I don’t know how many of the eggs usually make it, but we’ve got one and I’m counting us lucky for it. Not an easy road ahead, mate, even with all three of us looking out for you. You have to be strong to live in the Tower. This little guy will have to be more than strong to survive in the Tower now: rationed food, possible air raid at any time, the world’s laziest Warder.
I remember Dad talking about some display of Japanese armour – samurai armour. I saw it once, a long time ago, when he was dusting off a bunch of old pieces. I remember how it looked – black, fierce, horned. Kind of like you, little guy.
Dad had gone on and on about some warrior – one of the last samurais – who had been a great swordmaster. Yugoro Something-or-other. But that doesn’t sound quite right for a Tower raven.
‘Hey.’ I lean in, watching the new bird, its beak already sharp. ‘What do you make of “Yugo”? It’s a fighter’s name – and you’ll have to be a fighter, yeah?’
The raven’s head turns, as if meeting my gaze like a challenge.
Yugo it is.
The clock-tower bell chimes behind me. As quick as I can, I scurry down the ladder, release the other birds for the morning, leaving Portia, Rogan, and Yugo in the nest box.
I feel a strange sense of lightness. Yugo is born. The ravens are happy.
My penitence is almost over.
*
‘Yeoman Stackhouse. The chick will be in the nest box for six to ten weeks. You can reach the box by climbing and peeking in. Portia will croak at you but just ignore her and check that the baby is doing all right. Once a day. Some extra food for the parents – they’ll make sure Yugo gets it. Do you understand?’
‘No.’
Truth be told, my penitence may never be over. Not until Anna learns about her father still being over here. But there’ll be a time for all that, and it’s not now. The past few weeks I haven’t slept more than a wink before the nightmare of Bethnal Green roars into my head. Screaming women and children, mouths hanging open, trampling each other in fear. I can’t stay here, raising Anna’s birds, no matter how much I owe it to her. People need their proper lives back. I have to do what I can to end this bleeding war.
‘Here’s the deal, Yeoman Stackhouse. When I come back to check, which I will, and if Yugo is a healthy weight, you will find, just inside the cage, a bottle of single malt whisky.’
He narrows his eyes at me. ‘Is that a bribe, boy?’
‘Certainly. And a fair one, I wager. I can rest easy knowing that the birds are well looked after, and you’ll be getting paid twice to do one job.’
‘I already look after them.’ He indicates the ravens with a flick of his wrist.
‘And we’re a sight more than grateful.’
‘No one said anything about climbing way up there.’
‘No one said anything about whisky either.’
I hold out my hand, which he inspects with great suspicion. ‘Single malt you say?’
‘Highland’s finest.’
‘Just once a day?’
‘Ladder’s behind the hedge.’
Still frowning, he reaches out and clasps my hand. ‘Deal.’
Now that the ravens are in good hands – good enough, at any rate – and Anna’s father has cleared out, I have an appointment to schedule. And a bleeding war to put a stop to.
I’ve no clue when I decided this – surely not because of what Malcolm said about being useful. My thoughts are all jammed together. I just know that I can’t stay here at the Tower. And being around Stackhouse makes me more certain of it.
Quarter’s threats for secrecy about the Phoenix units could hardly be clearer. I know what’s coming, and I know just who to talk to. I remember from his letter that his office is in London.
It’s time to take my place again.
Wednesday, 14 April 1943
In the hangars no one is in sight but Westin, working expertly away. I feel his eyes on me as I speed past, desperate to be away from aircraft and engines. I can’t study for another second. Perhaps I can find a magazine to read. Anything, so long as I don’t have to memorize it. Luckily I have an aspirin. My head aches.
There is always laughter from the crew room. Despite the weather and the gruelling flight schedules, the pilots are determined to enjoy themselves. Even if they spend the whole time bragging about their London flying clubs, it beats studying. For a brief moment I am reminded of my life at WAAF. And anything beats mucking out toilets.
‘You want in?’
I blink at the voice. Lost in thought, I have wandered right into the crew room. One of the girls – glamorous – stares at me with a flat look. She’s holding cards. No one else is here. So much for the laughter and celebration of the crew room.
‘Oh – sorry, I don’t know how,’ I say.
‘It’s blackjack.’ The same flat look says, Only an idiot doesn’t understand blackjack. I don’t how to play any card games. The only game I know how to play is Monopoly, and I’m terrible at that. Though I suspect Timothy Squire was cheating all along.
All I can think of is Flo’s grinning face. I cannot believe her. And Timothy Squire. He is the most rotten boy in the world. They deserve each other.
‘You playing or not?’
‘Yes. OK.’
I walk over, slip into the chair across the table. What am I doing? I am a pilot and I, too, am determined to enjoy myself.
‘Megan, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘Anna,’ I mutter. ‘Anna Cooper.’
‘Right.’
‘You’re Bella. The ballerina.’
She stands to give a short, theatrical bow. I look at my cards. Do the suits have to match? I have two red cards already. Or is this the game where I have to get to twenty-one?
‘The British sky is so tiresome,’ Bella says, pressing down a card. She smiles and I am surprised to see she has a gap in her teeth. I thought all these girls were perfect. ‘Slate and grey, boring and damp. A summer morning in Kashmir, the dizzy colours and biting air – that is a proper sky.’
‘I’ve never been to Kashmir,’ I answer.
The only sound is the crisp flip of cards. I lose – it is the game to twenty-one – and Bella shuffles for a new game.
‘That was so horrible,’ I say, striving to find some common ground, ‘what happened to Diana.’
Bella shrugs. ‘A dangerous business, flying aircraft.’
She wasn’t knocked from the sky by the dizzy colours of the Kashmir morning.
‘Well, Joy said – she said the engine might have been sabotaged.’
‘Joy? Is that the coloured girl?’
I’m not sure I like the way she says that, but who knows what relationship the British and the Americans have these days. They did wait a long time to join in. If Japan hadn’t bombed America, they might never have come at all. Some people feel like we don’t need them.
I’m sure that’s all she means. I decide to focus on the game. I only have fourteen, but if I draw anything over a seven...
‘So you’re going to the midsummer party then?’
I purse my lips. Do I want another card? ‘Not sure.’
An eyebrow rises. ‘That’s the way, my dear. Don’t let him know too much. But I’d be a little careful with that one. All the other girls jump for Cecil Rafferty. And I reckon he’s grown used to it.’
Cards flee from my thoughts. ‘Cecil... midsummer party?’
‘Oakley Park, the family estate in Yorkshire. Minx figures Cornwall would be better. Though what’s so exciting about bonfires on hilltops, I couldn’t say.’
The family estate in Yorkshire? All these snobby girls will go, I’m sure – Isabella Pomeroy will surely be there. Will Nell go? I control a shiver at the thought. I can see the two of them fighting; Isabella Pomeroy, her mouth always open. To show us her perfect white teeth. And Bella thinks I’d be invited?
‘It’s your play, Megan.’
Her words bring me crashing back to earth. I don’t have time to be da
ydreaming and playing cards with famous ballerinas who can’t be bothered to remember my name. She presses down my next card – a seven – and I receive another raised eyebrow. I win.
‘I’m sorry, Bella. I have a flying exam tomorrow. I have to go.’
9
Thursday, 15 April 1943
I am in the cockpit but my mind is somewhere else. In Maida Vale, in the Tower, in some long-forgotten daydream. Timothy Squire. Flo must think he is so fascinating. He’s probably telling her some great story of his sapper training. Some great lie. She calls him Timothy.
Again I picture Flo’s face when I saw her last. Smooth and composed – so sure of herself. It’s easy to be sure when you have no idea what you’re talking about. No, I must focus. I can do this. It’s only a Moth.
‘You alive back there, Cooper?’
Last time I looked up, Gower was strapping herself into the front cockpit. How long have I been staring off into space? I adjust my goggles, reach out and switch the ignition on with a hasty, ‘Yes, Commander Gower.’
This is my first flight in the rear cockpit. I peer over her helmet, down the long runway. I am the pilot. I feel for the harness – it is buckled. My parachute feels heavy but at least I am sure it is there.
The flight engineer removes the wheel chocks and spins the propeller into life. Miraculously, the ever-present Westin is not here; he must have caught wind of Gower’s mood. Smart man.
Squeezed in my seat, my leather helmet a size or more too tight, my mind goes dangerously blank. No, just remember the lessons. I’ve copied them out again and again. I’ve flown with Joy four times. This is a simple aircraft to handle: no breaks, no flaps, no instruments. No roof. And a simple task to perform: go up and come down. That’s all.
Will this tiny yellow aeroplane really lift off the ground?
‘Cooper?’
Taxi into position to take off. We taxi off, dragging the tail behind us. No instructions from the speaking tube. Well, I know the instructions.
I reach the take-off point. Take-off is always made into wind. Well, we’ve got plenty of that. I can feel it full in the face without seeing the windsock flailing in the gusting breeze. A queue of aircraft, two in front, one behind. I wish there wasn’t an aircraft behind, watching. Everyone is watching.
Clouds dot the sky, but it is mostly clear and blue. As if to confirm how safe it is, a green flare soars above the control tower. Red: unsafe. Green: proceed.
I have done Joy’s laborious pre-flight routine. I am ready. The flight engineer gives me a thumbs up.
Yes, I can think of the steps now. I pray I’ve remembered them correctly.
Engine speed controlled by the throttle. Yes, that is easy enough. I push open the throttle. Speed and nausea come quickly and together. It is a plywood box with wings – and it’s creaking like its flying days are over. Just one more, please.
The left wheel hits a bump. Another. I pull gently back on the throttle but hit a ridge, and again, until the plane is pitching back and forth like we’re at sea. Why can’t White Waltham have tarmac? I push forward on the throttle, full power, and I feel the tail lift off the ground, with only mild protest.
Gower says nothing but I fear her silence even more. She must doubt that I can even get this thing in the air. Can I? Can I truly take off in this plane? All I can imagine is the plane skidding off the runway and smashing into the hut. And then a taxi taking me directly from the hospital to home.
Stay straight; stay focused on what’s in front of you.
A Tiger Moth leaves the ground at 50 mph. We must be close.
Gaining speed, I open the throttle. Wheels push off and the ground lurches away. This flimsy little plane, holding its place in the sky. The world unfolds itself beneath us.
I shift my left hand to the stick and take my first breath in what seems like hours. Stick controls the wings; pedals at my feet control the rudder. I know how to do this.
I start the climbing turn. Moving upwards into the now familiar sky I circle, gaining height. And then I hear them – Sibelius’s bloody trumpets. I am flying.
A fairly strong cross-wind from the left pushes up my tail. Blocking out the swiftly returning fear, I focus on the small movements until it becomes an almost mechanical process.
My first turn is decent – decent enough to avoid reprimand anyway. Hold the plane steady, level and straight. The sun is behind me and the day is bright. The clouds to my port side keep gathering, but I am well clear. For now.
I hope.
Suddenly I hear Mum’s stern warning. Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper.
One 180-degree turn to bring us parallel. Always land into wind. Engine throttle back, glide towards the ground. A wide descending turn as the airfield hardens into shape beneath us.
I line up the runway, directly into the wind. At 1,000 feet, you don’t have a real sense of speed. At 100 feet, you notice the slight blurring of the landscape around you, like speeding on the Underground when it pops up for air. At 50 feet, you feel the surge of wind, even in a Moth.
‘Speed of approach,’ comes a voice.
What does that mean? I am too slow? Or too fast?
The answer is clear as we descend steeply. Just before we reach the runway, at around 30 feet, the angle of the ground seems to shift. It is sudden, and disorientating. But I’ve had enough landings with Joy and know what to expect. I ignore the strange upside-down feeling, and focus. I’m supposed to approach at 60 mph and lose speed by throttling back, gliding in until the moment ‘you can see the blades of grass’, as Joy says, and then put the stick back gently and shut off the throttle.
We are going fast, though, faster than Joy would ever try to land. Gower can take over the controls at any time. Will she? Already I am over the middle of the runway. Then I feel the two wheels touch – a slight hop – and we are speeding across the field. No brakes to slow down, and we are swiftly taxiing back to the flight line.
Silence from the front cock pit.
‘Not terrible,’ Gower says finally. ‘Well, the landing was clumsy – the definition of clumsy – but your turns were good and the take-off was satisfactory.’
‘Thank you, Commander Gower.’
I did it. I have never been happier to be on solid ground.
As Gower gets out I hang my head, trying to catch my breath. I made it. Taking this sweaty helmet off will be bliss.
‘Cooper.’ Gower knocks the side of the plane with her hand. ‘One on your own, a little cleaner, and then come and pick me up.’
*
I expected to feel lonely – up here, by myself. Lonely and terrified. But I don’t at all. In fact, the feeling is quite glorious, being up here, encased in blue; glorious, even in my sweaty helmet.
A little cleaner, she said. I can do that, throttling smoothly to cruising speed. So long as I avoid these clouds. I force myself to focus, to be vigilant.
The constant threat of clouds, forming from nothing to throw up a wall or gathering with incredible speed to push you down the sky, is an altogether new fear. I remember thinking of bright cumulus clouds as friendly, almost happy – here they are mindless, restless obstacles, as terrible as cement walls. Especially if I lose sight of the base.
And I can get properly lost even without any clouds. The sky is impossibly huge, and my plane is so small. I could follow the wrong landmark and end up somewhere over the sea, and never find my way back to solid ground.
I must relax or I will give myself a heart attack. Close the throttle, trim for the glide. Keep the airfield just beneath the nose. The feeling grabs me, clenches my stomach. But I am not afraid. I refuse to be afraid.
I am smiling as I swoop down to pick up Commander Gower again.
Monday, 19 April 1943
Major Jack Roland’s office is large and largely empty, with the man himself seated at a wide wooden desk scattered with papers. He looks even older, his hair thinning to the back, his moustache long and streaked with grey. But his dark eyes are
alert. He recognizes me.
‘And what can I do for you,’ his eyes skip down to the paper, ‘Timothy Edward Squire?’
Well, he almost recognizes me.
He’s offered me a second chance once already. Must be something he likes in me; or he’s that desperate. Either way...
‘I attended sapper training in Aberdeen, sir. You tasked us with demolishing a bridge using a time-delay bomb – two hundred and twenty-five grams of TNT, it was, sir. Lethal to anyone within a twenty-five-mile radius, with the possibility of injury within a hundred and fifty miles.’
He watches me, silent, his fingers tented. I am rambling.
‘We were using Type 70 clockwork fuses. But it was a horrid rainy day, sir, and a Type 67 is a much quicker fuse, so I – it was bucketing down, sir – I switched them out, sir. It failed. The bomb didn’t blow.’
Major squints his eyes at me. ‘And?’
‘Well, sir... I could do it again.’
He pauses, glancing back down at his sheet in confusion. ‘You want to join bomb disposal? You have come to the wrong place, I fear.’
Right. He has no idea who I am. Just get to the point already.
‘Clockwork fuses are tricky, sir. I know how to remove them, quick and safe. If there were bridges wired to blow, I could stop them.’
Major Roland looks at me, serious, eyes narrowed through his spectacles. ‘What is it that you’re talking about, lad?’
‘I helped build the Phoenix units, sir, down at the docks. I know what’s coming.’ No sense in walking it back now. ‘We’ll have to seize the bridges intact. No doubt they’ll be wired for demolition, and those bombs will be set with clockwork fuses. They’ll be set to explode the moment the first shot is fired. So what you’ll need is a sapper who can stop the bombs going off.’
A huge, guffawing laugh, like the bursting of a paper drum. I freeze, uncertain if my gamble has paid off. I’ve got nothing to lose. Quarter has seen to that.
Major takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. ‘Well, now. You seem a bold enough lad. I might just have a spot in my camp that needs filling.’
What the Raven Brings Page 17
