I nod, unsure how to continue. What can I possibly say? That I saw Oakes talking to a strange man through the portcullis? That is the truth. That he could be planning to kill the prime minister? What would Uncle – what would anyone – say to that?
‘Come on, you lot.’
Uncle gives his whistle and dumps the bowl into the cage. In horror I realize my stomach is growling – I am hungry, but not for bloodsoaked biscuits. The chance of having Welsh rarebit for dinner, however, is slim.
Uncle gestures to the birds with a smile. ‘You know where the word “ravenous” comes from?’
I watch them tear and jab for as long as I can.
This week could not get any worse. The girls still whisper, giggle. At least I had the satisfaction of enjoying a leisurely few minutes eating the biscuit under Leslie’s watchful gaze. Timothy Squire – who couldn’t stop talking on Monday afternoon – didn’t say a word yesterday. Not once has his giant head turned round in its seat. He promised to take me out of here.
Why did I tell Timothy Squire that I would protect the ravens?
If the Tower ravens leave, Britain will fall.
Grip arrives – a black flicker, and he is there – to collect his meal, as Uncle Henry predicted. I think I notice a smile of relief, though. Surely Uncle fears Grip will go in search of Mabel. She is an example for us all.
‘Uncle. Don’t the ravens... want to be with the other ravens? The free ones?’
He gives me a look. ‘When did you last see a raven, Anna?’
I shrug. ‘All the time. On rubbish day.’
He laughs, filling up MacDonald’s bowl. ‘Those are crows, my dear. It’s a hundred years or more since a wild raven has been seen in London.’
Really? I thought these ones were just bigger – well fed and flightless, but the same bird.
‘What happened to the wild ones?’
‘Shot, mostly.’ He is frowning, and after a moment I frown too. ‘Ravens have always been held in suspicion. The dark arts, and that sort of thing. On battlefields, they flocked to the dead soldiers. As you may have heard me say already, they are extremely sophisticated birds. They soon discovered that when groups of men in armour meet in a field, it means dinner is coming.
‘So they would follow the armies and simply wait around. We misunderstood, and thought the ravens were an ill omen. We assumed they brought the death and destruction.’
When Uncle talks of battlefields and slaughter, I think of Leslie and her giggling friends. But some part of me shivers at the echo of Oakes’s words. Their big dinner is coming.
‘So how do the ravens protect us?’
Uncle gives a patient smile. I am reminded again how different he is from Mum. It’s not just his voice. Mum always had a quick temper, and she could be horribly brisk when she was doing something else, something important. Uncle is kind, his green eyes soft, apologetic. And once I saw him after breakfast reading Agatha Christie, which Mum would never have done.
He thinks I will stay here, with him and the birds. A sudden swell of pity rises up, but Uncle doesn’t notice me.
‘Since Charles II, the ravens have been here, serving as sentinels. They were kept there, on the top of the White Tower, and whenever they spotted something that didn’t seem quite right, they would croak warnings.’
Aren’t they warning us now?
‘It’s true, Anna. They warned of the Dutch attack, and when Colonel Blood tried to steal the Crown jewels. And who do you think it was that alerted the Warders to Guy Fawkes and his gang?’
‘So the ravens guard the Crown jewels?’
‘My dear Anna, the ravens are the Crown jewels.’
Saturday, 12 October 1940
If it was guns that kept the ravens out of London, they won’t be coming back now. If the war continues, Raven Mabel is gone for good.
I have fed the birds and have hours I could spend on the wet bench before my lunch. I used to love the outdoors. At home, usually at night, I would open the back door and take huge lungfuls of air, as if being inside was the same as being underwater. Nothing felt better, even when it was cold out. But this is too cold.
I should go the library. The room is dry and almost warm.
Mum would have loved it there. She was always reading. Not the papers – where her own writing went – but big, heavy books, books with boring old covers, without pictures or drawings or any colour at all. She was always arranging and rearranging them in the bookcase, and anyway they were too heavy to carry anywhere. Sometimes, too, there were old Tatler magazines and she would sit flipping the thin pages, making sounds under her breath. Except in the last days, when she sat knitting and listening for the silent radio to crackle to life with news.
The moment I rise from the bench, imagining a dry roof, Timothy Squire appears on the Green. He is walking right towards me. There is nowhere for me to go. I sit back down.
He just saw you get up.
Committed, I lean back and gaze around coolly. The sky above is dull with its usual clouds and fog. This, on the other hand, is unusual. All week he has said nothing to me, even when I approached him after class. It is because of the time Miss Breedon yelled at us, I’m sure. I suppose Timothy Squire thinks Miss Breedon is scarier than bombs.
I sit as still as I can. Sometimes – like the time on Speech Day with Flo – I laugh without meaning to and carry on making strange noises. And I can feel it beginning now.
As his footsteps reach me, I look up and see him.
‘I want to show you something,’ Timothy Squire says, standing right before the bench.
‘OK.’ My voice is a little breathless, but he is already marching away.
Now? Are we leaving now? I have not said goodbye to Uncle. I have not warned him about Oakes.
Smells of roasting potatoes waft towards us, making it hard to focus. Surely we can eat before we go? It is clear we are going deeper into the Tower. If he is taking me to Salt Tower...
Timothy Squire is leading me inside the barracks. Up a broad flight of stairs I follow him to a flat. It is large – there even seems to be an upstairs. Is this his home?
I stare around, entranced. It is warm, swept – like a proper house. Made of stone, of course, though the air doesn’t seem so heavy and stale. A light switch sticks out from a circle of cut paper. Two glaring eyes above, a stub of a moustache below. Written around it are the words: Save fuel. Snap Off Hitler’s nose.
A voice calls from the back.
Timothy Squire is waiting in a small room with oak panelling on the walls. First I notice all the books – though not quite books. Thick and sturdy, they are nevertheless comics: Adventure, Wizard, Hotspur, Rover. Is this what he wants to show me – a comic book? Mum didn’t let me have comic books after my eighth birthday.
‘Here,’ he says, and begins rummaging around in a thin closet.
In the silence I glance back at the door. His parents. Will they be upset to see me here, unannounced? I should have told Uncle I was coming here.
With a happy sigh, Timothy Squire picks up something. He turns, all smiles. It has a beautiful silver polish, with a little fin on the end.
‘Bloody hell.’ I take a step back. ‘Timothy Squire... That’s a—’
‘Incendiary. Like you wanted to see.’
A clock ticks on a high shelf.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Moment I found it, I unscrewed the cap. It’s a dud. Polishes up nice, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, but – what I meant was – could you show me bombs and things outside of the Tower?’
He tucks the smooth shell away again under a mound of jumpers. I see, for a moment, other glittering objects. What else does he have in there? Shrapnel? Landmines?
‘’Course,’ he says to my continued silence. ‘What do you want to see?’
‘The docks,’ I blurt out. ‘And the incendiaries around there. Can we go tonight?’
Timothy Squire shrugs, then shakes his great head. ‘No. Not tonight. Tomorrow
– tomorrow morning after Chapel.’
I frown. That’s when Churchill comes. What if Oakes tries to kill him? What can I do? Uncle doesn’t believe me – he won’t have a bad word said against his great friend Oakes.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ I agree.
I can’t worry about Oakes or Churchill, about the ravens or the kingdom. Tomorrow morning I will be on a ship, headed to my new home in Montreal with Flo.
Tomorrow I will be free at last.
Cold leaks up from the stone.
When is sleep more important than safety? I am now curled atop three blankets on the shelter floor, gas mask in my hands. Around me various parents and children are scattered across similar blankets. Uncle is here, on his usual bench, and Oakes and Yeoman Brodie in chairs. Oakes looks tired – old and tired and hardly like a spy. He is a Warder, and a firewatcher at St Paul’s.
Warders are everywhere, at every gate. Churchill will be safe. They will all be safe. If there is a spy, he will be caught.
A woman I don’t recognize, with a child in her arms, sits on the single bunk. Above them is a sign, written out in big letters.
ONCE A PERSON HAS GONE INTO A RECOGNIZED SHELTER THEY MUST REMAIN IN THAT SHELTER UNTIL THE ALL CLEAR SOUNDS. IN EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES THE MALE OF THE HOUSEHOLD MAY BE PERMITTED TO LEAVE THE SHELTER WITH THE APPROVAL OF THE WARDEN.
Usually the kids play ‘Air Raid’, which involves running up and down, shrieking, and knocking things over. Tonight, though, everyone is quiet, even the young child.
At home we had a Blitz drill. I would run and close the shutters and bolt the doors. Mum would hurry to fill the bath and the sinks with water. We assembled in the sitting room, opposite the fireplace. Even before the war Mum always drew the front drapes. We would run up for the mattress, and drag it bouncing down the stairs.
If bombing was close, we had to squeeze under the table. Any closer, and we gathered all the blankets and took the wet garden path out to the cold Anderson shelter.
Uncle has risen from his chair, and he kneels down close to me. Did I say something, cry out?
‘It’ll be over soon, love.’
He is right. When I wake up it will be tomorrow. And Timothy Squire will help me get to the harbour and find a ship. And then everything will change. I will be headed far away from here. Montreal. Quiet nights, happy dreams, proper food. No ravens, no legends, no bombs.
Uncle is kind. I will write to him from Montreal and thank him. I will write to him and explain it all.
I would have liked to have seen home again. I have not thought of home in days. The blue door, almost grey at the edges. Pints of milk outside, the newspaper folded on top. My room, a front room, with views of the street – of people and horses and motor cars. Red geraniums on the window sill. The untidy bookshelves. Lavender-scented soap.
What will it be like now? It won’t be the same as Florence’s family, who covered rooms carefully in dustsheets, and packed silverware and pottery away in newspaper. The house will be as it was, maybe with a layer or two of dust.
Will someone look after it? The police, or the firewatchers, old Mrs Morgan next door? Some day, I will find out.
One more night. I pull my knees closer. As the low, distant sound continues, I feel my eyes closing. When the sound dries up, I have fallen asleep.
I dream of red geraniums.
II
THE LION AND THE RIVER
Long dark months of trials and tribulations lie before us. Not only great danger, but many misfortunes, many shortcomings, many mistakes, many disappointments will surely be our lot. Death and sorrow will be the companions of our journey; hardship our garment; constancy and valour our only shield.
– Churchill, speech to the House of Commons, 8 October 1940
4
Sunday, 13 October 1940
Not until eight minutes to four in the morning did the All Clear sound. That wonderful, flat, steady sound. Then two hours in my bed. For once I am happy to have slept in my jumper. It is far too cold to even imagine undressing. And now it is all over.
I have made it.
I wash my face and hands in the freezing water from the bucket (not lavender scented), immediately towelling myself dry and warm. This morning I put on a little of the cold cream – nearly half gone already – before lacing up my shoes and leaving the room.
Today is the thirteenth of October. It didn’t even occur to me how perfect it all is – of course today is the day I escape. The best gift of all. I swiftly take the long twisting stairs to the Stone Kitchen. I will not miss them, or the old thick rope that burns my hands as I descend.
Uncle is up and cheerful for the dawn feeding.
‘Do you see? Equal chunks, four ounces.’
He gestures to a square of meat, about the size of his palm, and begins to chop it into smaller chunks. The cleaver thuds on the wood.
‘Now, see this?’
I glance up, nodding. He is holding an egg, slightly brown and spotted.
‘Every other day. A boiled egg. Shell on.’ His slow voice is firm. ‘These are for tomorrow.’
Tomorrow. I am almost sad to hear him say it. He will have to feed the birds alone tomorrow. He will have to find someone else to listen to his stories. He will miss me.
I am wary of the next preparation, though, which also occurs every other day – the bloodsoaked biscuits. First they look like the dry Melba toast that Mum always had at tea, but then they are pulped into red oblivion with a potato masher.
What a thing to be doing on this morning. It suddenly dawns on me that Uncle might know that it is my birthday – maybe Mum once told him, and he remembered. I am not hopeful. It is not important, not now. Proof that I will not be missed.
I watch as carefully as I can. As ever, his movements are deliberate, considered. Uncle manages not to get any mess on his suit and tie.
‘I know it is hard, when there is so little to eat, not to resent the ravens. But you should see their usual diet. A rabbit every month – with the fur, of course, the fur is good for them. And plenty of table scraps.’
The idea of table scraps makes my stomach rumble. Their meal prepared, Uncle pulls on his black leather gloves. While he always wears gloves, today he has something else in his hands, something different.
‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself.
He laughs, not trying to hide the large gleaming scissors.
‘Don’t worry, my dear. Every three months we do this.’
We climb into the weak light and up the stone steps to the Tower Green. Other birds, small, bright birds, sing as we pass. I study the trees, but Mabel is not perched in the low branches. She has not returned to say goodbye.
No one else is up and about. At this hour, the Tower is only open to the gate guards and the milkman. There is no sign of Oakes or the strange man.
‘Here,’ Uncle says as we arrive, opening the cage of Raven Edgar. ‘Watch.’
I take quick breaths, the air still heavy with soot from last night’s raid.
Uncle picks up the raven – not without some difficulty, Edgar is a bad-tempered bird at the best of times – and he flutters like a chicken and swoops round the cage until Uncle is forced to grip him by the beak.
Maybe Edgar knows what is coming. His eyes are sharp and wide open. Ravens look at you, recognize you, in a way that cats and dogs never could. The eyes are not black, I realize. They have dark brown irises. Human eyes.
I am not too squeamish to watch Uncle cut some feathers. The birds are happy here. Special. Uncle holds the black bird in his right hand – Mum was left-handed too – and calmly snips at the end of the wing. Small black tufts float to the grass. The raven bites at his gloves, but with no real force. Uncle grins.
‘Just like a haircut.’
I smile back, absently pulling my copper ponytail. Edgar marches away, his dignity seemingly intact.
I close the cage door and again hoist the bucket. We move on down the roost.
It is hard to loo
k at Raven Grip now. It always reminds me of Mabel – which is mad because they all look exactly the same. Little black goblin creatures, teetering back and forth. I remember Uncle’s other words, spoken days ago now. ‘Ravens mate for life. Paired ravens mimic each other.’ Will Grip disappear too, go off in search of Mabel?
I will him to do so. Go, be free.
‘Not too much trouble, was that dear?’
‘Not at all, Uncle.’
Now I am grinning. Feeding is over and it is time for Chapel. I am done with the birds. And I am meeting Timothy Squire.
The Chaplain, standing proudly in front of the grey Chapel, beams at the Tower residents. Even the NAAFI girls from the canteen are here. Clouds hang heavy and the air is white with mist. Sunday weather. But this is not a regular Sunday.
A bugle sounds and the Warders’ parade marches into view. Today the uniforms are red and gold, with white ruffs at their necks and short black hats – like travelling into Mr Fenwick’s history textbook. Medals and ribbons are worn across the chest, and they all seem to carry large spears over their shoulders. Sir Claud Jacob himself, the Constable of the Tower, is here. We watch the Warders turn and march, and then follow them inside the Chapel.
I sit in my usual wooden pew, listening to the whispering and shuffling. My stomach growls after the measly cereal and no egg (not even a brown and spotted one). Many other uniforms are here too – the Scots Guard, the Grenadiers, the Women’s Royal Airforce in their blue wool. Everyone has come: Miss Breedon, in a flowery dress; Sparks, sitting quietly by himself near the pillar; Yeoman Brodie, his funny red uniform pressing against his wide chest. Even Leslie, with a tall, horsey-looking mum.
Timothy Squire, though, I do not see.
A boy that I think for a second might be him turns his face slightly – it is not. Timothy Squire’s father, I have discovered from cautious questioning of Uncle, is the curator at the Armouries Museum – a rather boring man who I once helped pack boxes. I do not see him either.
These Dark Wings Page 5
