled packet of cigarettes giving one to Ritchie. As Ritchie lighted his cigarette, he watched the eerie spectacle below – small boats, heavily laden with men that they lay low in the water while other men were clinging to the boats’ sides not to drown. All of a sudden, the deadly Stukas came diving down and mercilessly machine gunned the helpless soldiers. Ritchie flung himself flat on the sand besides Jimmy, his heart pounding fast as the beach around them was sprayed with bullets. There were so many dead and dying that he was crying openly.

In the lull that followed, Jimmy told him “When this war is finished and we’re back in London, we’ll get our girls together and have a good night out. You’ll love my Susie, she’s a gem!” “It’s a promise”, retorted Ritchie, “And you’ll love my Betty too, she’s a diamond!”  “My God, how I miss my little Rosie, she’s three now”, said again Jimmy. They had known each other since their recruitment, stayed together and became close pals looking after each other during their fighting across France. 

They rested a bit, letting their minds roam on many things but mostly on the dear ones they had left behind. Then the Stukas came again, diving, screaming, pounding them with bombs and firing with machine guns at the helpless mass of tired soldiers who were waiting their turn to board boats and try to make it back to England. 

“When the Stukas go back for more ammunition, shall we dash in the water to reach one of the little boats?” asked Ritchie. He looked besides him. Jimmy had fallen over on his back, his face contorted with pain. Ritchie crouched over him, listening, but there was no beats from his heart and no breath on his hand when he held it close to Jimmy’s mouth. Then he saw the gaping wound on his friend’s chest from which blood was oozing out. His friend was lifeless. 

They had been together from the beginning, him and Jimmy. His friend had come back from his last leave proudly showing around photos of his new-born daughter. Susie, his wife, would only have that baby to comfort her now and to remind her of her Jimmy. Ritchie, his eyes misty and with a painful lump in his throat, beat the sand with his fist shouting angrily – “Damn this war. Damn those German bastards!”

He remained with his friend until late evening. As darkness fell and fires lit the desolate scene, Ritchie took Jimmy’s papers from his pocket, including the precious photos of his wife and daughter, and then walked towards the remaining members of his unit. Light-headed with the trauma of seeing his best mate die besides him, Ritchie lay there with his thoughts. Jimmy was just one of the many casualities that littered the beach, and who knew who would be next?

His thoughts went to his father. He had promised them that when the war is over, he would take them all to his little island in the Mediterranean for a holiday, see his few remaining relatives there, show them the beautiful places where he grew up, the whole city built by the Knights of St. John, the bastions and fortifications, the churches, the blue sea. But will he make it safely home?

He joined the long queue of men stretching far into the water waiting their turn to board any vessel. It took him another twelve hours before he was dragged on a small boat bound for home. He had grown weaker and weaker with lack of food, water and sleep. As the boat sped away from the beach, he saw plumes of smoke rising from the receding shore and thought of those left behind and who would probably never make it back. He felt sick at heart.

When some minute later, he looked once more back towards the devastation, he saw a ship going down stern first, the water around it swarming with servicemen, struggling to keep afloat. A few small boats were making their way towards the fast disappearing ship. He prayed the good Lord for their safety.

By the time the white cliffs of Dover came in sight, he had sunk to his knees from sheer exhaustion. He struggled to his feet as the men began slowly to make a file and walk down towards land. Once on the train, the men – haggard, dirty, unshaven but thankful – were given biscuits, cakes, cigarettes and drinks by voluntary workers who came out to help. Ritchie closed his eyes and thought longingly of his Betty before falling into a troubled sleep. 

Betty, knowing of the defeated servicemen’s homecoming, waited anxiously for him at Victoria train station. Trains were coming in overloaded with all kinds of servicemen including injured ones helped by their colleagues. She waited for four whole hours, then – when hope seemed to ebb – she saw him coming down the steps of the train – tired, haggard, and unshaven. He spotted her when she shouted his name and they run furiously towards each other until they met and hugged tightly together for a long long time, cementing a love that a long and cruel war could not destroy.    

The retreat from Dunkirk cost the lives of 68,000 fighting men but 350,000 others were saved to fight another day; Ritchie returned Jimmy’s papers and photos to his mate’s wife Susie telling her that her husband’s last words were that “my Susie is  a gem”; his father was killed during an air raid on the munitions factories of the East End, his promise to return to Malta with his family remaining unfulfilled; Ritchie survived the war despite serving in fighting campaigns in Italy and the Middle East; he and Betty had a son, Andrew, fulfilling their dream of a family despite the uncertainties of a cruel war that dragged on  for almost six years. 

My name is Pawlu – Pawlu Abdilla to be exact – born, bred and residing in Valletta; 55 years old; married to Karmena for the last 30 years; father of a boy and a girl named Pietru and Maria respectively; employed as an electrician with Enemalta Corporation; love sipping a glass of red wine with my evening meal and smoke a Rothman afterwards. That’s me in a nutshell. Oh, I forgot, I also act as a sexton at my parish – St Paul’s Church in Valletta – on a voluntary basis, of course. Now you know everything there is to know about me, well practically everything ………..

I love St Paul’s church; it’s where I was baptized, where I had my first Holy Communion and where I was married. It’s my church as well as anybody else’s from this district in downtown Valletta. It was founded in 1570 and its plans were designed by the famous Girolamo Cassar. We celebrate the feast of St Paul’s Shipwreck on February 10 every year. For us parishioners – known as Pawlini – it is the greatest feast in the whole world. In the church there is a relic of the Apostle’s wrist bone and also part of the column on which he was beheaded in Rome in 67 AD.

My parish duties are a well established routine. I open the church door every morning at 4.30 am when it is still dark. I go straight to the Sacristy, lay out the appropriate vestments to be donned by the celebrating priest, arrange the altar settings, light the candles, open the Missal on the appropriate page of the day and then hurry back to the Sacristy to wait for Dun Guzepp who always arrives on the dot to celebrate the 5.00 am mass. We exchange a short ‘buongiorno’, the priest rests a few minutes on a chair reading his breviary, then he puts on the vestments and we go out to the altar to start mass. There are normally about six to ten people in church at that hour. 

I have known Dun Guzepp for many years, assisting him regularly on his first early morning mass in our church. He is an old priest, about eighty I reckon, tall, lean and slightly stooped. He lives with his sister in a house just behind the church. He is not a man of many words. It’s not the first time that he did not reply to my early morning salutation. Depending on his mood on the day I suppose. But, despite his reservation, he is known in the parish as being a very religious man.

That particular day, on 26th of January should have been the same as the many days previously. But was it? I will leave that to you to decide. I opened the church doors at the usual time, made the preparations for the early morning mass, Dun Guzepp came a few minutes later, punctual as usual, he didn’t reply to my ‘Buongiorno’ as he sometimes does when he’s in a bad mood, we celebrated mass as usual for the few early risers mostly old women living near the church. Then we returned to the Sacristy where I helped him shed his vestments and attempted to strike a conversation once again. Yet, not a word escaped from the priest’s lips. It seemed that he was averting to look at me.

Dun Guzepp left hurriedly without a word, looking nervous and fidgety. As per my usual routine, I went to the statue of our Patron Saint, knelt in front of him and said some prayers. There is always some favour one has to ask him. Sometimes he obliges but sometimes not, depending maybe on what he thinks is best for us or maybe depending on his mood, who knows! But I have blind faith in him and never missed my prayers to him since I was a child. How the years have flown by!

In any case, after Dun Guzepp left, I prepared for Dun Gwann’s second mass at 6.00am. Dun Gwann is a different character altogether – younger, talkative, jovial and with a mild sense of humour. “Santa Maria, Pawlu, what has befell us!” he exclaimed as soon as he saw me.  “What? What’s happened?” I asked. “Don’t you know?” he replied. “Don’t know what?” I again asked, my curiosity now fully aroused. He sat down on his chair, obviously agitated and in shock. “It’s Dun Guzepp, he died last night!” he said like dropping a bombshell. “Last night when?” I asked again. “His sister called me and I went hurriedly to their house to assist him but he died at the stroke of midnight. Poor soul. May God grant him eternal rest which he deserves.” said Dun Gwann mopping his brow. “At midnight you said?” I replied, stupefied and bewildered, feeling a wave of coldness running through my body. “It’s impossible, but how could…………….!!”

I had been working at Jacob’s Football Factory for the last five years. We produced ten thousand hand-stitched footballs every year for export to all parts of the world.

It’s not any easy job. It needs constant concentration as hand-stitching requires nimble fingers and perfection. These footballs, being individually stitched, are used by FIFA and other football Associations. On the other hand, machine-manufactured footballs are made by the millions, are cheaper and are used for ordinary football matches, training and amateur football. 

Five years. When I started on this job, I was apprenticed for a whole year and only then, after being assessed, was given a proper full-time job. The Directors were happy with my work and, in fact, after two years I was promoted to supervisor. 

Things looked good for me. But then came Mr. Smith. He was employed as General Manager which meant that he practically ran the factory in the name of the Directors. 

I think that he did not like me from the first day he saw me. Not that I said anything or gave him any signs to cause him to hate me. He just did not like me. And it showed. 

He used to find fault with everything I did. I tried to be more efficient, extra cautious, give more attention. But it was all in vain. I could never please him. 

He filed untrue and exaggerated reports against me with the Directors; he shouted at me in front of my colleagues; his body language spoke clearly how he felt towards me. 

I could not find a justified reason for his behavior. He treated others normally with ‘good morning’, ‘how are you?’ and smiles. But me? I was ignored, scowled at or rebuked. Maybe it’s my face. It’s not an angel’s face to be sure, I admit. But it’s not a devil’s one either.

I was working under stress because I knew that he could influence the Directors to sack me. And then what? Where would I work? I had not learned any other trade. Hand-stitching was my career. My life was built around it.

And there was also Rita. I had been engaged to her for some time and had promised that we would get married this year. Rita had a lovely character. You just cannot not love her. We would make a perfect couple. But what if I am sacked?

One day Mr. Smith came to the factory, obviously in an ugly mood. As soon as he entered the factory floor, he made straight for me. “George”, he said belligerently, “You are not pulling your weight, you are slowing down the whole factory, I have to file a report against you once again!”

“But I did more than what is expected of me”, I retorted. “My colleagues can vouch for my output; I just don’t know where I failed.” I pleaded with him to give me another chance. “Don’t file another report please or I will surely get the sack”. 

“You deserve nothing better” he replied. 

Then he stormed away leaving me in tatters, while I did not know what to do. “I’ll wait”, I thought, “maybe he’ll not report me after all, maybe his conscience will touch his heart.” I went back to my work bench and continued executing my duties to the best of my ability. At closing time that day, I went home after being comforted by my colleagues. 

I spent a sleepless night, visualizing what I would do if I was sacked and what I would say to my Rita who was, like me, looking forward to our imminent marriage ceremony.  I had discovered that life was not fair. Only a fool thought so. Life was cruel and unjust. 

A series of different scenarios passed through my mind – keep calm, commit suicide, consider murder …………. Each scenario was analyzed, considered its advantages and disadvantages. My mind failed to decide. 

The next morning I went to work as usual, hoping that Mr. Smith might have had a change of heart and did not report me. I entered the factory with trepidation. My heart was pounding six to the dozen.

Less than half an hour from starting my work, at approximately 9 o’clock, Mr. Smith’s assistant, Hector Forbes, a good man who had sympathized with me on several occasions, called me to his office. 

“There it is!” I thought. “I’ve had it, the end of my career with Jacob’s Football Factory and the start of my problems”. I approached Forbes office with trepidation. I was shivering, my teeth chattering like castanets. My colleagues were looking at me with sympathy in their eyes. 

“Good morning Mr. Forbes” I saluted. “I understand you called me”.

“Yes, yes, Peter. It’s to tell you that the Directors ………………………..” He stopped in mid sentence as his telephone started ringing. He excused himself and unhooked the receiver immediately to attend to the caller.  

I sat down, crestfallen; while Mr. Forbes was in conversation with someone on the line. Each second seemed like an eternity. When the conversation was terminated, he put the receiver down and continued. “The Directors have sacked Mr. Smith this morning; apparently he was found to have been embezzling the Company for some time!”

I managed a long sigh of relief, like a man being saved from drowning. “They have promoted me to General Manager instead”, he continued. “But they have also directed me to ask you if you would accept the post of assistant General Manger which I, of course, will be relinquishing”.

Jack Prentice operated an art and antique business from a small shop in the Sloan Street area of London. He bought his articles from auctioneers, car boot sales, heirs who wanted to clear inherited properties and from various other sources as they came long. 

He had a well-stocked shop, bursting at the seams. But he sold many of his antiques – mostly paintings, silver objects, ornamental pieces, small items of furniture, statues – to clients who regularly called at his shop to enquire what’s available. His daughter Jenny often assisted him or replaced him when he, for some reason or other, was not able to be present. But she was not much interested in the business. At the age of 25 she married and left to live in the suburbs. Jack, a widower, was left to carry on the business all alone.

When her father died a few years after her marriage, Jenny made arrangements to clear the shop and sell everything. The contents of the shop were snapped up by art and antique enthusiasts and collectors. The sale brought her a considerable sum of money which she invested in a Hair dressing shop. She had separated from her husband and wanted to invest in this shop to provide for her livelihood. She had however retained just one painting. It was a fairly large one depicting a lovely village scene in Cornwall. It was signed by the famous Richard Milton Hayes. She remembered her father telling her that this was an invaluable piece of art worth a fortune. The signature at the bottom of the painting confirmed its priceless value.

As the years rolled by, Jenny’s shop had to close down. It lacked business because neighbours moved on to more refined areas. Also, younger hairdressers with much more modern ideas, opened up in the area. These were more popular. As a result Jenny lost the investment she had originally made in the venture. But even though money was now lacking, she kept hold of the Cornwall painting. She always told her daughter Bella that the painting would one day bring her a fortune. It was, she assured her, her nest egg for the future. She advised her daughter that it should only be sold in case of an emergency, when money was really needed.  

Jenny died when Bella had her 21st birthday. She had planned to marry her boyfriend Alan that same month but had to postpone the wedding for three months in order to get over her mother’s demise. Bella had noted that the worn-out frame of the painting was depreciating its appearance and had intended to change it with a new gold-edged frame to give the painting more effect. But she never did and left the painting with the old frame stored in the basement.As the date of the wedding approached, Bella and Alan agreed to sell the Cornwall painting so that they could buy a cottage outside where they planned to live and raise a family in quieter surrounding than London. She went down to the basement, stared down at the magnificent painting and felt sad at having to part with this heirloom. Reluctantly she brought it upstairs for careful packing and for showing to prospective antique and art dealers. Then she went to a renowned art dealer for valuation and to proceed with the sale of the painting. The dealer looked at it expertly, turning it around to observe it more closely. He told her that he needs to study it thoroughly so that he would be in position to give a proper valuation of the art object. He asked her to call on him in a week’s time after he would have made his studies and consultation with other experts. 

Bella spent an anxious week. She needed the money to start them up on their impending marriage. She did not, at first, want to part with the painting, it being an inheritance from her grandfather. But circumstances forced her hand. Her marriage was more important than anything in the world.  The week passed all too quickly. Bella and Alan called on the art dealer to finalize matters. As soon as he saw them he left his counter, greeted them profusely and asked them to follow him to the inner room. They sat down to discuss the painting. The art dealer run his fingers through his white hair, coughed and then said – “It has been established without doubt that it is not a Richard Milton Hayes painting. The signature is a fake. I’m very sorry to say this but, in the circumstances, the painting is worth only a few pounds”.

Bella and Alan stood open-mouthed. It was the surprise of their lives. Bella was always been made to believe that the painting was worth a fortune. What a disappointment! The dream of the cottage in the country would remain a dream. They would have to settle for an apartment in the city.  The art dealer was not finished. He continued – “But I’m interested in the frame of the painting. It is hand-made in Florence, 16th century, very rare and worth a fortune. I would estimate that it would bring more than a million pounds if put on the art market!” Bella and Alan were stunned. All of a sudden their fortunes had turned from disappointment to exhilaration. What they had thought to be worth a fortune was worth nothing but what they had thought to be worth nothing was worth a fortune!.

St. David’s Community Hospital was a small 50 bed hospital serving the five thousand community of the coal-mining town of Aberfan in the Welsh valleys where the river Taff flows gently through its borders. It was run by Dr James Knox, two other doctors, six nurses and a small administrative staff. For many years it had served the community well. 

As a result of the sterling service given by St. David’s, the residents and the workers of Aberfan did not need to go all the way to Cardiff, Swansea or the other big cities for their medical needs and well-being.  Dr Knox and his team had proved, on several occasions that they had the qualifications, the experience and the ability to diagnose grave ailments, to perform urgent operations and to mobilize in cases of emergency needs. 

The hospital had risen to the occasion in October of 1966 when the town suffered its worst disaster in its history. The accumulated rock and rubble excavated from the nearby mines, suddenly slid downhill. 40,000 cubic metres of debris landed on the village in minutes. 116 children and 28 adults were tragically killed. The staff at St. David’s gave first assistance and continued to play an important part in round the clock operations – treating the injured, performing emergency operations and other vital assistance. 

The Town Council owned the lease of the hospital but the actual owners of the property were the legal firm of Wallace and Williams based in Cardiff. In 1976 however, after 20 years of operation, the lease was about to expire. As the Council could not afford or raise up the five million pounds sterling being asked by the owners, the hospital had to close down in fifteen days time.

The Council, the hospital management and the whole community tried by all the means to raise the sum required but the sum was substantial and proved beyond them. They were now resigned that the hospital would have to close down. For their hospital needs the community would henceforth have to travel to the city.  

In June of the year 1976 St. David’s was therefore running its last fifteen days as a community hospital. Preparations were being made to close operations. Some of the patients would be discharged and would need only post hospital attention from the clinic. Others would require further treatment and would have to be transferred to the nearer hospitals. 

There were still ten patients being looked after in the hospital – six miners recovering from an explosion in the pit; two pregnant women; a cancer patient still under treatment and a Welsh Canadian who suffered a heart attack while, for some reason or other, he was in the village.

Dr Knox was now doing the rounds of the wards to see to the patients needs, talk to them and inform them of the future. He was so sad to see the end of this service. He talked to the two pregnant women who would be discharged within a few days following the successful birth of their sons, one of whom was by cesarean operation. 

Three of the miners would also be discharged but the other three would still require further treatment at another hospital. The woman suffering from cancer would have to be transferred to Cardiff and arrangements had already been made for this purpose.

When he approached Trevor Davies, the Welsh Canadian who happened to be in Aberfan when the heart attack occurred, he was considering how to transmit the notice that he would have to be transferred to Cardiff.  “Hello Mr. Davies. How are you this morning?” said the doctor. “I feel fine,” replied the patient. “I owe you my life doctor. Thanks to your prompt intervention and ability, I am still among the living today. And to think that it had to happen in this lovely little village,” he continued.  

“You will be all right,” replied Dr Knox. “Take life easier Mr. Davies, cut down on your whisky and cigars, avoid fatty foods, exercise daily. These guidelines should be implanted in your mind. Don’t forget them. Life is too valuable. But you’re healing nicely – no more tenderness than can be expected; blood pressure and temperature are sound; your heart is functioning normally. You’ll be OK. But we’re forced to transfer you to St Mary’s in Cardiff. I‘d rather keep you here and look after you myself but …………”

Mr. Davies nodded. “But you have to empty the building, including the patients, so that it can be put up for sale by the owners, right?”  “That’s it in a nutshell,” replied the doctor. 

The Welsh Canadian’s face grew stern. “Well, you disappoint me doctor.” Dr Knox straightened up. These words were unexpected from this always friendly patient. “Why?  Is something wrong?” he replied. “Yes, badly wrong. Why are you leaving this place?” asked Davies. “Because we have no other choice,” said Dr Knox. 

“Why can’t you buy the building?” interjected again Davies. Dr. Knox fought down irritation. “Because we do not have the money”, he replied. “Then raise it. From the people who will use the hospital” shot out the patient.”  “We tried. But we’ve barely raised enough to buy a fraction of it!” replied the doctor. 

A slight smile twitched on Davies’s face. He looked at the sympathetic doctor who runs this place to perfection, the doctor who always had a smile on his young face, the doctor who treated his patients with care and dedication. Davies was sure that the doctor was genuinely devastated. “Perhaps you’ve been asking the wrong people” he said. 

“We asked everyone – far and near for loans and donations to enable us to buy the hospital.” He said resignedly.

“But you did not ask me! And I am offended” said Mr. Trevor Davies. The words were spoken quietly. So quietly, Dr.Knox wondered if he had misheard. He looked at his patient and exclaimed – “What did you say Mr. Davies?” “I said that you did not ask me!” replied Davies in a matter of fact sort of way.

It transpired that Mr. Trevor Davies was born in Aberfan fifty five years before. He emigrated to Canada with his family when he was just ten years old. He operated a very successful construction business which made him a multi millionaire. After 45 years in Canada, he had decided to visit the little village in Wales where he was born. It was during this nostalgic visit that he suffered the heart attack and found himself at St. David’s hospital.

Mr. Davies immediately phoned his lawyers and accountants in Toronto. They made contact with Wallace and Williams in Cardiff and arranged an appointment to draw up a contract for the sale of the building. In the circumstances, St. David’s Hospital never closed down but continued uninterruptedly to give sterling service to the hard-working people of Aberfan thanks to the intervention of one of its own sons who fortunately happened to be in the village when all efforts to save the hospital had failed. 

Dr. Wendy Nicholls was a cardiac specialist at Royal Brompton Hospital in London. She was a meticulous doctor and was held in high esteem by the directors of the hospital. She was, in fact, considered as one of the best heart surgeons in the city. She also gave lectures and demonstrations to doctors and nurses at the hospital school on cardiopulmonary resuscitation, whether by the mouth to mouth method on dummies or by the more effective chest compression in order to make the heart beat again. Indeed Dr Nicholls was an expert in her field and was frequently consulted by other hospitals on the subject. 

She was also pregnant. At the age of 35 she was delighted that finally she was to become a mother. Her husband, also a specialist at the same hospital, had told her to slow down in her work schedule. For this reason she had reduced her hours of work at the hospital but, in loyalty to her patients, she felt that she could not stay completely away. The hospital and the patients were grateful to her.

Dr. Nicholls travelled daily to and from the hospital by bus, due to the fact she lived only half an hour away from the hospital. It was more practical and convenient to use the buses than to take out her car from the garage and join the frustrating long line of traffic every day. Pregnancy or no pregnancy, she was a dedicated surgeon. Heart problems were her forte. She had studied and researched extensively on the subject. Her success rate at the hospital was phenomenal. Her name gave an image to Royal Brompton hospital that was the envy of other hospitals. 

One fine day, she was on the bus going to the hospital. The bus was full and she had to stand on her feet and hold on to the overhead strap during the journey. She did not normally mind. Both seats near her were occupied by noisy foul-mouthed youths who, even though noticing her condition, did not offer her their seat. On the contrary, they made nasty references to her condition which she ignored. An elderly couple in front of them was the butt of some of their jokes too. They laughed and joked, were rude and made a nuisance of themselves throughout the journey annoying everybody in the bus. 

The bus moved slowly on. All of a sudden, one of the noisy youths fell off his seat clutching his chest in pain. It was, obviously she thought, a heart attack. One of his friends, realizing that the situation was grave, was shouting – “A doctor, somebody get a doctor urgent. We need a doctor!”

Dr. Wendy Nicholls, still holding on to the overhead strap, looked down unmoved on the scene. When the bus stopped, she ignored the commotion around her, got out and walked calmly the remaining few yards to the hospital. It was, for her,  just another day.    

They grew up together in the little town of Wellingboro. They were baptized in the same church, went to school together, attended dancing classes and followed the same course at university together. From childhood to adulthood they appeared to be inseparable. But it was more by coincidence rather than by choice. 

Martha’s family lived a few houses down the road from Jim’s in a street that was as cosmopolitan as London itself. Their families weren’t actually close friends. Oh yes, their mothers met at the grocer’s, in church and at the park. Their fathers frequented the same pub and supported the same football team. But there it stopped. They were just neighbours, not friends as friendship goes. 

In such circumstances, Martha and Jim could not but become firm friends and eventually fall in love with each other. Some neighbours said that they actually fell in love when they were born. They each had boyfriends and girlfriends; both had short love affairs and heartbreaks. But, in the end, they only found comfort with each other. They were destined to be together. 

Jim and Martha, like all lovers everywhere, had a wonderful and satisfying love affair. They went to the cinema and the theatre, they spent evenings at pubs and had candlelit dinners, they strolled hand in  hand in  the quiet parks, they sat on secluded benches and talked on a hundred and one subjects while watching days turn into nights and the sky gradually filling with a galaxy of bright shining stars.  They got to know each other like the palm of their hands.

Martha especially knew Jim inside out. She could read his mind like a book, know when he’s happy and when he’s sad, when he was relaxed and when something was troubling him, sometimes even what that something was! It was uncanny but it was true. 

One fine April day while they were out in the park, gazing at the ducklings in the central pond, Jim had decided to ask Martha to marry him. Even before he opened his mouth to speak, she looked straight into his eyes and smiled. “I know what you are going to say Jim!”  “What? What am I going to say Martha?” He replied. “You are going to ask me to marry you!” she responded. “How? How did you know?” he exclaimed bewildered. “I knew Jim, I just knew!” she replied dryly. 

They were married soon after, setting up home in the same town, not far from their two families. Jim’s career as a computer technician with Edwards Computer Centre progressed successfully. He proved himself to be an expert in this field and impressed his bosses greatly. After some time, he was called by his boss and told that, in recognition of his proven abilities, he was being appointed manager of the local branch signifying, of course, that his salary would be increased substantially. He was delighted and had no doubt that Martha would be equally pleased. 

That evening, after returning from the office, he closed the front door slowly behind him, put his coat and umbrella on the stand, kissed his wife, told her that he loved her and proceeded to the sitting room to sit down on his favourite armchair. “I know what you want to tell me Jim” she said in an anxious manner. “What? What do I want to tell you Martha?” he replied. “You are going to tell me that you have been promoted, is that not so Jim?” she shot back.  He was utterly surprised. “How, in heaven’s name, did you know Martha?”  “I knew Jim, I just knew!” she replied.

They celebrated at Maxim’s that very same evening, toasting Jim’s success with glasses of red wine. She looked at him and was proud of his handsome Clark Gable features – tall, dark, well-dressed, trimmed moustache. He looked at her mysterious eyes and saw mischief lurking behind them. They were still so much in love with each other. He was working hard and often felt tired, sometimes even exhausted. He thought that a holiday, in a different environment and with a care-free atmosphere, would do him and Martha a lot of good. So one day he decided to surprise Martha by booking a holiday for them both at the Italian resort of Sorrento. It had always been Martha’s wish to see the little enchanting island of Capri, being only an hour’s boat ride away.

He came home tired but with the flight and hotel reservations in his pocket. “Did you have a good day Martha?” “Yes Jim, and you?” “Hard work at the office, must slow down, usual aches and pains, but cannot grumble really”, he said. She looked into his eyes. “You’ve booked a holiday abroad, haven’t you?” she told him matter of factly. “How the devil did she know?” he thought. “Yes, we’ll go to Sorrento and Capri next month. I know you’ll be delighted”, he replied. 

They had a wonderful time during their holiday, sipping endless cups of cappuccinos, sitting outside café tables watching the world go by. They finished their dinners with southern Italy’s favourite digestivo – the limoncello – made from lemon rinds and alcohol. From their hotel room they could see the lovely Bay of Naples. And she was captivated by Capri – beautiful, enchanting and romantic. They hired a boat for a visit to the famous Blue Grotto. They vowed to return another time. Her dream had come true. But the holiday was soon over and they returned back to Wellingboro and the work and chores of everyday life. 

As time passed, Martha noticed changes in Jim’s body language. He was coming home frequently later than usual saying that there was work to finish. He seldom took her out as he used to do before. Unhappiness was written all over his face. “Is Jim’s love for her coming to an end?  Was he seeing another woman?” she thought very worried. She tried to read, as usual, what was there inside his mind. “You are leaving me Jim!” she said one day without warning. “After all these years together, you are leaving me?”   “How does she know?” he thought.  But he did not reply. 

“Have you been seeing another woman? Is that why you’ve been coming home late? Why Jim? Why?”  She was excited and jittery. “You’re right that I have to leave you. It’s inevitable Martha, but I’m afraid I have no choice!” he uttered emotionally.

Martha was in a state of confusion. She did not know what to do or say. She fell on the divan, put her hands on her face and cried. This was something she had not been expecting. She was stunned, perplexed. Jim went near her, put his hands on her shoulders and said. “Listen Martha. I’ve been seeing the doctor lately, that’s why I’ve been coming back home later than usual. I’m sick, very sick. The doctor says that it’s a matter of weeks. I’m sorry Martha”. He stopped, sniffed and continued. 

“You’ve been reading my mind like a book for so many years Martha but, for the first time, you were not wholly right, you know. Let me assure you that I still love you very much, more than yesterday, but less than tomorrow!”

These words stunned her completely. She got up from the divan, stretched her hands and embraced him tightly to her while warm tears rolled down her cheeks. Then, when the first moments of her emotions subsided, she entangled herself from him, looked straight into his eyes, willing her mind to read their future.

“This is the time when you’re thinking that everything is finished. You’re wrong Jim, it is only the beginning. You’ll pull through and our love will be as good as it ever was. You mark my words!”

Then they fell into each other’s arms again, confident of the future. “I know I’m right”, she said. “I know I’m right!”

The tall elegant building in Merchants Street comprised the departmental offices of the ‘World Travel Agency’. The cruel scorching sun of a Maltese summer seemed to have spurned people to seek a shadier and a cooler spot for their holidays.

Indeed the efficient busy clerks of the agency were having a rather hectic time. One by one they booked their eager clients to spend their holiday in different Mediterranean countries. 

In the queue, a shy young girl was anxiously anticipating her first holiday abroad. “One sea ticket to Sicily please, on the first departure next week”. The tone of her voice gave away her eagerness and her anxiety. 

On that lovely day in June, the ‘Star of Malta’ cut through the waves like a sharp baker’s knife, forging ahead unobstructed by the calm and friendly Mediterranean sea.   With her hands resting on the cold railing of the good ship, Maria was thinking of home. 

She had just lost her job as a dentist’s nurse in Valletta. Maybe it would be for the best. She had hated her job, the patients, the sight of blood, the cries of the children afraid of the dentist; the whole clinical environment was not to her liking. On her return she would seek a different job, a salesgirl, a stationery assistant maybe, but certainly she did not want anything to do with dentists. 

Sicily was a beautiful island, her friends had told her, not far away from Malta. She would see the little towns, climb the slopes of Mount Etna, dip in the blue sea, enjoy her meals of Italian pasta, admire the beautiful architecture, buy some souvenirs for her family and friends.

When the ship berthed in Siracuse, Maria, tired and weary, sought refuge at the ‘Albergo Amigo d’Italia’. She had a lovely room there, overlooking the bright twinkling lights of the port. From here she could see the little passenger boats as well as the smaller fishing crafts, coming and going like a beehive of activity. 

The other window, nicely fitted with venetian blinds, overlooked the grand Via Umberto – a long wide road attractive with the colour of shop windows and the striped curtains squeezing out the hot sun.  

She met him on the next day while strolling down the ‘Corso Matteotti’. He came on her from nowhere. “You are a stranger” he said as if she had a notice pinned on her giving away that information.

“Allow me signorina to show you some of the lovelier spots of my island”. Even if he had not said ‘My island’ she would have guessed that he was a Sicilian.  

He was a typical Italian youth as Maria imagined Italian youths would be, different in character from the youths she normally met in Malta.

His black tousled hair matched perfectly with his dark Latin complexion and his manners were definitely local. What an imprudent young man he was, she thought at first. But she soon changed her mind as he engaged her in amiable conversation. He was, in fact, such a nice young man, with good manners.  

“My name is Antonio” he said “and I come from Ragusa, some few miles away from here”. Maria pursed her lips and did not know what to do, then she looked straight at him and snapped back “Thank you; please tell me from where I can get a taxi”.

He did not like these words, they did not show any compliment at all. “Forget about the taxi; there aren’t any for strangers” he said “but do you want a guide?” 

then she smiled at him. How could she help it? Antonio was not only a good looking young man but he never lost heart either, she thought.

“Very well” she replied “show me around”. “Wait a minute” he said “You have not yet told me your name”. “Maria” she said “Maria”. 

They crossed over from Corso Matteotti to Piazza Archimede in the centre of the old town. They found themselves before an imposing monument of great historical importance. 

“That is Guiseppe Garibaldi” said Antonio proudly. “He was instrumental in uniting Italy”. Maria went near to the monument and touched the cold hard marble. “What a grand monument, he must have been so loved by his people”. 

“He certainly was signorina, to this very day” replied Antonio with a proud smile on his face. He was pleased that Maria was taking interest in Italian history. “Please tell me more about him” she said.  

Both of them sat on the beautiful marble steps that form the pedestal of this great monument. They watched the people moving around the Piazza and Antonio was telling Maria all about Giuseppe Garibaldi and his adventures. 

He narrated how, with his one thousand red-shirted soldiers, he embarked from Sicily towards the Italian mainland, freeing different states, then meeting King Vittorio Emanuele in Rome. 

Garibaldi, along with Vittorio Emanuele and Cavour, are the architects and fathers of united Italy.  “But he was more than a soldier” said Antonio. “He was always willing to help oppressed people everywhere and was unaffected by the lure of wealth and power.”

Then he took her hand and showed her around the fine places of his island – the long sandy spiaggias, the indoor lidos, the big piazzas with statues in the centre on which white pigeons played on their heads. He showed her the old churches, all artistically decorated with marble monuments, paintings and tapestries. 

He also took her around the many lovely gardens that make this island so beautiful. She liked all these things and wanted to see more. Perhaps she wanted to see more of Antonio than these places; she did not know exactly what her heart actually wanted. 

Ten days of a lovely holiday passed so swiftly. She liked to have more time to stay with Antonio, wandering all around his island. But she couldn’t! Maria had to go back to Malta tonight. 

She met Antonio that evening and went to the beautiful ‘giardino’ just behind the hotel. That evening, passing through all the lovely scenery, Maria felt Antonio’s hand grasp her even tighter. If only he lived in Malta or if only she lived in Sicily, she thought. 

The fresh scent of fresh flowers filled her with delight.  “When will you come back?” said Antonio trying hard to hide the feelings of a man madly in love for the first time. Maria looked lovingly into Antonio’s eyes, piercing them through and reading their feelings. “Soon” she said “Very soon”. He took her in his arms and both lovers were engrossed in a passionate embrace. She felt the strong supporting arms of this friendly Italian and she remarked. “Tell me something Antonio, do you go up to all strangers and introduce yourself?” He looked at her questioningly and smiled. “No Maria, not to all strangers, but I could not help doing so to such a lovely Maltese girl as you!”

Maria returned home after a week of bliss. As she rummaged in her handbag, she saw the card Antonio had put in her bag before they parted and gasped – “Dott. Antonio Speranza –Dentista”

The first time he had seen her she was standing outside the shop in the piazza. What a girl! An hour-glass figure, long golden hair and an inviting smile on her smooth face. 

Paul had gone to the piazza on several other occasions if only to feast his eyes on her. Unfortunately, she was not always there. When he saw her, he felt weak at the knees. It did not take long for him to realize that he wanted her to be his own.

He saw her again sometime later. She was again outside the shop watching the people pass by. He noticed that, on that particular occasion, she had a pigeon sitting on her head but her expression did not change. How beautiful she was! What a girl! 

At 25 years of age, he had not yet met the girl of his dreams. ‘Truth be told’, some colleagues had commented sarcastically – ‘the Lord must have been feeling particularly ungenerous on the day Paul entered this world’. 

However he did take one or two of his office girl colleagues out to dinner or to the picture or to a disco. But there it stopped. The necessary fatal attraction was not there. He was no longer interested. 

But now he was smitten. He felt to be in love at first sight. He had always thought that his girl, when he comes to make the choice, would look like her – the model girl of his dreams. 

His elderly mother used to chide him that it was about time he had a steady girl, got married and settled down. But he always replied that he was in no hurry to tie the knot, that there was still time for marriage and, with a smile on his face, that he’ll still make her a granny one day. 

When they were having tea together one day, she told him how she had met his father and other events from her early life. “You live too much in the past Mum. You can’t bear to leave it all behind,” he replied. 

His mother was hurt by these words. “When you get to my age son, you spend an awful lot of time sitting in a chair just thinking – thinking about the past, all the things you used to do and all the things you wished you could have done but never got round to doing”. 

But back to the girl in the piazza. He had decided at last to approach her and, if things got right, to bring her home to meet his mother. He had decided to make that girl his own. 

There’s no doubt that the neighbours, but more particularly the men, would be envious when they see her. That would suit him fine. 

His decision already made, he dressed properly, put the special after-shave on his face, combed his hair and with a stride that betrayed his eagerness, made for the piazza. He entered the flower and garden shop, sought the elderly owner and anxiously asked him. – “What is the price of that garden statue of the girl outside the shop please?”

Evans was his name. Peter John Evans. He woke up one fresh and healthy morning and decided to end his life. It is true that sentimentalism and emotion were part of his character but today they had no room in his decision. In fact Peter was today calm and reserved. Those who saw him that Monday morning would not have guessed that this was his last living day and that he was indeed busily preparing for his demise.   

It was a very hot day in June as the scorching sun laid its canopy over the city. Through the open window of his nice apartment room he could scent the sweet perfume of dahlias. He got up and looked over the window. Children were playing and laughing on their way to school; they were like little creatures living in an earthly paradise; they had parents to look after them and give them the wonderful gift of love; they were therefore justified in being happy and carefree.

The clock on the wall ticked the hour. The day was already in full swing in Ransville; the children were now at school; the workers at the factories; the housewives on their chores and the busy birds that regularly greeted the morning, had stopped their chatter. 

It does not really matter what time of day it was; what other people were doing with themselves; it was his last day and he felt gay about it. No more bored sittings behind a desk studying endless papers in the office of the ‘Merchant Marine Co. Ltd.’; no more waiting for the slow-moving minute hand to pass away the time; no more loneliness.  

Peter Evans had no friends to rely upon. His parents were long dead and his remaining relatives were settled away from his city. In any case, they hardly ever contacted him. Through all his life, Peter thought, he had seen little of man’s kindness and of human brotherhood. 

Nobody ever made friends with him; nobody ever treated him like a man; nobody ever noticed him. He was completely lost in this world. Other human beings were not interested in his friendship or his love. His life was a colourless episode of a man striving for his decent happy place in this tireless and selfish world. There was a time when he was temporarily happy but that was some twelve years ago when he was still a student at Christ’s College in nearby Portland. But even then, he wasn’t completely happy either; he missed the comforting love and affection of his parents and he often envied his other classmates. 

Why had they to die in his childhood and leave him an infant to be cared by a stranger? If only it was not so, he wouldn’t be thinking such thoughts today; his life might have been worthwhile then and his actions appreciated by somebody. There was not even a girl. Girls did not particularly fall for sullen men with blue eyes hidden shyly behind thick glasses. And also, they don’t usually go for men with a salary of one hundred pounds a month. Yes, he had to agree with them, he did not particularly like himself either. 

Suddenly he felt happy and free from life’s insistent demands on him, free from the everyday commitments and pressures. He stretched himself up and yawned, then he continued planning his last day very carefully. 

Peter Evans had two hundred pounds in the bank which he would withdraw early this morning. He would buy himself a nice elegant suit and dress himself up as he had never done before. Then, in the evening, he would go to the best restaurant in town and have a good tasty meal. He would order roasted turkey decorated with savours and sauce, then go round the menu again and order some delicious dessert. He would close the celebration with red vintage wine and then a tot of fine French cognac. No more ham sandwiches at cheap second rate snack bars; no more stale teas and coffees as he broods his life’s misfortunes; no more work with the stress that deadlines bring with them; no more waiting for the weekends that held no meaning and were as monotonous and as dull as the days behind the desk. 

What was he waiting for? He could go out now and demand a room at the Impressive Ritz hotel. He dressed himself up and walked his way out. The first thing to be done was to draw the money from the Bank. He hailed a taxi and went there, collected the money and directed the driver to the hotel. There he demanded one of the best rooms on the top floor. The most comfortable commodities were now at his disposal and he intended to use them as best he could. He took a nice warm bath and then aired himself in front of the open window looking over Ransville’s main park. 

He walked around the magnificent room and laughed out loudly and heartily. Peter Evans had everything he had ever dreamed about, soft covered chairs, comfortable well-laid bed, a push button which would bring servants running to his needs, snacks and drinks were his at any time from the frigo bar. He had never had it so good nor dreamed that it would be so.  Should he sleep for a couple of hours? Should he rest and prepare himself for his end? Of course not! He wouldn’t waste two glorious hours in bed when he could make good time of them. He went over the window once again and looked downwards. Fifteen stories down, traffic was forming up around the park. It was the evening schedule and cars and buses were busy with their trade.  People thronged the surrounding streets, some in a hurry, some walking casually looking at the gay shop windows. The fresh evening air brushed his face and he felt in high spirits. In all his life he had never lived like today. But now he had to die. In about two hours time he would come again to this window, feel the fresh air again and then drop. But that is two hours more and until then he would enjoy himself with all the delight and sweetness of life’s extravaganza. 

Then he went down to the lobby and sat cozily on a chair. He was smoking an expensive cigar and looked interestingly at people passing by. He felt important. This was life indeed, without worries, without problems but a life of comfort and luxury. He wanted to get up and talk to anybody, mingle with the prominent businessmen that patronize the hotel, discuss with them in a friendly manner about life and its implications.  These were strange out-of-place thoughts coming from Peter who was a shy reserved little man who bitterly hated any sort of contact with other human beings let alone discussing with them personal matters. He wondered about the many people he had seen these last few minutes; he wondered if they were all as happy as he felt at the moment. Some few yards to his side, the girl in the foyer kiosk was selling the evening papers and magazines. He would get one, read about people and places and see how the world is getting on. The sales girl looked filled to the brim with life and shone with happiness. She was a sweet girl, particularly polite. He looked at her, a deep unshaken look, not without interest. But she did not even notice him! 

“The Chronicle, please”, he asked her, expecting a smile or some form of conversation. She handed him the paper and continued serving other customers. It was as if he was not there; as if he did not exist. The paper was full of sad news – wars, disasters, crime, and deaths. What was there to look forward to? What was there to live for? He looked at his watch. It was five minutes past eight. The decisive hour was closing near. No more time to lose. He took the lift back to his room. He’ll savour for some more time the luxury and comfort of the Ritz.  This is a celebration after all. He would soon be free of problems, fear, illness, work, loneliness, boredom ………… He relaxed on the sofa of room 910, cigar in his mouth and a glass of champagne in his hand. His mind started to wander on the little episodes of his short life, like different photo slides changing from one episode to another.

Then it struck him! He had Myra! She had been his sincere friend these last six months. She was lovely – green eyes, soft skin and very cuddly. She had a marvelous character. She never angered him or nagged him or made excessive demands. In her white fur coat she looked like a real princess. He thought about her. He loved her so much and she loved him in return. How could he leave her? How did he not realize that she was special to him? He was not alone in this world after all!

He looked again at his watch. It was past nine o’clock now. He was supposed to have ended his life fifteen minutes ago. Myra had distracted him. She had filled his thoughts. Why did he forget her? He was sure that she would be waiting for him and would be so happy to see him back. 

“No”, he exclaimed. “I’ll start again; there is so much to live for after all!” He will return to Myra, take her in his arms and kiss her. He’ll spend the evening with her at home, put on some romantic music or maybe watch television while she sits beside him.

John left the hotel room, went down the lift, settled his bill at the reception, took a taxi, arrived home, opened the door and called her, “Myra! Myra!, I’m home.” She came to him as if she was expecting him; he took her in his arms; kissed her gently; then put her down again. She purred, tail in the air and exclaimed “Miaow! Miaow!”