I stop to take a breath, the speech not coming out quite like I’d planned. I know I shouldn’t mention Mum – or Father – to get what I want, but Oakes is always so stubborn.
‘Just because she’s not here, doesn’t mean she abandoned you, Anna.’
I have heard all this before. She was ill, Uncle said, and in her ill mind, she thought she was sacrificing herself to save me. She made a mistake. She loved me.
The ache of it never goes away.
‘That’s not how it feels, Yeoman Oakes, sir.’
‘I’ll wager you can still feel her love here. She sent you here. She knew you’d be looked after, protected at the Tower. Looked after better than she could with her illness.’
‘How could anyone look after me better than her?’
‘She was ill, Anna.’
‘Uncle Henry was ill, too,’ I say. ‘But he didn’t leave you.’
Oakes falls silent, hanging his head in defeat. I am sorry, Yeoman Oakes.
*
‘But... how...?’
I am smiling at Nell. ‘Right? Nothing easier than backdating a birth certificate.’
She shakes her head, clearly impressed. Her cigarette burns away between her fingers. ‘I can’t believe it, Cooper.’
‘Neither can I, to be honest. But I’m sixteen now.’
She remembers her cigarette, brings it to her lips. ‘Yeah. Seventeen would’ve been too much of a stretch, let’s be honest. But you’re a doll of a young sixteen.’
I am beaming, brick-red and without a care. ‘Thank you, Nell. For helping me do this.’
Reaching in her bag, she pulls out cigarettes and tips the pack towards me. ‘Thank me by doing a hell of a job for the WAAF, Miss Cooper.’
I reach, drawing out a slender tube, holding it gently between my thumb and forefinger. Nell strikes a match, holds it steady between us.
And just like that, on my fifteenth birthday, I turned sixteen.
*
The Tower is less welcoming in the grey evening light. The new birds still feel so different – even the sounds they make. Far more quorks and honks, mainly from Rogan and Portia, and rolling, gurgling calls between Oliver and Stan. I never heard Grip or Mabel make those noises.
The ravens squabble around me, Stan and Oliver locked in playful battle. I shake my head to clear it. I must round up this lot and get to bed. What will Timothy Squire say when I tell him I am signing up to be a WAAF? Oh, the look on his face when he sees me in the uniform.
It can’t be as hard as working in the docks – he barely leaves off complaining about it. First I must pass my interview, and a physical test, and I should definitely start learning something about planes.
I close the last of the roost doors with a heavy clang. ‘Goodnight, you lot.’
Looking out at the ravens in their cages, snapping beaks and flailing wings, a certainty grows in me. Madness, perhaps. I can do anything I set my mind to. I can learn to fly.
The sky darkens to purple as I walk to the Bloody Tower. All I can think about is Amy Johnson and a single plane soaring above the clouds.
Thursday, 15 October 1942
Quarter lounges at his desk, pouring a tall glass. I don’t take the seat opposite. I can see, from here, his stash of single malt whisky. He just leaves it out in the open, so confident no one would dare.
I wouldn’t.
‘It’s your lucky day, Squire. Seems they’re desperate enough to give you another shot. Demolition training. Something we can both celebrate.’
A great smile threatens to engulf my face but I fight it back. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Take this.’ He shoves a letter across the table. ‘You’ll be off to Aberdeen at first light tomorrow to rejoin Major Roland.’
I stare down at the page, reading and rereading the looping words.
‘Aberdeen?’
‘What? You have a problem with sheep, Squire?’ Quarter laughs, enjoying his drink.
‘No, sir. It’s just...’
‘What is wrong with you, boy?’
‘What about Lightwood?’
‘They don’t want him. You’ve been offered a second chance, Squire. No time for mooning over your mates.’
‘If I’m invited back, he must be, too. It was my fault the fuse didn’t work...’
Quarter squints at me, lowers his glass. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s the truth, sir.’
His hand abandons the glass, tightening into a fist. How I hate this man. ‘Major Roland is happy to give you another chance to join their ranks as a sapper so long as you don’t make a fuss. Why are you making a fuss, Squire?’
I drop my head. I can’t believe I am going to do this – throw away my chance to become a sapper. I must be mad.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I thank them for the offer, but I can’t accept it unless they take Lightwood, too.’
‘Accept it? This is the armed forces, Squire. You’ll do as you’re told or you’ll be off to gaol.’
I can look nowhere but at my boots, though the words come out solid enough.
‘Actually, sir, I won’t. I’m not properly eligible for the armed forces. I’m only sixteen, sir. So I’ll just have to carry on my work here at the docks.’
Thursday, 22 October 1942
Timothy Squire wants to know why I’ve been acting so queer. He will find out soon enough. But first he is trying to give me something: lavender soap for my birthday. He has again managed to make it for the dawn feeding, something I am barely able to do with Mrs Barrett’s crushing schedule.
‘Thank you, Timothy Squire.’
‘Hey, it’s nothing. Bought it myself, of course.’ He tries to smile, but his face says he wishes he hadn’t spoken at all.
Looting is not a joke, Timothy Squire. I won’t forget what you did just because you actually paid for something now.
Did you tell him about your theft last year? Did you mention how you broke into his room and stole from him – how you let the Tower think an incendiary had landed, just to create a distraction so you could escape?
No, I haven’t said a word. If Oakes is happy to keep it quiet, I am, too. And I have something more important to say. He’s going to scoff at me.
‘Matter of fact,’ he goes on hurriedly, ‘I have something else for you. Well, not really, I mean it’s not quite ready yet.’
‘What is it?’ I know I sound distracted – I am distracted! I just need to tell him, to tell him that I’ve made my decision. I have to tell him now.
Right now. Before I lose my nerve.
‘I am teaching Oliver to speak,’ he says.
‘You are not.’
‘Don’t believe me? I’ll show you – tomorrow at the dawn feeding.’
‘Timothy—’
‘If you listen hard, right, you can sort of make it out.’
‘Timothy—’
He reaches out and takes my hand. ‘It’s sort of another present, I mean, it’s not ready yet, but maybe by tomorrow morning—’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t help tomorrow morning. Or for a while. I’m joining the WAAF.’
He pulls his hand away as though scalded.
We stare at each other. I must look just as confused.
‘But you’re working in the canteen, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not old enough to join the air force.’
‘Are you mad at me?’
‘No,’ he says, though his voice sounds anything but calm. ‘I just thought you’d work at the canteen. I thought you’d live at the Tower, and I’d be close by down at the docks. The WAAFs have bases all over the bloody place – you’ll likely be in Cornwall or Orkney or some place.’
‘You were happy to go to Aberdeen.’
‘That’s different,’ he says. Timothy Squire is thinking. When he thinks, his forehead wrinkles with lines.
‘Besides, they could send you anywhere, Timothy Squire – I’m sure you’ll be in the desert before Christmas time.’
He gives
me a strange look. ‘I’ll be here,’ he says, ‘in the docks.’
We are silent.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he says, ‘sticking around here. And the birds – they’d not last long with just me taking care of them. I think Corax hates me.’
‘You have to be careful until they are familiar with you. You’re too aggressive.’
He’s far too aggressive. Half the time I’m worried Corax is going to take his hand off.
‘The canteen is a good fit for you, Magpie.’
‘I don’t want to work at the canteen. I don’t want to be a NAAFI girl.’ I keep my voice as firm as I can. God, why do I sound so sulky? ‘I am joining the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, if they’ll have me.’
‘Is it the V1s? Don’t worry. A self-propelled missile is impossible. They’d never be able to aim it. The Nazis may’ve come up with all sorts of mad weapons – but that is impossible.’
‘It’s not the V1s.’
‘What then?’
‘I’m doing this for me, Timothy Squire. And for us.’
‘For us?’
‘Yes. As long as the war’s still on, we can’t do any of the things I’ve... planned.’ His eyebrows shoot up in alarm.
‘Never mind.’ I sigh. ‘I have to help. It’s my duty.’
‘But – you’re not old enough.’
‘Fake documents, same as you.’
‘Magpie...’
‘It’s routine, remember? You told me everyone’s doing the same thing.’
‘What about the ravens?’ he asks, looking at me from the corner of his eyes. ‘What about them?’
‘I was hoping you’d help me. Until I get back. I am coming back, you know. I just have to do my part. I have to. In the meantime, I was hoping you could be the Ravenmaster.’
‘You can’t do your part with the canteen? What’s wrong with being a NAAFI girl, anyway?’ He gives a grunt that could mean anything. ‘I think it’s stupid.’
I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Stupid?’
‘Yes. Joining the WAAF is stupid, Anna.’
‘Well, I’m leaving, Timothy Squire. Goodbye.’
*
‘Churchill and his men are in for a surprise, when this is all over,’ Oakes says. ‘Rationing food, sharing space. People are unified now. How can we go back to the rich taking it all?’
Oakes sounds like Mum again. I care nothing for politics, but Oakes has agreed to sign my consent form and I don’t want to ruin it.
‘Thank you, Yeoman Oakes. Nell is going to help me, too. I mean, she is going to help me apply, even though she can’t be at the application centre because she has been sent to the airfield. She really wants me to join. I will miss being here, though. Truly.’
And I will miss Yeoman Oakes, as mad as that once would have sounded. I feel like he needs me here. He scarcely leaves the Stone Kitchen any more. When I asked how long it was since he’d last visited Hew Draper’s carving in Salt Tower, he said, ‘Oh, I haven’t been there in ages.’ That carving is one of his favourite things, and it’s hardly five minutes from the kitchen. I will ask him to take me there when I’m next home.
‘I’m sure other people raised objections to you leaving us,’ he says now. ‘As a canteen worker, you’d be able to live in the Tower. Close to the ravens – and the docks.’
I go as red as my hair. Oakes always knows more than he lets on, and I am grateful for him not saying it out loud. Timothy Squire said it was stupid. And what will Flo say? She thinks I should still be in school.
‘I know.’ I do know. Of course Timothy Squire wants me to stay, to be close. But I have to follow my own path. ‘But I still want to join the WAAF, Yeoman Oakes.’
‘See.’ He gives a slow smile. ‘They will be lucky to have you. And your uncle would be very proud.’
‘I think Stackhouse will improve. And I have Timothy Squire helping out,’ I say. ‘It’s just that Uncle named me the Ravenmaster – and I can’t bear to let him down.’
Oakes clears his throat roughly. ‘Oh, Anna, you mustn’t think of it like that. Your uncle would be so proud of you, and so would your mother. It’s your life, Anna, and you have to find a way to get on with it, do you understand?’
‘I know, Yeoman Oakes. It’s just I always think about Mum, about what I could have done differently. If only I—’
‘Anna.’ Oakes’s voice is suddenly firm – the old, stern Oakes I remember from last year. ‘There is nothing you could have done. Nothing. It was not your fault. She loved you.’
She loved you. That’s what everyone tells me. She loved you. But she still left. I think of all the times I would shout to get what I wanted, like going to see some stupid film or spending the night at Flo’s house.
‘You couldn’t have known, dear.’ Oakes’s voice has already softened. ‘And there is nothing you could have done. Nothing anyone could have done. Your mum was ill, and so was your uncle, and we’ve lost them both. We’ll just have to do our best now, you and I, won’t we?’
We shall have to do our best.
I will miss Oakes – and all the Warders. This is home now. Somehow I feel connected to all the people and the history of the Tower, those who have been imprisoned in the dark towers and the thousands who have lived their lives in the school, pub, and the stone halls of this ancient castle. Mad as it sounds, it no longer feels like a gaol to me.
Each time I return to the Tower, pushing my bike across the stone bridge, I feel the enclosure of the Tower, the cool air. Coming back to the Tower is like walking into a mountain, with cliffs, ridges, and lookouts, and full of caves and valleys. A strange, ancient, impossible place. But home.
I stay awake into the night. Somewhere a fox barks. In reply, a raven cries from the roost. Everyone is hungry. As the night deepens even these sounds fade.
Monday, 2 November 1942
The sergeant gives me a doubtful look.
‘Name and age.’
I draw a breath, wishing it was steadier. ‘Anna Cooper. I am sixteen, sir.’
He glances down at the form. ‘Anna Winifred Cooper?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Sixteen, huh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what, dear girl, is a “Ravenmaster”?’
‘It’s my job – my old job. I looked after the ravens. At the Tower of London, where I live.’
The sergeant is looking at me with a glazed look. ‘Where were you at school?’
‘Tower School, inside the Tower, sir. Closed now, due to the bomb damage.’
‘And you didn’t think to continue your school elsewhere? A school at Buckingham Palace, perhaps?’
‘That would be an awful commute, sir.’
He eyes me, unsure who is mocking who. ‘Right you are. Do you read The Times? Yes. The Evening Standard? Anything else? What about games?’
‘I play netball, sir. And running.’
‘Good. How many battleships are there in the Far East?’
‘Battleships...? I couldn’t say, sir.’ Nell did not prepare me for this. Why does this man care about battleships – and how could I possibly know that? Does anyone know that? Oh, Nell.
‘Hmmm. And what is the cosine of a right-angled triangle?’
I feel my breathing relax. ‘The cosine is the length of the adjacent side over the length of the hypotenuse.’ Trigonometry is something she did warn me about.
‘Fine. Take this slip to the attendant and you will hear from us in due course.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I take the blue slip from his hand and hurry away.
Wednesday, 6 January 1943
I have also missed Timothy Squire’s birthday – he turned sixteen last week. But he has barely been at the Tower since our talk. He is hiding from me. Like a child. He is busy down at the docks, he said, the one time I caught him crossing the Green. I almost believed him until he added, Good luck with your air force application.
He is insufferable. I enter the Stone Kitchen and coloured l
ight falls through the high windows. There is an envelope on the table. A heavy, brown envelope. The room is quiet, the others having gone off to the Hut already – all except Oakes, calmly drinking his tea.
Oakes stands, tries a smile. ‘I received a communication from the Air Ministry.’
‘Is this...?’ I can’t form the question.
‘It’s for you, Anna,’ he says and walks away, taking his cup with him.
I wait until his footsteps have vanished before I tear open the envelope. I scan it quickly, none of the words sinking in. It is an acceptance letter. They want me.
The letter shakes in my hand. Bases all over the bloody place. Cornwall; Orkney. I finally focus, comprehend the words on the page.
Report to Victory House in Piccadilly at 8 a.m. for a medical exam.
Saturday, 9 January 1943
I walk down to Mark Lane Station, in my new Austin Reed skirt – I had just enough coupons for it – and I am feeling very grown up. I remember what Nell said to me last summer, after she helped me pick out an outfit. Looking snappy. What will she say when she sees me now?
I actually searched for Timothy Squire (even he would snap out of his sulking to wish me luck) but I could not find him. Maybe he really is busy down at the docks. Hopefully not too busy to check up on the ravens.
Victory House is overwhelmed with queuing recruits. As crowded as a Tube carriage at rush hour. Some of the girls smile, returning brisk hellos. A few look even younger than me. A WAAF sergeant appears before the eager faces and her voice sails down the hall.
‘Pass today’s medical examination and you will report for three weeks’ basic training in Dorchester. Train departs at 5 p.m. Fail the examination, and you will be going straight back home.’
After hours of queuing I met every type of doctor – arms and legs stretched, elbows and knees knocked with a little hammer, ears, eyes, and feet examined, hearts listened to and breath measured. In the end, I was deemed suitable and sent to get a sandwich and tea.
Sunday, 10 January 1943
Pick-up point is a small railway station in Dorset. The night is clear and frozen. As always, a gas mask is in my pack. An open-backed lorry is out front.
What the Raven Brings Page 5
