Chapter Five
Elle made use of the surprisingly efficient, if compact, shower, then dried herself and slid into a flowered summer dress of unexceptional length. The welcome pack from Joseph Zammit at the Nicolas Centre had requested that volunteers dress in ‘everyday clothes, not too brief and not too expensive’.
There were no signs of life from Lucas’s cabin. She breakfasted on cereal, yoghurt and chopped banana, sitting in the gardens, her hair spread over her shoulders to dry in the morning sun, watching people parking their cars along the marina access road and disappearing in the direction of the shops and other businesses. The occasional yachtie moved around on a boat. The gardens smelled of pine needles and, a little way off, a gardener was watering shrubs with a hose.
Despite another unsatisfactory night’s sleep, Elle had woken with a feeling of serenity.
Someone had once told her that the key to dealing with grief was acceptance. Well, during the wakeful hours she’d done some accepting.
It was cruel that fate — or, rather, bloody nutcase Simon — had to bring her and Lucas back together in order for her to finally understand that there was to be no fairy-tale ending. She hadn’t quite got as far as being glad that Lucas had found someone he could be happy with. Maybe that would come later. But she had accepted it.
Lucas had moved on.
Having to share the boat with him was definitely making her fantastic new life a little less fantastic. She’d anticipated looking forward, living in a foreign land, transforming herself from wage slave to free spirit.
Not looking backwards and wondering and reliving.
‘Get over it,’ she told herself aloud, scraping up the last of her yoghurt. ‘History’s not for changing.’ She’d throw herself into working at the Nicholas Centre and aboard Seadancer , and she’d spend her free time exploring the island, learning about its history and its treasures, or swimming in the beautiful Mediterranean. Later in the summer she’d decide what came next and hers and Lucas’s lifelines would uncross for the last time.
She went back on board the Shady Lady to leave her dish and pick up her tiny, lightweight backpack, popping into it her purse, hat, sun cream and a bottle of water. And, because she’d been in IT rooms before, she added a pack of cable ties and a roll of sticky labels she’d brought with her from England.
It was only eight-twenty when she went ashore, after flipping off the isolator switches, locking up the Shady Lady and dragging the gangplank back onto the shore with an effort.
Joseph had said it would take her fifteen minutes to stroll to the Nicholas Centre. She fished out her street map, crossed the gardens and the road, then began up Triq San Gorg, her bag over one shoulder, the bottle of water cool against her through the fabric.
Once she’d left the shops behind, houses lined the road, all with flat roofs, many built of the pale honey-coloured local stone. She’d read that some thought the name Malta came from the Greek and Latin name for honey, Melita. Red geraniums and other plants nodded through balcony railings. Painted shutters stood open to the morning light either side of windows, some of which were protected by curving wrought ironwork.
Around her, people went about their morning routines: beautiful brown-eyed children in school uniform, golden-skinned women with babies or wearing smart lightweight business suits, dark-haired men in short sleeved shirts, carrying their jackets and briefcases.
She tried to catch the rhythms of the language she could hear over the traffic. It sounded almost like Arabic, full of rising notes and glottal stops.
As she followed her map away from the sea, the houses became smaller and the pavement more uneven. The occasional doorstep protruded into her path, an ankle-rapping trap for the unwary. Lines of parked cars narrowed the way.
After loitering to take a picture with her phone of a blaze of vermilion flowers climbing over a high wall and creeping along a telephone wire above the street, Elle eventually found herself in Triq Bonnard.
The street was short and narrow and crowded with houses, some in disrepair. One had its windows boarded up with For Sale painted on the wood.
Elle paced along the pavement looking for signs of life, wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead. She’d been e-mailed a picture of the entrance to the Nicholas Centre, a tall wall with a green door set into it, but looked for it in vain. And there was no one around for her to ask. No car tried to navigate the narrow strip of road left by parked vehicles.
At the top of the street, bemused by the absence of green doors set in tall walls, she prepared to make her way down the other side.
Then a smiling man appeared from around a jink in the road. ‘Elle? I’m Joseph Zammit. I saw you through the lounge window.’
Recognising the small, thickset man immediately from the Nicholas Centre website, Elle stuck out her hand in relief. ‘Joseph. I’m glad you found me, even if I couldn’t find you.’
Joseph wore black-framed glasses and his hair was conventionally short. He was middle-aged, a little overweight, and socks showed at the toes of his sandals. ‘You turned away too soon.’ He ushered her a few steps further and she realised that what she’d assumed to be another street was actually a continuation of Triq Bonnard, and there was the green door in the wall standing ajar beside a small black plaque: ‘ Ic-?entru Nicholas ’ and, underneath, Nicholas Centre .
It wasn’t a grand entrance, but it opened into a courtyard with a bench and a limestone fountain, although it wasn’t working. Tall windows and balustraded balconies made the building itself unexpectedly imposing.
He led the way across the courtyard, up the steps to the double doors and into a hall with archways opening into other rooms. After the sun outside, the coolness was a relief.
Joseph’s office was to the right. A desk was shoved against the wall under the weight of a heap of paperwork and a laptop. Several mismatched chairs faced one another untidily.
From e-mails, Elle knew that Joseph’s mother was English, a retired teacher, and his late father had been a Maltese hotelier. He spoke perfect English, if with a Maltese rhythm and flow, but when his telephone rang he slid it out of his shirt pocket and answered in rapid Maltese.
Elle took a seat while he located a piece of paper from the chaos of his desk, and then read something from it to the caller.
After he ended the call, he apologised. ‘I spend too much time on the phone.’ He took one of the other seats, a green office chair with its sponge filling escaping, and his smile flashed. ‘Welcome to Malta.’
All the joy and anticipation of the past weeks swooshed through Elle’s heart and she found herself beaming as volunteering began finally to transition from pipe dream to reality. ‘It’s fantastic to be here.’
He inclined his head. ‘And welcome to Nicholas Centre. Some of our computers are old and cranky but I hope that you can get the best out of the equipment and encourage the youngsters to make the most of what we have.’
‘I’m sure I can.’
‘We have all kinds of young people attending the centre. Some use the gym, others play games, some keep up with Facebook. They come for company, because they’re bored or because their friends do. Some participate in workshops or want help with a project. Sometimes—’ He smiled. ‘Sometimes, you’ll find you have to step back from your expectations. People won’t turn up for a workshop or they’ll bring eight friends who haven’t signed up. They’ll leave halfway through, they’ll decide to play a game instead of completing a task. You should be aware.’
‘I understand. Will it be a problem that I just speak English? I’ve only learned a little Maltese.’
‘Sometimes,’ he said, honestly. ‘But English is one of our official languages. Lots of companies come to Malta because English is widely spoken. Lots of tourists, too. English is part of Maltese education.
‘I’ll show you around and introduce you to Maria. You don’t have your first structured session until Friday but you said that you have a programme of work to get through first?’
Elle followed him across the hall. ‘I want to assess the equipment and see where improvements can be made.’
The Nicolas Centre had once been quite grand. The rooms were large and lofty and wrought iron graced the outsides of the windows. Ornately moulded plasterwork on the ceilings was a recognisable remnant of splendour, though patched and pitted.
But in the lounge, the furniture was worn and the walls scuffed. DVDs and CDs in tatty cases flanked television and music systems and a bookcase was jumbled with books and magazines.
A notice board displayed photos of Joseph; his wife, Maria; and others — a sandy-haired man with freckles and a wide smile; a darker man with a thin, sensitive face; and a more mature woman. Under the sandy man’s picture it said, Oscar, from the Netherlands and beneath the thin man, Axel, from Germany. It was written in Maltese, also. The woman was, Aileen, from England (but a long time ago) . Elle already knew that Aileen was Joseph’s mother, who came in to help, often in the computer room. She was great with written English but not a techie.
Elle was touched to see her own photo: Welcome to Elle, from England, who will be looking after our internet cafe and running our IT sessions. After Lucas’s reaction, it was nice that someone was glad to see her.
Down the passage, a games room held a pool table and two lads playing table tennis across a ragged net. It led into a gym room containing a cross trainer and a rowing machine, a mini rainbow of gym balls and a rack of weights. ‘Impressive.’
‘We were lucky. This equipment was donated.’ Joseph patted the cross trainer.
Across the hall he showed her a small musty room filled with racks of clothes. ‘People donate what they no longer need, which Maria, in her housemother role, kindly washes. Some of the children welcome the clothes.’ Joseph grimaced. ‘But it sometimes seems that the more in need a child is, the less likely he or she is to accept. Even Maria cannot find a way to make a gift to some of our young visitors.
‘Let’s find Maria. Her first language is Maltese. Me, I speak English with a Maltese accent and Maltese with an English accent.’ He laughed.
The kitchen held a refectory table, cupboards, counters, and a couple of smaller tables. They found Maria unpacking a box of fizzy drinks, her thick dark hair clipped up. A door to a small street stood open, letting in the air.
‘Welcome.’ Maria took Elle’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘We are pleased you are here, someone who understands the computers, because when they do not work . . .’ She pulled a comical face of frustration.
Her English wasn’t quite as effortless as Joseph’s. Silver was beginning to shoot an occasional strand in her hair, but her eyes were dark and sultry. Like Lucas’s.
Elle shoved the thought away. ‘I know that feeling.’ She felt an instant liking for Maria. They hadn’t conversed via e-mail, as Elle and Joseph had, because Maria didn’t write English well enough to enjoy doing so, but her smile was warm.
They left Maria unpacking and returned to the broad staircase, walled on either side.
On the first floor was an activity room with tables and chairs, paintings on the walls and sewing in trays. ‘You’ll usually find Axel up here and Oscar down in the games room and gym, making a noise with the energetic children.’
Joseph showed Elle where to find the clean but antiquated toilets. And then, with an air of ceremony, threw open double doors at the end of the landing. ‘The big salon. At first, I thought I would divide this room. But it’s useful for parties or carols at Christmas. Sometimes, entertainers will come. So the big salon remains big.’
‘Wow.’ Elle gazed down a room lined with windows at one side and two chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling. ‘The building is quite a place.’
‘It belonged to my Great Uncle Nicholas. He was a kind man and used to try to find little jobs for local children so they could earn pocket money.’ He smiled, reminiscently. ‘He had compassion. When he made me the beneficiary of his will, I decided to use the house in a way he would have liked.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ said Elle, softly.
They retraced their steps along the landing to a door at the top of the staircase. ‘I’ve left the computer room till last. I don’t think you’ll say “wow” to it.’ He thrust open a door labelled: Internet Cafe. And, underneath: Ikel u xorb projbit. No food or drink .
Inside were eight computers ranging from what Elle would have tossed away five or six years ago, with deep monitors and dingy mismatched keyboards, to one that might actually have come out of its box this year. Two printer/scanners squatted on a cupboard. The tables and desks were a motley selection, and wires were gaffer-taped to the carpet.
‘Right,’ Elle murmured, hit forcibly by what it would mean to be ‘ responsible for the Internet Cafe ’, as she’d proudly told Lucas she was. It was a far cry from ranks of up-to-date machines gracing matching desks.
Joseph chuckled. ‘The equipment isn’t pretty, but it works. I have a tiny budget put aside to improve things, but I have waited for you to tell me how to spend it.’ He unlocked a pair of cupboard doors to display more monitors and computer towers, keyboards and a straggle of wires. ‘The equipment that doesn’t work is in here.’
Weakly, Elle laughed. ‘Well, OK. I have plenty to go at.’
Joseph passed her a bunch of three keys. ‘Room key, big cupboard and small cupboard, where the printer paper’s kept. You know where the kitchen is — get yourself a drink when you want one. I’ll be in my office—’ He paused, took a step towards the open door and peered around it. ‘Carmelo?’
After a moment, a young Maltese boy stepped out of the shadows with a shy smile. His eyes were wide and bright, his hair unkempt. His sand-coloured shorts were too well washed and too big, and his once-white shirt was too small. His bare feet were in sandals, also too big. He looked to be about eight years old and his face was alive with intelligence.
‘Hello,’ said Elle encouragingly. And then, remembering her phrase book, ‘ Bon?u .’
‘Hello.’ His smile widened. ‘I am Carmelo.’
‘I’m Elle.’
‘I like computers.’
‘So do I.’
Joseph broke in. ‘Carmelo is usually at school at this time.’ He cocked a quizzical eye at the young boy, who instantly gazed down at his worn sandals. ‘Carmelo, you know that I must not let you come here during the hours you should be at school.’
Carmelo stepped on the bare toes of one foot with the heel of the other and pressed down, as if punishing himself.
Elle’s heart went out to him. ‘I need somebody to help me in the computer room this morning.’ Then, as Carmelo looked up, hopefully, ‘But I’m not happy about children missing school.’
The boy looked down again. ‘I help today. I go to school tomorrow.’
Over Carmelo’s head, Joseph glanced at Elle and nodded slightly.
‘Thank you,’ she said, to Carmelo. ‘Just this one time, OK? And after that you need to go to school when you should.’
Carmelo peeped through his hair at her with an expression that suggested he wasn’t overly fond of the idea.
She decided to take it as acquiescence. She’d requested his co-operation; now she could only await the result. ‘Let’s go and ask Maria for cleaning things.’
Soon, they were back in the computer room armed with cloths and hot soapy water, cola for Carmelo and water for Elle.
‘I will switch them on?’ Carmelo gazed greedily at the computers as Elle opened the windows in an effort to let some of the heat out of the room.
‘In a while. Other things to do first.’ Elle began to unplug leads from the backs of monitors.
Carmelo gasped. ‘We will not know how to put the wires again!’
Elle grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I know. I don’t like leads that look like spaghetti.’
Carmelo laughed, eyes shining.
Working steadily, they soon had the monitors lined up at the side of the room as if they were queuing for something, then a row of computer towers, each with a keyboard on top, and a nest of computer mice. They wiped down the tables and rearranged them in an island, back-to-back and side-to-side.
‘They don’t fit,’ observed Carmelo, sliding his fingers down one of the gaps created by differing heights and shapes.
‘The gaps will come in useful.’ Elle surveyed her collection of monitors and began lifting — heaving in the case of the older, heavy models — them into place, one on each table. She wrung out a cloth and put Carmelo in charge of wiping the monitor cases, allocating each table a keyboard and a CPU. Then they began on the wires, swiftly plugging in and screwing into place, dropping cables between tables, looping surplus and securing it with ties.
She looked at her watch. And yelped. ‘I have to go.’
Carmelo looked disappointed. ‘Tomorrow—’
‘School.’ She fixed him with a beady eye. Then, as he nodded in resignation, she asked, ‘What time will you finish?’
He looked suddenly hopeful. ‘Twelve o’clock.’
‘I’ll wait for you here and you can show me how much you can do on a computer.’
‘Yes, I will like to!’ His thin, big-eyed face glowed.
‘After you’ve been to school,’ she emphasised.
He sighed. ‘OK. I will do it.’
‘But now I’ve got to rush. See you tomorrow, Carmelo.’ Elle grabbed her things, ran downstairs and gabbled a quick update to Joseph as she returned the computer room keys so that he could lock up, later; then she rushed out across the courtyard and back towards the yacht marina.
Inevitably, because she was in a hurry, she missed a turn and came out too far along the waterfront, breathless and sweating, but she followed the creek back to the Shady Lady , taking her life in her hands when a car suddenly swerved off the seafront road to cross Manoel Bridge.
The boat was as she had left it. She wondered where Lucas was, and then reminded herself that there was no reason for her to know.
It felt almost familiar, now, to shove the gangplank into place and unlock the door to the saloon. She flicked the isolator switches and activated the air con to counteract the sweltering heat that had built up aboard before jumping down the steps and into her cabin. A knee-length summer dress might be suitable for the Nicholas Centre but she was pretty sure it would be a pain when cleaning a yacht, so she wriggled quickly out of the dress and into denim shorts and a sleeveless top. She found her oldest flip-flops, purple with cheerful blue beads, and then whisked back through the cabin, switched everything off, locked up, and hurried along the hot concrete of the quayside to where Seadancer was moored.
This time, Elle went straight up the gangplank, shouting her hellos. Loz appeared from the forward deck. ‘Just in time for a glass of wine.’
Elle giggled. ‘I’m supposed to be working.’
Loz looked struck, before her face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Oh yes. We’ll get lunch together, then. Why are you out of breath? You didn’t rush, did you?’
‘I was only just going to make it—’
‘Make what? Slow down, Elle. You’re in Malta. It’s hot. The boat would still have been here in five minutes. Don’t worry.’
Don’t worry wasn’t a philosophy that Elle had ever lived by, especially since Ricky. But it sounded attractive. She resolved to try to apply it.
The Seadancer ’s galley was considerably larger than the Shady Lady ’s . Elle got Loz to sit down at the dinette and began to wash and slice salad things, cutting cooked chicken breasts into neat fans and buttering crusty bread — ‘ ?ob? ,’ said Loz — and arranging it on two plates.
Loz looked aghast. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll have a sandwich while I clear up.’ Elle needed the money from Loz and Davie and didn’t want them to think she was only playing at working for them. Being domestic help was new to her but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be the best domestic help possible.
‘I’ll eat here, then,’ said Loz, immediately. She disappeared up on deck and Elle heard her calling to Davie. ‘I’m eating in the galley so that I can chat to Elle. Do you want to join us or stay there? Oh good, bring the wine, darling.’
She reappeared in the galley and flumped herself comfortably down. ‘Davie’s coming.’
‘Right,’ said Elle, wondering how she was ever going to actually achieve anything.
When Davie ambled in he poured Elle a glass of cold white Frascati before she could ask him not to, and she found herself cleaning down the galley as she munched a chicken salad sandwich and sipped wine that she was sure was much too expensive to be treated so casually.
‘Your ex was a bit of a shock.’ Loz dipped chicken in a swirl of mayonnaise. ‘But, ooh.’ She gave a wiggle.
Elle ran hot water and found the spray cleaner for the counter tops.
Loz attacked a slab of crusty bread. ‘He’s a serious hunk, isn’t he?’
Cleaning industriously, Elle made a non-committal noise.
‘Before I knew he was your ex I really liked him. You weren’t married, were you?’
Elle kept her eyes down. ‘Me and Lucas? No.’
‘That’s something. But it must be really awkward sharing such a small space. Do you think he’s likely to expect . . . you know?’ Loz paused delicately, eyebrows arched and fork poised.
‘No.’ Elle shook her head, face flaming. You know would involve a lot of Lucas and not many clothes and the idea made her heart skip.
‘But don’t you even—?’ Loz began.
Davie cut across her. ‘Elle, if it ever gets too uncomfortable, there’s a cabin here for you.’ And he went back to his coleslaw and potato salad.
‘Of course there is,’ Loz agreed immediately.
Elle gazed at them both in gratitude. ‘Thank you! That’s so lovely of you when you haven’t known me long. But I doubt it will come to that. We’ve talked, and we’re both cool with the situation.’ She opened the oven. It was sparkling clean inside.
Loz allowed the subject of Lucas to drop. ‘We don’t use the oven. It only gets smelly and hot in here if we cook. We like salad and we like eating ashore. At sea, I do use the microwave, though.’ She waved her fork at the black and shiny appliance built neatly into a slot. Everything in the galley, oven, fridge, cupboards, drawers, was a triumph of design functionality. What wasn’t pale wood was shiny black, clean white or jolly yellow.
When Loz and Davie had finished eating, Elle cleared, washed up, grabbed the polish and the lightweight vacuum cleaner and whisked off to begin on the main saloon, the favoured indoor space.
Loz, a bit pink from all the wine, followed, and kept up a stream of conversation from a sofa. ‘And can you change our bedclothes, sweetie? I’ll show you the clean linen and the washing machine.’
‘Washing machine?’ Elle grinned. ‘Seriously?’
‘There’s sort of a hatch to it. Dreadful squeeze for me but a slender little thing like you won’t find it a problem.’
Loz took her to inspect the hatch in a companionway. Four steps led down to where a full-sized washer-dryer squatted below deck as if playing hide and seek.
The bed in the master stateroom was huge. Elle stripped the bedclothes and began the laundering process, making the bed up again in fresh sheets of navy and gold before starting on the unused cabins and their bathrooms.
Loz drifted past once more. ‘Would you wash the foredeck windows? They get very salty and dull.’
Elle gathered up a bucket, a squeegee and a few cloths and followed Loz out into the sunshine of the foredeck. Davie was already lounging comfortably in one canvas chair and Loz took another, as voluble as Davie was quiet.
And as Loz laughed and joked, Elle splashed water around and made the windows gleam, thinking that there were worse ways to live than with the glorious blue sky above, the boat rocking gently at its moorings and musical clinking coming from the rigging of a nearby sailing yacht. Her movements began to slow, taking their tempo from the boat. Even Loz’s relentless conversation assumed a more leisurely rhythm.
Elle smothered a yawn as she gave the last pane its final polish.
‘Sit down and drink another glass of wine,’ Loz ordered. ‘It’s five o’clock and you’ve done enough for today. Can you do Friday afternoon and evening? We’ve got friends coming aboard and I’m hoping you could do the barista thing, then clear afterwards.’
‘That’s fine.’ Elle gazed at the Frascati as Davie pulled it out of the cool box, moist with condensation, and couldn’t come up with a reason to resist it. She put down her cloth and took a glass, settling herself on the deck with her back propped comfortably against the guardrail. ‘Thank you.’
Loz beamed. ‘That’s it, darling. Loosen up.’
‘I’m loose.’ Elle stretched out her legs and yawned.