I’m not bothered. At breakfast, I raced through the washing up. Yeoman Cecil’s eyes were wide – he may not have completely finished his cereal – but everything was dumped with a heavy splash into the sink. Moments later I was dashing down the stairwell. He will come.
Organ music begins, slow and heavy. I pick up the books – New English Hymnal, Book of Common Prayer – and put them down again. Light floods in from the large windows all around. Still, it is cold. But I shiver with excitement. The service, Sung Matins, is brief. Although the choir is small – two boys, three men, and six girls – their voices are sweet. I am so happy I even smile at horrible Leslie and her horsey mum.
Instead of the Chaplain giving his sermon, a Warder stands and reads from a paper in a stilted voice.
‘Now that winter is approaching and the blackout is daily becoming earlier, it is essential to look carefully and improve the blackout. There are many windows and doorways still showing light...’
He drones on. The first thing I will do once I arrive at my new home in Montreal is tear any bloody curtains from the windows.
We sing a nice hymn, and it is a frenzy of giggling voices before the crowd reappears outside the Parade Grounds. I recognize some of the Wives – and, with a shock of distaste, Headmaster Brownbill. Raven Cora, a thin branch in her beak, marches past in her most military bearing, and carries it off rather well. No sign yet of Timothy Squire. Again, I think I see him except it is an older boy, who looks quickly away.
Then, through the autumn fog, a black car arrives and slows to a halt in front of the barracks. Timothy Squire is not here.
But Mr Churchill is.
A man, massive in black, leaning on a stick, beams up at us: a heavy, puckered face above a bow tie. He is old – maybe as old as Gran when she died. While people call him ‘the British lion’, he looks to me like a great black rooster. Or am I spending too much time around birds? His voice we all know from the radio, lisping and growling, though I cannot make out any words at this distance.
He is not alone. A woman – his wife? – and some men in uniform, gas masks over their shoulders, walk alongside. Press photographers swarm round them. Sir Claud Jacob comes forth to meet the new arrivals. My eyes strain to see if Timothy Squire is close by. Where is he?
No announcement is made. Instead, the group breaks off, the rest of us trailing behind. Where are they going? The White Tower, to address us from the heights of the castle?
It seems they are first giving Mr Churchill a tour of the grounds. I follow, near the back of the large group. Uncle walks nearby, with Oakes as usual by his side. Oakes’s face is tight, strange.
We are not taking the usual route. First, the prime minister is lead east to the Officers’ Mess, and then to the North Bastion. Sir Claud is pointing out the damage. Workers stand idly by, watching the procession. All hammering is to been stopped for the duration of Mr Churchill’s visit, as he can’t stand the noise.
The Constable includes nothing from the regular tour (Uncle has given it to me enough times that I could do it myself), talking instead about the structure itself. Standing outside Traitors’ Gate, the prime minister is told how the wall dates from the 1200s, and has thirteen defensive towers and a fifty-foot curtain wall.
Oakes met with a strange man right here. A sudden fear floods me, and I squint through the portcullis. No one is there. And water fills the entrance.
Sir Claud nods towards the prime minister. ‘An extraordinary fortress.’
‘Not “extraordinary”,’ Mr Churchill says with a shake of his head. ‘All fortresses have walls. Rather, “remarkable”.’
At this all the Warders laugh, even the Constable, and the crowd moves onward. I watch Oakes. His face is deathly pale.
Instead of listing the many illustrious prisoners once held within the Guards’ Chambers, Sir Claud spends much time detailing the damage to the roof. Why are the photographers taking so many pictures of the other towers – the untouched Brick Tower and Flint Tower and the Brass Mount?
Then Mr Churchill is led into the White Tower, past the pillars and gloomy vaults, and through the Banqueting Hall where Anne Boleyn was tried and sentenced to death. None of that is spoken.
Then a question occurs to me; lost beside my need to escape, it now seems vital.
Why has Churchill come?
The tour comes to a solemn stop at the tavern, and I find myself inside. Other students are present too, a dark-haired girl about my age, and a squat boy standing before his proud father. Not the giant forehead of Timothy Squire. Voices mutter and talk. We are like sardines in a barrel.
The prime minister and his men are offered pints, and the great man takes a sip with obvious satisfaction. Somehow I am quite close. Uncle is a little further behind but Oakes, I realize, is standing right beside Churchill.
He would never try something in front of all these people. Would he? I cast my eyes around for the strange man in the tweed hat. He is not here. Churchill is pointing out something on the atlas.
Now I stare at Oakes, unable to look away. His face is unsteady, his lips moving silently. I have been wrong. He is going to do something, I am sure of it. Pressed in on all sides by the crowd, I cannot move to stop him.
‘When will the war be over, Mr Prime Minister?’
Oakes’s words crash over the other voices.
I blink in surprise. People shift and glance downward.
‘Can we have the truth for once? Your photographers seem to have missed most of the damage. When will this war be over?’
Eyes still focused on the map, Churchill answers, unsmiling. ‘When our task is done.’
‘What task, exactly?’
‘Of cleansing Europe from the Nazi pestilence and saving the world from a new Dark Age. If Hitler cannot destroy us, we will surely destroy him, and all his gang, and all their works.’
‘Will any civilians still be left, here or in Europe? We are carrying out the same bombing plan as Hitler.’
‘The only thing I have in common with Herr Hitler is a horror of whistling. You won’t be whistling for us, will you, sir?’
Mr Churchill looks away from the atlas. All at once, he appears to see me, and a way to dispense with Oakes’s conversation.
‘And what is your position here, my dear?’
My voice is scratchy. They are all listening: Leslie, always touching and patting her hair, mean Miss Breedon always calling on me, and horrible Kate, probably on the lookout for spies.
‘I... I look after the birds, sir. I’m the assistant Ravenmaster.’
He repeats ‘Ravenmaster’ vaguely, as if his mind is elsewhere. My voice goes mechanically on, filling the uncomfortable silence.
‘Since Charles II the ravens have been here. If the Tower ravens leave, the kingdom will fall.’
A sound comes from behind me – a great intake of breath from Uncle, or a mocking hiss from Leslie?
Churchill, though, is silent. For another brief moment the great face turns towards me, and whatever he sees there makes him smile. Then Churchill lifts his glass.
‘And a great thing it is you do here, dear. Good for morale, good for the country. Hitler’s eagles are no match for Britain’s ravens.’
A loud cheer echoes through the room and a camera flashblub fires off. I don’t laugh along with the others. I don’t think of the girls, giggling and saying ‘Magpie’ and ‘rubbish eater’ to each other. I don’t think anything. I find Uncle’s face and he smiles weakly.
‘What if they come here?’
The return of Oakes’s voice is a shock.
As the prime minister straightens his beaming face does not change. He gestures to the knives behind the bar.
‘You appear to be well equipped. A bare bodkin for every hand. If the Hun is to come, they will come. You can always take one with you.’
Everything is clear to me as we exit the pub. If the crowd was not so tight, I might have fallen. Oakes is right. The photographs of the undamaged towers. Uncle�
�s old stories. The desperation. It is not Churchill I should be worried about. No spy is coming to kill the prime minister.
We are losing the war. Hitler is coming to kill us all.
‘Where were you?’
Timothy Squire looks up at me. Even he can’t ignore me when I’m talking directly to him. He can play dumb, though.
‘What?’
‘This morning – at Chapel. You were supposed to meet me.’
‘Oh. I was out.’
‘“Out”?’ I say in disbelief. Forget it. Most of the afternoon has passed away. ‘Well, let’s go.’
‘What?’
‘Remember? The docks,’ I say to his confusion. I don’t even have time to relish his struggle to find words. ‘Come on. We’ll have a look around, find some shrapnel. Get outside.’
I start walking, my bag heavy at my side. I should have put on my hat and trousers. It is cold and I am hatless and barelegged. But not suspicious.
I turn back when I realize he’s not following.
‘What are you doing? Let’s go.’
He is staring at me. I thought the temptation of shrapnel could not fail. I try again.
‘Uncle wants me to get some fish for the ravens.’
‘I can’t. I mean, the market’s almost shut – Anna, it’s nearly dinner time!’
I turn and look him in the face. ‘You can’t? I thought you went out all the time. You weren’t lying, were you?’
His face turns suddenly red, but then he shrugs. ‘Of course not. I mean, do you want to go?’
I smile my best smile. ‘Yes. Let’s go.’
‘All right, all right. Don’t lose your wool.’
As we reach the West Gate the guard in the Gatehouse looks up, his eyes never leaving mine. I hand over my ID card.
‘Ah, Miss Cooper. Where are you setting off to?’
‘Setting off?’ I try to laugh. It sounds high and odd. ‘Me? Nowhere. The bag is for the fish.’
Timothy Squire must sense trouble, because he steps forward. ‘Hullo, Mr Thorne. We’re just going down to Billingsgate for Mr Reed. Get some kippers for his birds.’
‘Yes,’ I say, trying to find my voice. ‘The ravens are very sophisticated birds. My uncle – Mr Reed – has told us to be as quick as we can.’
The guard narrows his eyes. ‘I know Henry’s not feeling so well these days – and he does love those birds... but Yeoman Oakes has asked me to make sure Anna stays inside the Tower—’
‘It’s just for a minute, Mr Thorne, sir. Could grab a mackerel for yourself, if you’d like?’
And just like that we’re walking across the bridge.
I am free.
Men in black homburg hats and long coats crowd past. No young men, of course – only the old ones are left. Among them move women in berets and high heels, some with elbow-length gloves and fine furs. Glamorous, even if all their eyes are tired. Mum had said people were making do with last year’s coats.
‘Look at them all.’
I almost expect my voice to sound higher now, released from the stone walls and shadows. The air, too, seems warmer.
Everyone looks quite smart: beautiful greens and creamy whites, splashes of blue and bursts of yellow. Heads are held high, proud, hurrying to and from bus stops and Tube stations, passing florists and flag sellers, peering at the charred ruins of the night’s raid. It is exciting to be outside.
‘Let’s make tracks,’ Timothy Squire says, and I agree – Oakes may not be a spy, but he has clearly forbidden me to leave the Tower. And he is always watching. I’m not some prisoner in his book.
The haste of the city is contagious, and we move rapidly ahead. Some are not moving at all. A fireman, weary and blistered, screams at two staring women who are standing on the hose. Many of the flats have collapsed inward. A queue snakes outside a phone box. I see no blossoming fireweed.
As we walk queer feelings overtake me: that I should know what that heap of bricks is – what it was. Every morning on my way to feed the ravens I see this view from the ramparts. Yet I have no memory of the old landscape. A block of flats?
It doesn’t matter. I am free.
‘Before we go to the market – I was wondering, can we see the docks? Before it gets dark.’
He nods absently, clearly looking for some piece of exploded metal.
We shift direction, now heading east. Streets are roped off. Unexploded bombs? Men in steel Civil Defence helmets try to marshal people, to send them home; there are too many. Some stand and point at the heaps of bricks, several feet high. Others trudge past under bags and sacks, carrying their goods.
‘Why didn’t you come to see Churchill?’
Timothy Squire glances at me, shrugs.
‘Everyone was there.’
As he starts on some explanation I’m not listening. I can hear nothing above the sudden roar in my ears, as if a bomb had just landed on the opposite block, without warning or sirens, without even a plane passing over... it is only a bus. A normal bus, on its route through the city.
Mum.
The bus, full to bursting, squeezes round the fallen bricks. Tired faces are visible through the blast netting at the windows.
Mum’s last day was on a bus like that. It is strange. I always thought of her, elegant in her dress and hat, reading the early papers in her Tube seat. I can see her, folding the paper, and at Holborn Station stepping off the train and out into the day.
In my mind I see the shelter with my headmaster and the WVS woman, that endless night, the growing hollow dread that life was about to change forever.
I stop, staring, as the bus heaves past us. The bus is wrong. I don’t know why, but I know it is.
It is all wrong.
‘Magpie. Look at this.’
I turn, absently. I have been standing in a daze, as if someone has knocked me on the head. Timothy Squire is showing me something. He is back to his old self. He doesn’t notice my sadness, doesn’t notice me. Just talking, talking. And he called me Magpie!
‘It’s huge!’
‘Yes,’ I say.
I stop thinking about Mum, about what name Timothy Squire calls me, and focus on where I am. I can only let myself think of one thing: escape.
Already we have reached the docks. The wharf is a massive concrete sprawl the size of several playing fields. Black shadows of cranes are everywhere. I look wildly for a great ship, waiting for me, bound for Montreal. I have seen many, from the Tower, that were surely headed for Canada. Up close, however, it is harder to tell.
The docks lurch with people. It is not at all how I imagined it. So different from the canals of home, the bright-coloured houseboats of Little Venice.
‘They always target here,’ Timothy Squire says, his voice serious. ‘The target is the guide.’
For once, I know what he means. The docks are the gateway between Britain and the world: bringing in war materials, food, help. If you bomb the docks, the ships get destroyed and the fires help the planes orient themselves.
I have heard many stories – areas bombed so heavily that buried fires still burn. We push closer, dodging a rough hole in the cement. How deeply buried? Then Timothy Squire laughs, and his voice resumes its mischievous tone.
‘When the bombs hit in the summer, rats poured out of those buildings like waves. Thousands of them!’
I turn in horror, expecting to see a tide of rodents swelling round us. He goes on talking, about flaming barges filled with coconuts, which burned for days, nothing could put them out. In the brief second where he draws a breath, I speak.
‘What are those ships for?’
I point past a distant column of smoke, rising from behind the river. From here I can see that it climbs miles high, darker than the dark clouds.
He laughs. ‘You’ve never been down here before?’
‘I have,’ I say defensively. ‘I just don’t know a lot about the docks, or what’s where.’
‘Never could have guessed,’ he says. ‘That smell, yeah? W
hat’s that like to you?’
I inhale deeply, playing along. The air is pungent, heavy.
‘Nutmeg,’ I say. ‘Like Christmas.’
Timothy Squire nods. ‘Spice docks.’
Other smells too. Sulphur and char. He then proceeds to tell me all about the warehouses, the wharves, the nearby rail lines and power stations. Further east, the Woolwich Arsenal, the Ford Motor Works, the Beckton Gas Works. Not a word about where the passenger ships are docked.
I have been here before, even visited the Tower. I was very young, and hardly remember anything about it. One thing I do remember, though, is the river, up close. It was not like this, thick with ships and smoke.
In my mind, the water is quiet and calm, leading out to the North Sea. It seemed impossible that it could have harmed Father. Impossible that it could have killed him. Then why are you so afraid?
‘When Dunkirk was on, you should have seen it,’ comes Timothy Squire’s voice. ‘Everything that could float. Destroyers, paddle steamers, sloops. More ladders than you ever saw, hanging over the sides of each ship. Everyone down here was making ladders.
‘Then the barges came, and the small boats, red, blue, yellow – fishermen and crabbers, some of them never been off the river. Headed to France to pick up the army. Mad, isn’t it? At second tide they all left – it was about as dark as it gets in summer, but you could see them clear, just a block of boats, filling the river. Still, no lights or any noise, hoping the Germans wouldn’t know they were coming.
‘It was like the Spanish Armada,’ he says, breathless. ‘They brought back thousands – tens of thousands – of soldiers. The Germans kept on bombing them as they headed home. Everywhere ships burning and sinking. Imagine it.’
Clumps of people fill the alleys. Refugees maybe, or poor children who had been evacuated and drifted back to London. Yeoman Brodie said there are more refugees every day: French, Czech, Polish, Dutch. Everyone looks lost, strange.
Everywhere ships burning and sinking.
The flats are small, poorly made. The abandoned ones look the same as those with people in the windows. We pass a large black man, and some people not speaking English. A new, unnameable smell hangs heavy in the cold air.
These Dark Wings Page 6
