World War Two Fighter Pilot 02.Band of Eagles by Frank Barnard

Author:Frank Barnard [Frank Barnard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2007-07-25T23:00:00+00:00

Seven

Kit Curtis came up level with the priest on the steepest part of Pennellu Hill. The kappillan was moving slowly, pausing every few yards to catch his breath, wipe his brow with a square of white linen and look back at the vista of St Paul’s Bay far below where ranks of tiny waves lapped the hot sand. His black cassock was blacker still with sweat, the hem encrusted with dust. On the nearby crest of Mellieha Ridge rose the dome and belfries of the town’s baroque parish church, the roseate stone luminous in the fierce sunlight.

As Kit drew close the priest leaned against a low stone wall, blew out his cheeks and smiled. Behind him a field of standing crops dropped away to the wide green St Niklaw valley. ‘It is my misfortune, my son, that Teresa Camilleri lives at the foot of Pennellu Hill and not the top. She is a woman of great piety and devotion, but unhappily infirm, who requests my presence and my blessing. Often. So very often. Pennellu is my little Compostela.’ He sighed, raised his eyes and added: ‘For which, of course, I offer thanks.’

‘It’s certainly quite a climb,’ said Kit. He shaded his eyes and looked down the broad valley. A small green lizard climbed out of a gap between the grey stones of the wall and spread itself in the sun near his hand. ‘I hear there are caves down there. Remains of ancient temples and Christian tombs.’

‘You know something of our history, then?’

‘A little.’

‘Now we make new history. Together.’

‘I suppose we do.’

The priest took in Kit’s crumpled service cap, the flight-lieutenant rings on the shoulder straps of his short-sleeved khaki shirt, the pilot’s wings press-studded to the thin material above the breast pocket. ‘You are at the rest camp of the Royal Air Force?’

‘Yes. Just for a couple of days.’

‘I see you have been touched by battle.’ The priest raised his hand to his own cheek, touching it tenderly as though it also bore a livid pink U-shaped scar.

‘Oh, it’s nothing to speak of.’

‘Do you put your trust in God, my son?’

‘I put my trust in many things,’ said Kit, uncertainly.

‘You are a doubter, then?’

‘These days, Father, I’m afraid I tend to trust more tangible things. My comrades, in the air and on the ground, the machine I fly, the experience I’ve gained, my ability to survive somehow, whatever happens.’

‘Your ability to survive is hardly tangible my son.’

‘No, that’s true.’

‘Surely, then, that might be the hand of God?’

‘Many of my friends have not survived. Is that also the hand of God?’

‘Perhaps. I do not know your friends or what was planned for them.’ The priest stood away from the wall and brushed himself down, looking up the hill towards the church silhouetted against the sky. There was a scratching sound as the lizard, startled, scrabbled back into the gap between the stones. ‘You will visit the Sanctuary of Our Lady?’

‘Of course.’

‘Two hundred years ago this island was visited by a ruinous drought.

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