What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  Bloody hell.

  What was my compass reading before the blackout? I can’t remember. I have been in the clouds too long. Don’t look outside. Look down, look at the instruments. It’s only me and the control panel. Stop looking outside.

  That’s where the 109s are.

  It doesn’t matter; if they’re still prowling around, I’m as good as toast. Nothing I can do about them now. But I can figure out the control panel. The instrument gauges and levels stare back at me. Oh, Joy, why didn’t I listen to you? The plane is just above the horizon bar. I know what this means. I need to turn: 180-degree turn, straighten out, and land. I’ve done it a dozen times.

  Never blind.

  I tighten the harness, close the throttle. Too late. I am heading in way too fast to land. Whatever is behind these clouds, I will never be able to dodge in time.

  It is too tight, too close, I can see nothing. And the bloody weapons – I will be blown sky high. There is only one choice. Gower prepared me for this; she forced it on me once before.

  But that was a test. She was holding the throttle closed. If I got it wrong, I failed. If I get it wrong now...

  Without another thought, I cut the engine. Silence as the blades click and freeze, and I am floating, sinking, into the mist. The altitude says it is diving. Too far to land safely. I drop the wheels, feel the extra drag. Keep your nose up.

  A flash of green. Just a flash, that is all, and I yank the stick. I am turning, gliding away, from a certain death on a hillside. The hill appeared like a fist from the clouds. I am barely free.

  But I saw it, in that brief second – a white parachute.

  My wheels crunch on the earth. I have landed without flaps – heavy, far too heavy. I squeeze the brake on second touchdown, but hold the brakes an instant too long, and the undercarriage shatters. The aircraft tips over. I feel the wingtip dig, and then hear it snap.

  My head bashes the control panel. Without time to turn, my mask takes the impact. And even without the gush of blood, I know the dull crack is my teeth. My head spins and spins, and I feel the warm salty taste of blood, the deep thudding pain in my jaw. I rip off the broken mask, pull off my helmet.

  Joy.

  My arms work, and my hands, and I switch off the ignition, release the buckle and shoulder the cockpit open. I can’t see her.

  But I can see something else, all around me. My Spit is on fire.

  *

  My mind has gone empty. Nothing but fire behind me, and Joy somewhere ahead. My feet run, stumbling on the rocky, uneven ground, the shock to the lungs of the cold, wet air; my eyes blink, blink, but Joy is not there. I am trying to run but my leg has been hurt in the landing. I hobble, unable to bend my right knee, drawing breath in sharp, painful gasps. My legs push me forward, feet hot, face cold, my chest aching, I blink and blink.

  Joy.

  It is her.

  Having willed Joy to appear, my mind suddenly screams for the opposite. ‘Joy! Run!’

  The words are muffled through broken teeth. In my mind, I hear Westin, calmly walking me through some mechanics.

  From room temperature to 3,000 degrees Celsius in under ten seconds.

  I try to gather speed, to round my knee, forcing myself to move. I run, a strange clumsy motion, throwing my leg forward, willing my body to follow. Joy is there, just beyond, the white chute spilling behind her, staring at me with huge wide eyes.

  You have four seconds to get out...

  I am flying through the air, pushed by the explosion behind me. The world becomes searing white light.

  Friday, 6 August 1943

  A view of the steep blue sky from the window; stone walls, storing in the cold; a comfortable bed, with crisp white sheets; the air heavy with the smell of iodine. Every morning I wake up in this room, I think it must be a dream, a twisted memory. Almost two years ago, I lay in this same bed. But it is not a dream. I am in the hospital room, one I recognize all too well.

  That time, Uncle came in to tell me it had been Oakes who had dragged me from the fire. And even after that I thought he was a spy. That time, I saved Malcolm’s life.

  This time, I didn’t save anyone. All I did was destroy a Spitfire and help light a beacon for the ATA to come and collect us. All I did was lose a warplane we needed for the invasion. I groan, trying to rise.

  ‘I always worried...’ says a voice, slow and soft. Timothy Squire is perched on the stone window ledge, wearing his sapper’s uniform. He is smoking a cigarette, careful to blow the smoke away from me. ‘I always worried that my luck had run out. That I’d spent my ration of it. But you – you have more luck than anyone, Magpie.’

  I smile, my lips still split and sore. But I am glad my face is no longer bruised and swollen. It has been a long five days. As I come up to a seated position, my lower back shoots with pain. This time, I hold back the groan.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home safe, too, Timothy Squire.’ I reach a hand to my mouth, gently prodding the strange new teeth. Those three hours at the dentist were nearly as bad as the six Joy and I waited to be picked up. Nearly.

  ‘Back to your old self now, though. Teeth and all.’

  He is laughing and so am I. Last time, I lost all my hair. He didn’t see me then.

  ‘Will your friend be all right?’ he asks.

  ‘Joy was hurt badly when she landed with her chute. Her back... she’ll be in the hospital for a while. Much longer than I will.’

  ‘You’ll be fine in no time, Magpie.’

  ‘How are the ravens?’

  ‘Yugo is fully grown,’ he says. ‘So we’ve taken the nest down. He’s going to be a fighter. Can’t seem to get Oliver on to any other words. Tried a few things that might bother Stackhouse, but they haven’t caught on. Yet.’

  He has changed, become harder – a real soldier. But not everything has changed. His grin still has more fox than wolf in it.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Timothy Squire.’

  ‘I’ve been here as much as I could.’

  I remember, through the haze, him coming and going, making a great fuss over me. Even now, he looks at me with open kindness. He would make a great nurse, if he weren’t so obsessed with blowing things up. And we need people willing to blow things up; we must fight in order to win the war.

  I try to think, questions tumbling over each other in my head. I don’t even want to ask but I hear myself saying the words. ‘Did Flo come to see me?’

  ‘Everyone came to see you, Anna.’ He is missing his grin. The silence is heavy after the laughter. Suddenly he looks slightly ridiculous perched in the window, a cigarette burning in his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my voice high. ‘But what I asked was, did Flo come? Did you talk to her?’

  ‘She was here, yeah. She was really worried about you.’

  ‘Are you in love with her?’

  He slides free of the window, his face slack, pale. ‘In love with... her?’

  Intently, he crushes out the cigarette in the ashtray, then looks down at his feet. Anywhere but at me. ‘I met a friend of yours over at the base in Dorset. Captain Cecil Rafferty. You know him?’

  My mind goes blank with shock.

  ‘He’s a pilot.’ I watch him, horrified by what he might say next. Cecil is in Dorset, too? What is going on?

  ‘Didn’t seem too keen to meet me, I have to say. Next time I see the toff, he’s likely to go for my throat. Not that I’m afraid of a blighter like him.’

  ‘Timothy Squire—’

  ‘Anna, I don’t care if you love him. It doesn’t change anything.’

  I can’t seem to find my breath. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You must’ve taken a right hit to the head,’ he mutters. Then he sticks out his chest and raises his head to meet my eyes. ‘Anna, I’m in love with you, OK? And Flo can’t change that, and neither can Cecil Sodding Rafferty.’

  14

  Friday, 1 October 1943

  ‘It makes no sense,’ I say.

  We are walk
ing, one step at a time, across Tower Green.

  ‘What doesn’t?’ Timothy Squire asks, carefully avoiding my eyes. He has taken my arm to help me walk, and I can feel his nervousness. These past two months he has come and gone, but he is always so nervous.

  ‘Love. I thought maybe I couldn’t... love... someone who could go off and get killed. But you’re the most reckless person I’ve ever met, Timothy Squire.’

  His eyes swim up to mine, and the tension in him vanishes. His eyes are sky-blue, without a cloud. ‘I’m coming back, Anna. To see you. I promise.’

  I shake my head. He didn’t give me the details, but he told me enough – the invasion is starting, and he’s going with it. ‘No. You can’t promise that. Just promise that you won’t do anything too reckless. And here, take this.’

  I unfasten the watch, now a little dented, and hold it towards him.

  ‘Please. It kept me safe. You need it now. And promise me to be careful.’

  He takes the watch, gently, and slips it on to his wrist. Then he kisses me, once, and once again. ‘I promise.’

  The loud croak of a raven. Of course.

  As I look up, my face hot, I see a figure by the roost. Not Oakes.

  ‘Is that...?’

  Together, grinning like fools, Timothy Squire and I walk over to the roost. Yeoman Stackhouse raises a hand in greeting; his other hand holds the tin bucket. All around him the ravens flap and play.

  ‘Pretty smart, these birds,’ he says, positively beaming. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard, Oliver’s picked up a new word. Oliver, can you say your new word for the young lad and lass here? Go on, have a crack at it.’

  Oliver speaks and Stackhouse’s grin threatens to split his face. ‘Hear that? That’s my name. Lad’s taken a shine to me, seems like.’

  He is far too proud and happy for me to laugh, but it takes all of my will. It wasn’t quite his name, and I’m more than certain that Timothy Squire has been the one doing the training.

  ‘Sickhouse!’ calls Oliver and again Stackhouse beams.

  ‘Good lad, Oliver. Now it’s time for bed, mate. On you go.’

  I raise my eyebrows at Timothy Squire, who winks back at me. Seems like he’s a good teacher.

  It would be a hard heart that isn’t won over by these amazing birds, and I smile to watch Stackhouse gather them all for bed.

  ‘See, Magpie? It’s all in good hands. Before you know it, I’ll be back again. And if you’ve still got those future plans for us, I’d be well up for hearing them.’

  *

  It is so strange. Just two months ago I was hunched among rocks with Joy, surrounded by our burning planes. Now I am home again, walking across Tower Green, watching the ravens play. The last letter I received from Joy said she was at the Royal Canadian Hospital at Taplow, being treated for a broken back. She cannot walk for at least another month, and the doctor won’t say when she can fly again. But she will. Of course she will.

  And what will Gower have to say? What will she say to me, after I promised to return with the Spit, even if Joy was in trouble? I will find out soon enough.

  Timothy Squire has returned to his unit. At least we have both said the words – I love you – and now, I expect, he’ll find the time to write some letters. I will miss him. Most of the time we simply walked to the roost, looping around the Green, extending the journey, our own private ritual. ‘Let’s take the old way,’ one of us would say. Now I spend my time doing the same walk, remembering our goodbye, and occasionally waving at the smiling figure of Yeoman Stackhouse.

  It does not take long to stroll around the Green, which is scarcely bigger than Flo’s garden, so I cross it again and again. But even Yeoman Brodie, who rails about how the grass shouldn’t be ‘trod upon’, turns a blind eye to my habit. I am in no mood for the stone corridors and twisting passages of the Inner Ward. Here at least there is air, a great open space of wind and emptiness.

  I am still weak, my back sore, my legs threatening to buckle. My jaw feels... different since the crash. And the weather has cooled; I should have worn a jumper. But I will enjoy my time here, my time at home because, soon, I must return to my duties.

  I realize, staring up at the grey sky above, that I never flew over the city, over the Tower. Once I feared to, with all the congestion and balloons everywhere, but now I wish I had; I wish I’d been able to see it from up there.

  As usual, it is cold, the Tower sunk in mist, the air filled with directionless croaking. Home. It’s been three long days of rain. Patches of the Green shift to mud; water rattles the gutters and cascades down the drains cut into the cobblestones. The ravens, indifferent, perch and cache, hiding food for later, hiding trinkets from one another. The rain pours down, swelling the Thames, washing the Tower clean.

  Taking a quick break, I lean against the back wall of Bloody Tower. I cast a glance over at Traitors’ Gate, now filled with the tide water. The portcullis gleams. There is no one there. Father has not returned.

  No one can sneak in, and no one can sneak out. You did, comes an inner voice, but I ignore it, turning back to the Green and the calling ravens.

  The new chick, Yugo, has definitely bonded with Timothy Squire, putting up a right fuss when anyone else tries to get him back in his cage. By the speed of his growth, I would guess Yugo is still getting more than his share of meals, too. He is fully grown. He has that look, that he knows you; he gets that from his mother.

  The other ravens hop along, beaks hanging open despite the cool day. Oliver, preening and dancing, his croak occasionally taking on the sound Anna or Sickhouse; Stan, biting at anything and everything; Portia, dignified and silent; Cronk, living up to his name. Rogan is calmly settled on the rail, his dominance not in question. Lyra and Corax are both wise to the snack they know I’m carrying; Corax marching around my feet, Lyra being patient and wanting me to know it. I see you, Lyra.

  The ravens and I have established our routine, which Stackhouse largely stays out of. After dusk feeding, a large bowl of water is brought for the birds to bathe in (though Stan inevitably tips it over – not an accident, I am certain), and I usually make two or three water trips before all seven are bathed. Then they preen and dry their feathers on various perches, before agreeing to retire for the night. I am certain that spending time with the ravens improves my health more than any of the doctor’s orders.

  Yeoman Oakes comes to visit me just as I sit down on my bench. He smells only of coffee today.

  ‘We have to stick together, remember?’ He smiles. ‘No more dogfights for you, Anna Cooper.’

  ‘It was hardly a dogfight, Mr Oakes.’ I still can’t bring myself to call him Gregory, no matter what he says.

  He has helped me to recover, too, yesterday taking me to see Hew Draper’s carving in Salt Tower. I recalled, as we crossed the battlements to the old tower, my first time going there – how terrified I was of Oakes, of this place and its strange carvings in walls and whispers of sorcerers and ghosts. Yesterday, I only smiled. Especially to see Oakes, excitedly telling me all about the history of Hew Draper’s imprisonment, and how he’s going to include it all in his book.

  It is the furthest I have seen him venture from the Bloody Tower since Uncle died.

  ‘As I’m feeling better, Yeoman Oakes, perhaps tomorrow we could go and visit St Paul’s? I haven’t been there since you took Timothy Squire and me during the Blitz.’

  He smiles a slow smile. ‘Yes, that would be nice. I’m overdue to see some of the volunteers down there. Thank you, Anna. Yes, I’d very much like to go.’

  The barracks clock rings and I leave Oakes thinking about our outing, keeping as quick a pace as I can towards the north-east of the Tower.

  Oakes is not my only visitor today, and I am running late.

  *

  ‘You found it.’

  Flo is looking around, eyes wide. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘The raven graveyard. No one else knows about it.’

  I come and sit beside her on the
stone ledge. We are quiet, staring at the two lines of wooden crosses planted in the row of dirt.

  ‘Are they actually...?’

  I shake my head. ‘Uncle just wanted to mark them. To remember.’

  ‘And no one else comes here?’

  ‘Only me.’

  Flo breaks into a grin. ‘It’s like the old tool shed.’

  I laugh, loudly, at the thought of us sneaking into Mrs Morgan’s tool shed and trying to imagine what the old junk in there could possibly be. ‘If Mrs Morgan had ever caught us in there, we’d still be running.’

  Flo laughs, too.

  Memories of home flood my thoughts. Home in Warwick Avenue. Me, waiting, impatient, in the sitting room. The dark night at the window.

  I stare at the door, the brown wooden door closed tight; from inside comes the jarring stop and go of someone practising the violin. I finally go to the door, knock gently. The music stops.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ Mum’s voice is tired.

  I push the door open and step into the study with its pens and pencils, make-up cases, and yellow wrappers from those hard candies. The violin is back in its case.

  ‘What is it, Anna?’

  ‘You forgot to say goodnight.’

  Flo shifts at my side, bringing me back into the present.

  ‘When will the Tower open to the public again?’

  ‘Not until the war is over.’

  Oakes said there would be tourists queuing in the streets then, in their hundreds, all waiting to pour down the lanes and battlements and squawk in front of the roost. What will these visitors make of the ravens? Likely they’ll be terrified. I was, when I first came here.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ Flo says. ‘Not about what I think, what I believe – but I shouldn’t have lost my temper. We both just want the war to end, and for everyone to come back home again.’

  I can’t believe the war will ever end.