What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  I still cannot believe that he is back. I left him standing in front of the roost, silent as an old stone. A good night’s sleep and he’ll be rambling on and on like always.

  Flo’s letter said they have actual beef! I can’t believe it – but Flo is here now, so anything is possible. Even a proper Sunday roast.

  I am free to come and go at the Tower. No longer the hovering presence he used to be, nosing around all the time, Oakes treats me like a grown-up. Almost. So long as I stay between Blackfriars Bridge and Tower Bridge, and don’t go further south than Borough, I can ride the bike wherever I like.

  To go and see Flo, though, I was granted special permission. Maida Vale is well outside our agreed-upon area, but I know the way perfectly. And all the shelters are clearly marked.

  I ride alongside the river for another few minutes, then turn on to the Strand, climbing north-west. The afternoon is chilly, the cobbles wet from the earlier rain. Summer is still a long time coming. I have been back here many times since the Blitz ended. The first time was with Oakes. It was after that walk that he bought me the bike. We visited my old street, the tall, stately houses, but didn’t spend too much time at my house. It was a surprise to see that the gate posts were so low, the windows so close together.

  We looked at it from across the street, but for some reason I didn’t want to go any closer. Despite dreaming of coming back, it didn’t feel quite right. It didn’t feel like home any more. All our things are inside, but it is a hollow shell. For a moment I glimpsed it. Another life, barely recognizable now, separated by a great gulf. But it is still there.

  A photograph is inside – of me, Mum, and Father. He looked different then, not the thin, wild man who went mad at the Tower gates. But still a German, even then. I don’t need to go inside to get it. The photograph is always at the edge of my thoughts, stronger than memory.

  At least the house has not been bombed. At least I know it is still there.

  I bike past Buckingham Palace, not even flinching at the heavy roar of the Hyde Park guns being tested, and turn left towards Paddington. I fly down Warwick Avenue, the canals and coloured boats coming into view. I am getting close now. Some day Timothy Squire and I will live here with our ravens. Portia and Rogan, and maybe Stan, once he calms down a little.

  Much has changed in the past two years. Most of the flats, even the great tall ones, have gone to powder. The city is just... different. Blackout curtains can still be seen in the corners of windows, ready to be drawn at nightfall. I keep my eyes skinned for any shards gleaming amid the cobblestones. At least there is no more rubble in the streets.

  It is easy to imagine how the city used to look. It comes to me like a picture. The orange glow of torched houses. Jagged craters left from parachute mines. Everywhere, firehoses. Your ears still ringing, the breath sucked from your lungs, eyes stung red with dust.

  If Hitler had his way, the whole city would be nothing more than a cloud of smoke. People talk of the ‘world after the war’, clearing up all the mess and starting again. Do they mean it – can they truly see an end to it, a new world after this one?

  I swing up the lane – and stop. Behind me, approaching slowly, is a silver car. I watch it come, drive right beside me, and disappear down the turning road.

  Who is that? I recognize the car somehow. Petrol is impossible to get, Oakes says. I shake my head, find the pedals, and bike on.

  The silver car is in front of me, now stopped. The driver’s door swings open and a man steps halfway out.

  ‘Anna?’

  I blink in recognition. ‘Mr Swift?’

  ‘Just had to pop out and get some more wine. Come on, hop in – I’ll take you the rest of the way.’

  ‘Oh, that’s OK, sir. I have my bike.’

  Flo’s dad looks down, acknowledges the bike. One foot is still inside the car. I can hear the running engine from here. ‘Aha. Well, we’ll see you in a minute then. Be careful on the roads, Anna.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Swift.’ I wave, embarrassed. ‘See you in a moment.’

  *

  I am hugging Flo like it is a dream. She is taller – she always was – but somehow younger. Or not as old as the rest of us.

  ‘You couldn’t have written a few more letters?’ She laughs, pulling back to stare at me.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Flo. I tried... it is wonderful to see you.’

  Again she is hugging me and again my face feels hot. It is so like a dream that I cannot fully understand where I am.

  No, I know I am in Flo’s sitting room. The room where we read King Arthur and Stories for Girls before going outside to follow the afternoon sun around the garden.

  ‘There,’ I say, and point to the blue mugs on the counter. The mugs we always used for tea. ‘So many nights hiding in a dark shelter and I thought about those.’ Staring at them now, I almost feel tears come to my eyes.

  ‘Anna!’

  Mr Swift greets me as though we hadn’t said hello mere moments ago.

  The sitting room is just as I remember it. White curtains on the wide windows, heavy rugs, high chairs with cushions. I was here, just before they left, when the furniture was covered in dust sheets and the vases and lamps packed away in newspaper. Flo’s two brothers and sister – older, almost plump now, especially Peter – give me subdued hellos.

  A black blur rushes past and I cry out. It is wonderful to see a happy dog. Last year, when the rule banned dogs from air raid shelters, many of the animals were put down. People couldn’t care for their pets while spending days and nights in the shelter. Geoffrey, however, looks as happy as any dog can be.

  ‘Did he go to Canada with you?’ I ask, incredulous.

  ‘Geoffrey loves the snow. You’re going to miss all that snow, aren’t you, Geoffrey? And the food! Anna, I wish you could have been there. Doughnuts with sugar. Apple juice, caramels, peanuts – chewing gum!’

  Her voice is the same – soft and laughing, just as I’d imagined it these past two years. Soon we are in the dining room, a room we only ever passed through on the way to the garden. Even her family never had dinner in this room. Heaps of beef on china plates. Beef. No way they ate better than this in Canada. The beef is fried. As butter and oil are impossible to come by, all food is boiled. Already my mouth is watering. Peas and beans.

  The only thing that is different is the absence of white-uniformed maids, who used to bustle around the kitchen. Not a maid in London now, Oakes once said. They’ve followed all the rich families to their country homes.

  I didn’t know Mrs Swift cooked, but this looks incredible. Extraordinary. Flo’s brothers and sister occupy the other side of the table. But I only have eyes for Flo. And the beef.

  It feels like Christmas dinner, and Mr Swift has a shiny smile. It is warm, happy – apart from everything horrible that has happened. Safe and removed. Flo takes little, tiny bites of her food and I almost laugh – she has not changed.

  There is no weight, none of the heavy feeling always present when sitting down to dinner with the Warders. It feels like, well, family. I suddenly imagine Timothy Squire and I having such a life. It will be perfect.

  ‘Living in the Tower,’ Mr Swift says, munching his bread. ‘There’s a story for the kids.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I am volunteering at the canteen.’

  I am only waiting for him to say ‘the juice is worth the squeeze’ with that giant smile, or ‘something to think about while you help with the dishes’. I’ve had so many dinners here – and been sent home with so many leftovers. What would Timothy Squire say if I brought him roast beef?

  Mr Swift turns to Flo, smiling. ‘So much history. We took you, didn’t we, sweetie? When you were – what, six or seven? You saw the Crown jewels. I don’t suppose you remember much of it now. I wager Anna could show you around. Maybe jump the queue.’

  ‘We’re not open to the public,’ I say. ‘Not during the war.’

  No Crown jewels either. My mind skips back to Uncle’s words, and I almost laug
h and make a fool of myself. The ravens are the Crown jewels.

  ‘Oh, well, that makes sense.’ Flo’s mum turns to her soup, slurping. ‘Things’ll be right as rain soon enough.’

  A distant rumble. A passing truck? Or the V1s? Instinctively, I glance around. I saw through the windows to the back garden when I first came in; no Anderson shelter. Is there a cellar? Flo and I spent most of our time in her room or in the garden. Mr Swift’s stack of wine bottles in the kitchen confirms there isn’t a cellar.

  ‘How long to get to the Warwick Avenue shelter?’

  Mum and I had put up an Anderson in our garden – well, Mrs Weber’s husband helped, before he was sent away to the Isle of Man. He was an Austrian – not as bad as a German, but close.

  We can only trust our own.

  The prospect of a night in the shelter is far less enticing with Flo’s family and half the neighbourhood, but walls will keep you safe from the blast. Out in the open, you can be thrown ten feet in the air by the impact. Unless it is the V1s. No one knows what they’ll do.

  Mr Swift exchanges a long look with Mrs Swift.

  ‘All that is behind us now, Anna dear.’

  I look between them, too surprised to hide it. Abruptly it occurs to me why the white-curtained living room looks so strange. ‘You don’t have blackout curtains.’

  Mrs Swift smiles. ‘No need to worry.’

  No need to worry? Blackout curtains are thick enough to catch the broken glass. Usually.

  ‘Our bombers went to Cologne last night,’ I say. ‘Hitler always retaliates. And the Germans are developing new weapons, new bombs. That’s why the Tower is still closed. We all have to go to the shelter when the siren sounds.’

  Mr Swift coughs into his napkin.

  ‘We took Florence to see the ice hockey,’ he says, suddenly smiling wide. ‘She was quite taken with it. Who was it you liked, Florence? Number eleven, for the Canadiens – fast as a pistol.’

  We all turn to Flo, who appears to be near bursting.

  ‘Father says you must come and live with us now,’ she says. ‘Especially now that your – Oh, it will be grand, Anna.’

  I am still. I can feel Mr Swift’s eyes on me.

  Flo has not changed. None of them have.

  ‘Well, what do you say, Anna? It’s not a castle, but we’ll keep you warm and fed. “Bread in the bin, cake in the tin.” And you two girls, reunited.’

  I say nothing at first. It isn’t a castle. And it isn’t home.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Swift, Mrs Swift. Thank you both so much. But the Tower – I live there now. I mean, I have a life there. I am the Ravenmaster. I am needed, and especially with these new birds; some of them don’t get on at all. And I start work at the canteen—’

  ‘Come back to school,’ Flo says, more confused than angry. ‘Mrs Munro is still teaching maths and I bet even Mr—’

  ‘No, Flo.’ I stop her. ‘I can’t.’

  Everything is very quiet.

  ‘Anna,’ says Mr Swift. The shiny smile has vanished. ‘Please. There is no rush – to finish your dinner or to move house. We only thought, given what happened at the Tower...’

  ‘Do you mean the war? The war is not over. The Germans are planning a whole new attack – are you all blind?’

  He looks cross now. ‘Anna, we know it has been a difficult time for you – and we shall pass no judgement here. Now, if you want to come back and live in the old neighbourhood, if you want to share a room with Florence instead of a suit of medieval armour, we’d be happy to have you.’

  Flo’s eyes are wide like a puppy’s. I have to look away. ‘Thank you for dinner Mrs Swift. And thank you for your kind offer, Mr Swift. But I have to go home now.’

  Monday, 18 May 1942

  ‘Glad to hear of your interest.’ The old lady smiles down at me. ‘You’ll not be our youngest, so don’t go worrying about that. Come on, let me show you how to do it.’

  I am to be part of a canteen, run with an iron fist by Mrs Barrett. Girls in dungarees and tin hats – some of them looking younger than me – are handing out food and drink.

  ‘A wonderful thing, isn’t it?’ says the old lady, glancing over at the sea of volunteers.

  It is different, now that the daily bombing has stopped. Now, people are rebuilding. And what they need is decent food and drink.

  I give a tight smile as a dirty man calls up to me. Already my feet itch.

  I am like a bloody NAAFI girl. To think I used to want to be one myself. Elsie changed all that. Elsie and Timothy Squire’s little romance had the whole Tower wanting to sick up.

  A queue of hopeful women snakes around the street. They have caught a rumour that the empty stall will later be selling fish. I think of the stories Oakes told me about the Russians, running away as the Nazi army approached, and smashing their own homes so the Germans couldn’t use them. Burning their own crops so the Nazis wouldn’t get them. Could we ever do something like that? Destroy our homes, our markets? It is so very cold in Russia.

  But the Germans are that evil. All of them. We have to do what we can to stop them.

  The canteen is mostly frequented by the defence gunners – ‘the battery boys’ – starving for sandwiches (sardine paste or tomato and marge), which cost eightpence with a canteen cake and a cup of tea. Otherwise it is filled with a lot of conchies – conscientious objectors to war. They help clear up bomb damage. Some of the battery boys carry on a bit of banter with them, but mostly the conchies keep to themselves.

  ‘Dunkirk took Roger,’ Mrs Barrett says, seeing me watching them and adding a glare of her own. ‘No help from this lot. Should all be locked in Brixton gaol.’

  Despite her hard looks and words, Mrs Barrett treats the conchies fairly, selling food and drink to them with a tight smile.

  After a few hours I am exhausted. My whole body is sore from lack of sleep. Just like everyone else. Except Flo, who will be enjoying the summer holidays.

  ‘Your hot chocolate, sir.’ I push the steaming cup across the counter, and the soldier takes it with a grateful nod. A frontline soldier.

  Frontline soldiers appear among the crowds, on leave or receiving treatment, and groups cluster around them. From these interactions, rumours spin and grow. Whispers of something – something huge, something never before attempted. The Germans are about to invade. No, it is us – we are about to sail an army across the Channel and invade Germany. Whatever the details, one thing is always true: this war is about to change.

  I think again of the V1 leaflets: the red flames dancing around Tower Bridge, the man and woman screaming among the ruins. Is it true? And even though Hitler seems to have stopped bombing London, with each passing full moon, my heart clenches.

  With a mumbled thank you the soldier takes the hot chocolate, wanders to a patch of sunlight. Something is about to happen. And I can’t be handing out hot chocolate when it does. I should be like these soldiers, in a proper uniform, fighting alongside the men.

  I can do more than work at the canteen. But I will need some help. Then I remember – there is someone who can help me. And I know just where to find her.

  *

  Victory House in Piccadilly could be a palace, with great marble columns catching and pooling the light. A crowd of women stream past in their pretty blue uniforms. That is the type of uniform I could wear with pride. I gaze out over the sea of faces, some smiling, others blank – with exhaustion, or boredom?

  ‘Nell!’

  I recognize her the instant I see her. She is with a group of women, blurry in the heat, but I would recognize her anywhere.

  ‘Nell,’ I say. ‘Hello. It’s me—’

  ‘Anna Cooper,’ she says, grinning. ‘All grown up.’

  She remembers me? Her Cockney accent sounds almost musical to my ears.

  I stare at her, her uniform starched, pressed, and perfect. And me, dirty and exhausted in my dungarees. A day at the canteen and it already feels like the longest summer of my life. Mrs Barrett doesn’t seem
to feel the sweltering temperature.

  ‘Volunteering are you?’ Nell looks me up and down. ‘I did my time at the canteen. How long have you been down there?’

  ‘Not long.’ I glance hastily away. ‘Yeoman Sparks told me you were helping out with recruiting. For the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.’

  ‘Just for a while longer. I’ll be off to the airfield any day now.’

  How can I ask her? Well, I am here now.

  ‘The truth is, Nell, I want to be in the WAAF, too. I would love it, in fact.’

  ‘Of course you would, sweetie. All the top-drawer girls are here. You don’t want any of that navy stuff – staring out at the sea all day. The air force is the place for talented girls like you. Hitler’s Blitz is done, so now it’s our turn to drop some bombs.’

  I nod, feigning knowledge. ‘I would love to help, however I can.’

  ‘You’ll need to know someone to get in – but then, you know me. And you’re a strong one, I remember that much. How old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen. Well, I will be next year.’

  Another smile. ‘Well, there are ways around that, if you’re truly keen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’ She laughs. ‘You were a Vacuee, right? Do you even have a birth certificate?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know – I mean, no, I doubt it. All is know is that Oakes is now my guardian, and I’ll need his permission—’

  ‘Gregory Oakes is your guardian?’ She has stopped smiling, her perfect pencilled eyebrows knitted together in worry. ‘Well, my dear Anna Cooper, you’re just going to have to wait another year or so. No way he’ll go down to the register office with a bucket full of lies. That man wouldn’t break a rule to save his own life.’

  I nod, sure that she’s right. After Uncle’s funeral, Oakes became my guardian, for which I was very happy. Otherwise I’d have been sent God-knows-where. Of course I once thought very differently about Yeoman Oakes. The whole of last year I was certain he was a spy, not realizing that he was the one keeping Father from finding me here. I still flush with shame to remember how sure I was that he was a traitor. But he truly wouldn’t break a rule to save his own life.