What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  Uncle did tell me that story, and so many others – about ravens, and Tower history. About hope. I must not remember him for the secrets he kept. We all have secrets. We all try to do what is best.

  ‘Yeoman Oakes, have you finished your book? The one about the Tower prisoners?’

  He comes back to the present with a wistful smile. ‘Almost. Almost.’

  We eat the rest of our breakfast in silence, though Oakes seems to have cheered up considerably since my story of Bran.

  I know that I shouldn’t ask him, not now, but I can’t stop myself. I have to know the truth. ‘Yeoman Oakes,’ I say, handing him a washed bowl to dry.

  ‘Yes, Anna?’

  ‘My father. What is his name? His real name.’

  ‘I can’t think there’s any harm in knowing that.’ He sighs. ‘His name is Will Esser. But don’t waste your thoughts on him, dear.’

  That doesn’t even sound that German. Will is likely short for Wilhelm. He was hiding even then. I have to be careful – ask too many questions and I’ll never get another word out of Oakes. He seems to be aware that he’s said too much already. But there is one more thing I have to know.

  ‘Mr Oakes – why did my father leave? Why did he leave me and Mum?’

  The new life seems to drain from his face. ‘I know very little, Anna. They fought – apparently they were not very happy. Nothing too unusual. He headed back to Germany, where he found a scientific post as I understand. A smart man, everyone said. When trouble began, she changed her name – and yours – to Cooper, and became a fervent anti-war journalist.’

  A scientist? Uncle never mentioned that. I thought Father was a sailor. Or... I don’t know – maybe he was simply a violinist. But why lie about it? There’s nothing wrong with being a scientist – nothing worth keeping secret.

  ‘Thank you, Yeoman Oakes.’

  The washing up finished, I turn to leave.

  ‘And, Anna,’ he calls as I reach the door, ‘my name is Gregory.’

  *

  ‘Go on, Flo. Order what you like.’

  She pauses, looks at the menu again. I will make up with her, too. I feel light, happy. Then I will make up with Nell, and we can all be friends again.

  ‘Tea with milk, please,’ she tells the waiter.

  ‘I will be paid quite well,’ I say, after ordering the wholemeal bread and raspberry jam and clotted cream.

  ‘But you haven’t been paid yet.’

  ‘Soon enough. But suit yourself.’

  The idea of me paying for us doesn’t sit well with her. Well, if you’re going to stay on in school, you can’t expect to collect proper wages too.

  ‘Another bombing raid.’ She sighs into her freshly delivered tea.

  I have eyes only for the clotted cream, of which my bread has already received several lashings.

  ‘There has to be another way, Anna.’

  ‘Another way for what?’ I say around mouthfuls.

  She is giving me that look. We can’t all be as delicate as Florence Swift, with her little bites.

  ‘To end this mess. War just leads to more wars.’

  I say nothing but glance up at her serious face. She sounds like Mum. An end to the war. What happens when the war does end? I try to think of it and my mind keeps going back to Timothy Squire and me holding hands on the battlements.

  ‘I will not take part,’ she says.

  ‘You’re fifteen, Flo.’

  The moonlight on the Tower, the quiet peaceful night. Is it possible to ever have such a night again? To have a future of peaceful nights?

  ‘Yes. And I don’t believe in killing. In murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ I repeat, finally looking at her. What is she going on about?

  ‘What else? Trained to kill, our gallant boys. What is it all for?’

  I shake my head. ‘The Germans bombed us, Flo—’

  ‘So now we bomb them?’

  I nod, happy at least that she’s admitting there’s a war on. I wonder what finally changed her mind. Not Mr Swift, that’s for certain.

  ‘And then?’ Her voice has a sharp edge.

  ‘We force them to surrender.’

  ‘Or they force us. So, in the end, the side with the biggest army wins? What does that mean?’

  ‘Flo,’ I say, trying a lighter tone, ‘they aren’t going to make you kill anyone.’

  ‘No. Only to help the war effort.’

  ‘I know that you’ve been away in Montreal, but our bravest men are out there, right now, risking everything to keep us safe.’

  Her face turns angry, cruel. ‘Don’t fight for me. Don’t die for me. Don’t make me a victim.’

  ‘Flo, our men will keep fighting until we win.’

  ‘Not in my name.’

  ‘So you’ll go to gaol then?’

  ‘If I have to.’

  ‘You sound like a conchie.’

  I spent my mornings at the canteen listening to them – Germany has lost its dignity, what will England lose? There are no winners in war – and even Oakes says similar things. But I never imagined hearing such things from Flo. What has happened?

  It was Flo’s voice, her encouragement, that gave me the courage to race towards the bomb and save Malcolm during that Tower raid two years ago. She was always so brave, so strong. She barely looks like herself, staring at me with red eyes.

  ‘You work with the air force, don’t you? I mean, you’re one of them, Anna. You and that friend of yours – Nell. So you both must know. These “firestorms”, like the one created in Hamburg. They say forty thousand people suffocated in the cyclone. Most were roasted alive in bomb shelters.’

  ‘Flo, that’s not true.’

  ‘You don’t even ask, do you? You don’t care.’

  ‘Where did you hear that? Your dad? What do you know about living through bombing?’

  ‘Timothy told me. Timothy Squire.’

  I stare in silence, even the clotted cream a distant memory. Timothy? ‘Timothy Squire told you?’

  ‘Yes. I came to see you. You didn’t write, you didn’t tell me you’d run off to join the air force.’

  ‘I couldn’t, Flo. I have a proper job, a serious job, helping our country win this war. I’m sorry I don’t have time to go on play dates with you and Timothy Squire.’

  Timothy Squire never mentioned that Flo came to the Tower.

  ‘I do know what it’s like, Anna, so don’t give me that look. I know what it’s like in the hospitals. I know what it was like for Timothy when he was nearly crushed to death in Bethnal Green Station. What? He didn’t tell you? Well, no wonder. You’re never around, and you don’t write to anyone. It’s clear enough that you don’t care. You just want your revenge, same as the Germans do.’

  I am almost too shocked to say anything. Timothy Squire, why didn’t you tell me? But I can’t sit in silence across from her – I can’t let her know she’s right. Why didn’t you tell me? And now I am going back to White Waltham and it will be weeks before I can see him again. If I even want to, now.

  ‘Goodbye, Flo. Good luck praying Hitler just goes away.’

  ‘Goodbye, Anna. Good luck trying to bomb more civilians than the other side.’

  My half-finished bread and jam is like an accusation as I pay the bill and leave.

  Tuesday, 23 March 1943

  I bring down the hammer, nailing into the wood. Heat makes the sound louder. Holding still another nail, I hammer the planks together, lost in the task. Over the bronze sounds of a bell and the insistent croaking of ravens, I focus on the box. People are getting married all over the city, and the birds are always a distraction; I can block them out.

  ‘What is that?’

  The voice startles me and the swinging hammer almost catches my thumb.

  ‘All right, Malcolm?’ I say, turning back to the box. Malcolm, Yeoman Brodie’s kid, is a right pain. He never speaks to me – only to Dad, who shares his fascination with the Crown jewels and old bits of kings’ clothing. He walked right past
me the other day, like we haven’t both lived in the same bloody Tower for fifteen years.

  Better he walks past than any of that ‘Timothy Squire is a rotten liar’ rubbish. One more person talks, sings, or coughs those words and I’ll use their femur bones to build this nesting box.

  I have to tell Anna about her father.

  I knew about her mum’s death – or the way of it, rather. After a few hints about being friendly to the new girl, Mum told me the truth when we were in Disley, but I was told not to speak a word of it to Anna, as her uncle would when the time was right. Well, Henry Reed must’ve lost his nerve, because Anna ended up finding out on her own, and all of us who’d kept it secret from her came away looking like devils.

  The lie clings to me. I will not lie to her again; I promised her as much, before I left for training. A dozen times or more. You’d think from how she goes on about it that it was all the stuff I nicked that made her mad – but really it was because I hadn’t told her I knew the truth about what had happened.

  During a second-form history test, after I was caught looking at Vera Rowe’s answers, Headmaster Brownbill made me sweep the classroom. When I didn’t do a ‘sufficient’ job of it, he thought I was taking the piss, and he made me sweep it again and then sweep the library. Penitence, Dad called it as he happily agreed to let me into the library at dawn, and to keep a careful eye on me as I set to work.

  Helping the ravens breed doesn’t feel quite the same as pushing a broom across the endless stone floor of the library. But it doesn’t feel so different, either.

  ‘What is that?’ Malcolm says again, coming to stand right beside me. He throws a skinny shadow across the box and keeps standing there, oblivious as a fish in water.

  I sigh. ‘It’s for the birds, Malcolm.’

  ‘But the birds already have those big cages. What’s the box for?’

  ‘Ask your dad,’ I say with a smile.

  No, I am being mean. Malcolm is just odd. And the memory of Quartermaster carrying on about the French letters still stings. ‘It’s a nesting box. So then birds’ll lay eggs and all that.’

  ‘More birds?’ He sounds horrified.

  ‘They won’t hurt you.’ I remember that Anna told me that one had bitten Malcolm. Stan, I’d wager it was. ‘Just don’t go touching them.’

  These beaks could do some damage; the talons could shred the skin off your arm.

  And Rogan seems about ready to attack anything that moves. He lunges at me when I try to feed him now. They are always together, Rogan and Portia, but they are not acting as usual – no preening each other’s feathers, no soft cooing. Just angry ravens, snapping bills and loud kraas. I need to get this box ready before I lose an eye. I wish Anna were still here, to help me keep a watch on them.

  ‘You are a sapper,’ Malcolm says. ‘Aren’t you? And Anna has gone off to join the ATA.’ He pauses, then looks up at me. ‘I want to help, too.’

  ‘Then pass me some nails.’

  Malcolm does not move. He is standing there, between me and the box of nails, staring like a stunned fool.

  ‘Right, Malcolm. Go and join up somewhere next year.’

  ‘I want to join up now.’

  I squint up at him. ‘You’re fifteen.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘There’s no job looking after jewels in the war, Malcolm.’

  He doesn’t seem offended, or even seem to have heard. ‘I read about the Meteorological Centres. Helping to forecast the weather.’

  He can’t be serious. ‘You want to work at the Met? To help the war?’

  ‘I’m very good at maths.’

  ‘Well, good luck, Malcolm.’

  ‘I remember all sorts of things, details and notes. Ask your father. I am very good at details. I don’t fancy going all the way to Bristol for the interview though. Say, why aren’t you at work right now?’

  I let the hammer fall. ‘This is my work now, Malcolm. All right? Be a good lad and leave me to it.’

  Tuesday, 23 March 1943

  Diana Gaines is dead. I almost didn’t know her – she was very kind to me that day of the snow storm. No one seems to have known her well. No one is likely to forget her now. Diana’s engine shut down, and she plummeted like a stone from the sky.

  ‘Bumped off,’ they all say.

  Now we are all standing around in the cold for her funeral. The whole group is here, under the great spire of the Shottesbrooke church, including the officers and Commander Gower herself. Letters were written to her family in America, but no response has come yet. The ATA clearly wants to get this over and done with.

  ‘Sabotage,’ Joy says as the service ends and we file out side by side. The pale sun is still inching up the sky. ‘It’s the only possible explanation.’

  I nod wearily, glad she’s keeping her voice down. Unfortunately, spy mania still has a hold, even here. ‘You think a Nazi spy damaged her engine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What? Who then?’

  She leans close, looks around. ‘Don’t you know anything, Cooper? You think the RAF wants us to exist, a unit of women flying the same ships as they do? You’ve seen how they are.’

  ‘The RAF...?’

  What is she even talking about? Surely not – I mean, the very idea is impossible to imagine. The only RAF man I really know is Cecil – and he would never consider such a thing. But Joy is not done trying to convince me.

  ‘One of the girls had her engine catch fire while she was taking off. She landed, managed to douse the fire. What did she find in the engine? Rolled-up oil rags.’

  ‘Joy, that’s a mistake, surely.’

  It doesn’t seem possible that Westin could make a mistake – especially not one of that magnitude – but mistakes do happen. I once hid in a petrol depot during an air raid.

  I hope Westin does not feel guilty about it. He may be grumpy and arrogant, but he’s a great engineer, and he’s Cecil’s friend. I cast around to see if I can spot him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Joy is still banging on.

  ‘The RAF, Cooper. They want this place shut down. Get the girls away from aircraft and back in the kitchens where they belong.’

  Stunned into silence, I say nothing. An RAF man would never do such a horrible, murderous thing. It is treason to even suggest such a thing. Joy is merely tired – sick with grief. She doesn’t know the RAF, the British people. She has heard too many American stories.

  ‘Joy, you told me the boys just need some time to adjust. That they’ll be cheering me on...’

  ‘It’s gotten worse, not better. They want us gone, any way they can.’

  I can’t even think of any of this right now. The RAF involved in sabotage? It is too much. It is impossible. And I need my head to be clear.

  Tomorrow is my biggest test – my first solo flight.

  Joy is looking at me with narrowed eyes. ‘Just be careful, Cooper. Always be the last one to check your ship before you take off. Got it?’

  IV

  THE SKY BETWEEN US

  ‘Should the Allies turn invaders, we will throw them back into the sea.’

  Hitler, Führer Directive no. 51, 3 November 1943

  8

  Thursday, 25 March 1943

  I never want to see the pesky sun come up again. I drag out the ladder I stashed behind the garden hedge, and position it on the King’s House. The cold dawn laughs at me. I’ll just add it to the list. Bleeding world is laughing at me.

  I climb the ladder, up to the joint where the two high roofs meet. No prisoners in here now. I remember what Anna told me about Rudolf Hess – how the Warders kept him in this house like some honoured guest. Should’ve shot the mad bastard as soon as they spotted him.

  The nest box looks on the Green, so the ravens can keep a beady eye on each other. Everyone knows where everyone is and all that. Should work out just fine. I reach the top step, and not a single croak greets me. I know before I can even see it.

  ‘Wizard show Portia. You’ve done it.’ />
  And she has. Portia has laid four eggs – small, pear-shaped things, almost green, with tiny black spots. Even less appetizing than the hens’ sad eggs before they stopped laying. Time was when eggs were big and white and delicious with some buttered toast. The new mum, who is not looking any worse for wear perched on the side of the box, swiftly sits back on the eggs. She doesn’t seem thrilled to see me – my stomach might have rumbled – and within moments Rogan appears in a flap of unbalanced wings, bringing up an offering of food. No chance my stomach’s rumbling at this.

  A mouse, it seems to have once been. Rogan drops it on the side of the box, nudging the ruined ball of fur towards Portia, who hops off the eggs to tear it up some more. I only get a brief glance at the eggs – so small – before Rogan hops on to keep them warm.

  Portia barely finishes eating before she turns her attention to me – and one thing is clear, I am not wanted up here. Even after I built them a nesting box and let their wings grow long enough to fly up here. And hopefully not too much further, though I doubt they’ll be off anywhere in a hurry. Not until these chicks have grown at any rate.

  Here come the croaks, from both mum and dad. Rack. Rack. Rack.

  ‘Yes, fine. I’m off. You’re welcome, the lot of you.’

  I slide down the ladder with loud croaks still filling my ears.

  Sunday, 11 April 1943

  More than two weeks have come and gone. A proper sad few days, as I’ve had the job of clearing out the dead eggs, which Portia rolled from the nest into the gutter. She must have known they weren’t going to hatch. The little things were cold to the touch despite all of their sitting on them, and the thin shell squeezed under the gentle pressure of my fingers.

  But one nestling survived. I watched the egg, the last one, trembling and shaking, threatening to crack. How did the little lad breathe in there?

  He is out now. No feathers, eyes closed, raspy voice. Seems to be one giant pink mouth, begging for food. Both parents take turns feeding him. At first Portia scolded me for coming too close – Rack! Rack! – but once I proved willing to bring presents of extra food, she now suffers my presence. Still more than a sight irritable, though. Definitely Anna’s raven.