These Dark Wings

by John Owen Theobald

  Uncle finishes the crossword before starting the fire with the paper – The Times, not the Evening Standard. Whatever passed between Uncle and Mum stops him from even reading her old newspaper. In my first week here, I thought he was worried that I might stumble upon her obituary, as the notices are now staggered to avoid specific information about bomb strikes – which night, on which street – that might help Hitler measure his accuracy. Still there is never a trace of the paper. The fire barely gets hotter.

  ‘Another tea?’ Uncle holds up the pot. ‘I think I may even have a chocolate or two if you fancy. A shop on Cartwright Street had some in today.’

  He pours the weak tea. ‘And you’re enjoying school? Brodie tells me how you and Malcolm get along.’

  I nod. Famously.

  ‘Miss Breedon speaks quite well of you – a perfect lamb, she says – and tells me you’re fitting in nicely.’

  ‘School is fine, thanks.’ A perfect lamb? ‘Uncle?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  I don’t know what to say, or how to say it, with his kind eyes on me. But I must.

  ‘Uncle. Why... why did you never come to see us?’

  ‘You must not remember, dear,’ he says smoothly. ‘I visited you, in Warwick Avenue. We had tea in the kitchen with your mother, much like we are having now. I was still in Palestine then, though I came to London whenever I could. Your mum was always happy to see me.’

  ‘But she never did.’

  Now there is something – a stiffening in his cheeks.

  ‘Well, adults can be very silly—’

  ‘Did you and Mum have a row?’

  ‘Anna, your mother was a dear lady.’

  ‘Then why did she hate you?’

  Uncle has turned white, his face emptied of all colour. ‘Your mother didn’t hate a single thing in this world. There are just some things that are... impossible for some people to understand.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your mother and I had a disagreement, Anna. It just made sense for everyone if we... stayed out of each other’s lives.’

  ‘Because of my father?’

  ‘Your father had already died, Anna. Your mum didn’t want my help – didn’t need my help.’

  ‘But... you are my uncle.’ I don’t mean for it to sound like a question and I can see that it wounds him. ‘What happened—’

  ‘Don’t worry about all that, dear. Plenty of time for the business of adults. You are twelve years old.’

  ‘Thirteen,’ I say quietly.

  He gives me a confused look.

  ‘It was my birthday, the thirteenth of October, the day of the prime minister’s visit.’

  He gives a sad smile. ‘I am sorry, my dear. I had noticed... something. You do seem older. Wiser.’

  He closes his eyes for a moment. Then he stands and limps over to the stack of cold firewood, adding a single log.

  ‘Enjoy your tea, dear. I will see you after lessons.’

  Uncle moves slowly, hiding the fire’s glow, as he leaves the room.

  Saturday, 19 October 1940

  The first thing I noticed when I was brought here is how misty it is. From the river, Uncle said. It seemed yet another barrier, a castle bordered with fog. Again it is misty – and smoke-stung eyes make it hard to be sure – but I would see if Timothy Squire was on the Green.

  Again he has not come.

  Everything else is ready. When Yeoman Cecil offered to buy and prepare the meat, I assured him that Uncle had left the task to me.

  ‘He showed me again and again, sir, how to chop the meat just so.’

  Hopefully the guard at the gate will be as easy to convince. Touch wood and don’t look round.

  First, of course, Timothy Squire will have to show up. ‘Two ticks,’ he said. I have been waiting for nearly half an hour, and the afternoon sun offers little warmth. If he does not arrive soon, someone will see me standing by the West Gate and tell Uncle, or Oakes. The girls, luckily, will be in the study.

  Nothing happens. From the tavern, I can hear the BBC playing ‘Tipperary’. Earlier it was Beethoven, which I preferred. For some reason I’m reminded of Mrs Morgan next door, pottering around the small garden, saying ‘when I had my figure’.

  Once again I think of the chest of drawers at home, stuffed with shirts I almost never wore. My blue dress with the Peter Pan collar. And my riding coat, hanging in the wardrobe.

  I gaze up at the barracks. Is Timothy Squire asleep in there? It seems queer to me, even after being here so long, that most of the towers and turrets are plain houses on the inside.

  Finally, Timothy Squire appears on the Parade Grounds.

  ‘Magpie.’

  We walk to the Gatehouse, the guard watching us approach. Not Mr Thorne today. The guard will listen to me. I am the junior Ravenmaster, a Tower resident. Oakes does not dictate my coming and going. I take a long breath, steady my nerves.

  The guard simply waves us through. I do not turn to see Timothy Squire’s grin. Everyone knows everyone here.

  As ever, people stream across Tower Bridge to the City. Not as many as usual, though. And quite a few are smoke-blackened firemen. At the foot of every lamp post are sandbags, some torn and burst. Bombs fell close last night.

  Horses and carts rumble by on the way to the market. You can smell the apples from the end of the bridge.

  ‘So, why the birds anyway?’

  Timothy Squire doesn’t like it when I go quiet for too long. Like he does at school.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What’s so interesting about some birds? Dad says they used to have all kinds of brilliant animals here – elephants and polar bears. Even had a Lion Tower. Filled it with lions. Now we only have the birds.’

  ‘You know the stories,’ I say, glancing at the winding street to my left. Weston Street? I wish I had my bicycle; I could speed down the hills, keeping my eyes skinned for missing paving stones. ‘You’ve lived your whole life here.’

  ‘It’s Yeoman Reed who tells all the stories. Nobody else really knows them.’

  ‘The ravens of the Tower?’ I say in disbelief. ‘They’ve been here since Charles II. Attracted by the smell of traitors’ corpses. Even after the executions stopped, the birds stayed.’

  I can think of few other facts – some live as long as forty – but the image of the corpse is enough to make him smile.

  ‘Eating traitors, huh? I’ve only seen them eating that slop you give them at night.’

  Does Timothy Squire really not know about the ravens? About the history of the Tower – his home? Does he really watch me feed them? From his window?

  ‘The ravens protect the Tower, according to legend. If they fly away the kingdom will fall. If you’d been there when the press photographers came, you would have seen all the pictures they took of MacDonald. I bet the papers were full of him.’

  Poor MacDonald.

  Timothy Squire doesn’t appear to grasp the seriousness of it all.

  ‘Why fly away?’ He shrugs. ‘Got all the food they want here.’

  ‘There’s more to life than food.’

  We arrive at the vast covered stalls of Borough Market. No wonder we saw so few people on our way; they are all here. We are taken up by the crowd and pushed steadily inside. Above, the canvas roof hides the daylight. But all I see is the hanging meat. Who knew so much was available, even here?

  We allow ourselves to get swept along the narrow lanes, past the bakeries and fruit stalls. For a brief and blissful moment there is no war, no bombs or secrets. Mum was good at finding the right queue, without all the complaining and fussing. First we have to remove ourselves from the surge of shoppers. Somehow we manage it and, in front of a quiet stall, Timothy Squire and I take out our ID cards and ration books.

  Timothy Squire has sixpence, and is gentleman enough to pay for us both. First we get tea (a penny), and then sausage sandwiches with brown sauce (threepence), for which we each surrender two meat points. We must find the per
fect spot for such a meal.

  Braving the crowd again, we make our slow way to sit before a large church. When pigeons immediately stagger towards us, Timothy waves them away. I eat as slowly as I can, fighting the urge to wolf it all down. The zing of the vinegar is delicious and warming. I try to think of Flo and her cherries. Timothy Squire smiles between mouthfuls.

  When I thank him for his kindness he just brushes it off.

  ‘Leslie is actually quite nice – what? Why that face?’

  He is still grimacing. ‘Nah. I don’t get on much with that lot.’

  What lot? The whole school? Without even thinking it my lips are forming the rhyme. ‘Timothy Squire is a dirty old liar.’

  He half smiles. ‘“Timothy Squire sings in the choir. Timothy Squire died in the fire.” Guess they think I’m always telling stories.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say when he finishes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shrugs. I look back down at my sandwich. Died in a fire? That’s horrible.

  ‘You could always come to the Bloody Tower.’ I say, chewing too quickly. ‘For breakfast. Everyone else does.’

  ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘What? You don’t eat breakfast.’

  ‘Yeah. At home.’

  I shrug. ‘I know. I just thought – if you didn’t want to... you could always come to the Bloody Tower. Just ignore Oakes, that’s what I do.’

  Again he looks right at me. ‘OK. Maybe, yeah.’

  We are silent for a moment. Around us, traders shout their goods. I rack my thoughts, and then one of Uncle’s particularly disgusting facts returns to me.

  ‘A raven’s beak is hard as steel... But it’s not sharp at the end – not sharp enough to cut through the skin of a squirrel.’ I watch Timothy Squire’s eyebrows rise in interest. ‘So how do you think they eat it? One morning Uncle walked on to the Green and found a perfectly complete, inside-out squirrel skin. A raven had torn the meat out through the squirrel’s mouth.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  If only I had asked Uncle for some money. The Chelsea buns smell amazing. I heard that full-time ARP wardens get £2 a week. (Does that annoying girl Violet really make £2 a week? And she gets to wear that armband and tell everyone what to do?)

  Timothy Squire would be fine at breakfast. He knows all the Warders already.

  ‘So what do you think of Yeoman Oakes?’ I hear myself asking.

  ‘Oakes? He looks like a stick insect.’

  ‘But do you... trust him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think that maybe he could be a spy? A German spy?’

  Timothy Squire nods as if considering it. ‘Who wouldn’t want a stick insect as a spy?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I don’t like him either,’ he says with a laugh. ‘He’d be a terrible spy, though. Father says he’s terrible at everything, even being a Warder. Everyone has spy fever – no one trusts anyone now.’

  I offer a smile, feeling suddenly a little sad. I remind myself of Mum’s insistence not to be narrow-minded. Uncle is a friend of Oakes, so clearly he can’t be that terrible. And obviously Timothy Squire isn’t threatened by him – so why should I be? I do not have spy fever. I could almost kick myself for being such a child. There are real enough worries without adding imaginary ones.

  Too soon, we rise and begin the search for the butcher’s stall. It is not too difficult to find, in the end, with its great queue snaking through the market. We join it, inching forward, Timothy Squire filling the time with various stories of his city adventures. When we reach the butcher, a surprisingly round man in a boater, he smiles down at us. He is still smiling as we leave.

  ‘That was kicks,’ Timothy Squire says, slipping the bag under his coat. ‘Like the black market or something.’

  As the crowds thin, the free, light air returns.

  ‘Do you know what they sell in the black market?’ I walk closer to him, my smile impossible to hide. ‘Fingers. Human fingers! What anyone would want with a human finger, who can say, but it is wartime.’

  He laughs, holds out his white hand. ‘Not fingers, Magpie. Rings.’

  ‘Rings,’ I repeat slowly. Of course. How else to get them off? I feel a little silly, and Timothy Squire is still grinning as we once again enter the quiet streets. He has bitten off nearly half his fingernails. My mind is already turning, with nervous excitement, to the next task.

  ‘The size of a palm,’ I say, unwrapping the paper.

  ‘Your palm, or mine?’ he asks.

  I pick up the meat, feel its slimy underside. What did Uncle say? His palm? I don’t remember. Four ounces; how do you measure four ounces?

  ‘Yours,’ I decide. ‘They have been good today. A treat.’

  I am surprised by how difficult this suddenly is. I can scale the Tower walls but can’t prepare the meat for some birds? I frown in concentration and Timothy Squire is grinning. With a sudden smile of my own, as though it only just occurred to me, I hold out the knife.

  ‘Do you want to try?’

  He is nodding and reaching in the same motion, and I feel my breath return. Of course I could have done it – I’ve watched Uncle do it a dozen times. Timothy Squire, though, looks to be doing a fair enough job.

  ‘Now there’s four ravens, remember – Cora, Edgar, Merlin, and Grip – so we’ll need another pile here. They’re used to traitors’ corpses, remember? A pile here too. Good. Now let’s go and round them up.’

  I walk ahead, trying to keep a neutral face.

  Off duty now, many of the Warders will have donned their city clothes and retired to the Tiger pub outside the West Gate. Some will be in the tavern just inside the Tower walls, playing darts or poring over The Times atlas, predicting and arguing. Uncle says there are no staff there; you simply sign your name and pour a beer. But I have wandered in and a Wife always seems to be at the bar, pulling pints and keeping a watchful eye on everything.

  There is Nell again, walking with her swing, heels clicking, making her own way to the pub. (She is a firewatcher, Leslie told me. The thought doesn’t fill me with confidence.)

  The wind screams around the stone. I walk faster for warmth but I’m not really bothered. I’m feeding the ravens with Timothy Squire. Most of the birds are there, on the Green, watching me sail towards them.

  ‘Once they’re out, they’re out,’ I say.

  Briefly attempting to whistle them over, I only succeed in making a shushing noise. I could do it yesterday. Timothy Squire turns to me and I quickly look away.

  ‘They will come.’

  Luckily, they do. The shiny black heads, marching at my feet. As the sun drops straight down on the White Tower we gather in the heavy shadows.

  I lay down the food, trying not to think of the ‘inside–outside’ squirrel story. I have done this fifty times.

  Some minor squabbling ensues, with both Merlin and Cora proving equally determined, while Grip eats alone, black eyes gleaming. Merlin, with a low grunt, finally surrenders the extra portion to a gleeful Cora. Edgar gazes around for more.

  After a quick glance at me, Timothy Squire offers the remaining biscuits. With a snap of the beak, the food is taken. Timothy Squire lets out a delighted laugh, and offers another round. The tilted glances cease, the birds gather round the scraps. They seem to approve.

  Standing with him amid the croaking birds, I feel a certain lightness.

  Once they have finished eating, it is time to put them to bed. Merlin and Cora are already inside their cage, and Edgar only needs some gentle encouragement. Grip, though, is not in his usual area.

  Looking round, I see him, walking heavily towards the Green. I wait a moment, watching, before I go to fetch him. Where is he going? I turn to Timothy Squire, still smiling, and twist back.

  Grip, taking slow steps in the dusk, merges with the coming night.

  The next morning I watch Oakes heading across the Green.

  I almost laugh to think about it – that Oakes could be a spy. That a Na
zi – in disguise or not – could march right up to the Tower of London to talk to him. The mystery of MacDonald’s death is still unsolved, though.

  My feet stumble. It is impossible. But I can tell, from across the Green, that it is true. There is a figure on the other side of the portcullis. A man. The same man. And Oakes is headed to meet him.

  Dully, my eyes follow Oakes’s blue uniform. I take a deep, shaky breath. I must get closer. I rush forward, cursing the echo of my shoes on the stone. A raven jeers; I ignore the sound.

  I scurry to the side, out of sight, climb up the cut stairs of St Thomas’s Tower, and push my way inside. In the sudden darkness I move across the creaking wooden floor. I must get down there. With lurching steps, I take the first stairs I find.

  The narrow room is made smaller by all the ropes and pulleys leading below. I peer down – I can see nothing, but surely I will be able to hear them speak. I stand as close as I dare to the straining rope. The cruel black spikes shine in the darkness.

  Even with my heart knocking furiously in my chest I can make out words. And a strange accent.

  ‘I got a letter—’

  ‘So did I,’ comes Oakes’s voice.

  I inch closer, catching nothing else over the jeering raven. In my mind I throw a rock at him. Not now. Leaning forward, I place both hands against the cold metal. I can hear them again, clearly – their voices are raised.

  ‘I’m beginning to think you don’t have any cousins in Yorkshire.’

  I bow my head. How can they sound so angry about something so boring? Cousins in Yorkshire? Why have a secret meeting at Traitors’ Gate at low tide to talk about Yorkshire?

  ‘Then again, you’ve never been known for your honesty, have you, Gregory?’

  ‘Run back to Germany. If they see you here, you’ll be shot.’

  Again the raven’s laughing croak. How is he so loud? It’s as if he’s in here with me.

  The croaking goes on, the noise filling my ears. I abandon my position, hurry back down the stairs. There is no sound from the other side of the door, so I inch it open.

  I pull it closed as Oakes sweeps past. He was moving quickly, urgently, away from the gateway. But I still saw it; his face red, and not just with anger. With fear.