These Dark Wings

by John Owen Theobald

  The door opens and Leslie walks in, stopping when she sees us.

  ‘Leslie,’ I say, as Timothy Squire has disappeared into his usual silence around other people. Then I remember all the mean songs. ‘Do you want to play?’

  She looks down at the board with a twist of her lips. I realize that she is fighting off a smile. And not a nasty one.

  ‘Nah, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.’

  As she turns to go she abandons the fight, flashing a huge grin. My face is hot.

  Timothy Squire hands me the dice, his expression nervous. He is different. Everything is different. In the early dusk the room seems dark, as though it has no walls, and just goes on and on forever. I roll – a ten – and I move the silver dog round the board.

  He is quiet until his turn. ‘I’m sorry, by the way. About whatever I said. People say all sorts of rubbish.’

  ‘It’s my turn,’ I say, reaching for the dice.

  ‘Do you want any help with the ravens?’ Timothy Squire asks, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.

  ‘“Help”?’

  He quickly looks down at the board again. ‘I mean... Can I come along? I’ll help if I can.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say after a moment’s pause. I swallow a nasty comment about looting – and an apology about MacDonald. ‘Let’s finish the game first.’

  Timothy Squire, nodding agreeably, carries on grousing about Headmaster Brownbill. I roll the dice again, smiling.

  Saturday, 28 December 1940

  The Christmas Truce is over. Free of the cloud banks, the moon is bright and huge. A full moon used to be called a Hunter’s Moon, or Farmer’s Moon – now it’s a Bomber’s Moon. The Germans have come early.

  Already the Victoria and Albert Docks are burning. Hundreds of bombs fall all around, before the siren has even wailed. I must get to the shelter. But all I can think of are the faces, the panic, the uncertainty. No. I am not going underground.

  I run instead to the tavern. People are there, Warders and curators, gathered round the wireless. Something in their faces forces me to stop, listen. It is the BBC broadcast.

  Tonight the bombers of the German Reich hit London where it hurts the most, in her heart. St Paul’s Cathedral, built by Sir Christopher Wren, her great dome towering over the capital of the Empire, is burning to the ground as I talk to you now.

  Soon I am on the battlements, climbing, climbing. I can see it, wreathed in filthy, grey smoke.

  Oakes. Everywhere he goes becomes a target. Why didn’t I tell Uncle about the German? Oh, God, now it is too late.

  Another thought, just as hopeless. Where is Uncle now?

  I do not move. I watch and watch, for minutes, for hours, my eyes blinking but the sight remaining. Everything burns, a massive, seamless wall of fire. And there, right in the middle of it all, the Thames, the river, roaring with flames.

  As the White Tower is hit I finally turn away. At least three incendiary bombs tear through the roof of the Main Guard building. The heavy walls crumble. No fire rises at first – maybe the incendiaries burned themselves out. Only smoke, drifting as if from Nell’s cigarette. Then flames appear, fanned into life. The fire, whipped up by its own winds, grows and grows. Sparks fall like hail, driving down on us, starting new fires.

  The stone is red in the reflected glow, playing across the towers, winking at the turrets. It is out of control. The air itself scorches. The Germans are trying to burn the Tower down to its roots.

  A noise, strange. The All Clear.

  People emerge from the shelters. Miss Breedon, Yeoman Brodie, Headmaster Brownbill. Uncle, limping, yet very much alive. No one speaks. Up in the sky, snow is falling. Slowly – thick, heavy snow that vanishes long before it reaches us. The air is like a furnace.

  I must go to check on Grip. A bomb landed just by the roost. The White Tower is wreathed in smoke; the Main Guard is completely destroyed. Everywhere is red. I must go.

  But the London Fire Brigade has arrived, and nobody is to move.

  The planes will return. You can see it on every face. Any moment, the siren will wail again. Somewhere stone collapses. Who will bury us in the Chapel if we are all dead?

  A stretcher party arrives, SP on their helmets. Nurses too. The Heavy Rescue Team.

  ‘No smoking,’ says Yeoman Brodie, his voice short and angry.

  ‘My mask,’ I say suddenly. It’s in my room.

  ‘No use here,’ Mr Brodie says grimly. ‘This here is domestic gas. Just no smoking.’

  I nod, absently scanning the distance for Nell. She is not there. Should she appear, the second she tries to light a match, I will stop her. Somehow.

  ‘Over here, sir,’ a man calls.

  Mr Brodie and the rescue team gather round the rubble. Someone is in there. Kate, I can see. It is Kate.

  ‘Well, get her out,’ growls Mr Brodie.

  A nurse turns on a shaded blue light. They lean over her. Shovels lift the scorched wood, the bright grey ash. Nurses are talking to Mr Brodie. One takes something from her bag – lipstick? – and leans over Kate. I strain to see, and when the nurse stands I can make out, printed across Kate’s forehead, the letter ‘M’. Her small body is lifted carefully on to a white stretcher.

  While the others are talking quietly, I push forward.

  ‘Ma’am.’ I stop in front of the nurse, all but pulling on her sleeve. ‘What does that mean? That letter you put on her?’

  The face that greets me is shockingly old, grey and tired. ‘It’s for the hospital, dear. Your friend will be fine.’

  ‘What does it mean? What does “M” mean?’

  ‘Morphia,’ she says, her voice expressionless. ‘We’ve run out of tags. She’ll be fine.’

  What does she need morphia for? The question remains in my head, as the nurse has already trudged away, Kate in her stretcher not far behind.

  Still the fires burn.

  Another body. A girl from school, I can’t tell. And then I see.

  Leslie. She is quiet, unmoving. It is not a severed leg or a hanging foot as she always talked about. Just a girl lying still, turned softly to the side, her legs pale but free of blood or ash. She might be asleep. She is not.

  Again the men yell for everyone to clear out, and again no one stirs. Brodie stands, his face turning red, turning angry.

  ‘Stretcher,’ he calls out. ‘And a blanket. Now, move.’

  It is brought and he leans down, still not touching her.

  ‘It’s all right, dear,’ he says, his voice low. ‘It’s all right.’

  Leslie.

  Above, snow falls. Still it does not reach us. Still the fires burn.

  V

  AT TRAITORS’ GATE

  Cheese not Churchill.

  – Graffiti, East London

  11

  Saturday, 26 April 1941

  Grip perches atop the curtain wall. Gusting winds carry the echo of winter. But winter is gone.

  From 11 January no bombs fell, then a few sporadic attacks, and then nothing for a month. A massive raid on Saturday, 19 April, and now silence again. St Paul’s, of course, was saved. Oakes is full of stories of the bravery of the Watch, his own included. I have my doubts.

  After Leslie’s funeral, things were sad. Her mother, Mrs Ballard, who I am ashamed to admit I once thought looked horsey, never stopped crying. Leslie’s father, who serves in the army, got leave to come to the funeral and stayed on for several days. Both were crying when he left again. Normal life, though, is returning. Days whistle by. Oakes slurps his tea, stares at his wall. Nell really did take me for a haircut near St Katharine Docks – far too short, though it has since grown out much better. She even took me to Austin Reed and helped me find summer frocks. (Uncle gave me some ‘walking around money’.)

  She is a typist, it turns out, when she’s not the world’s most absent firewatcher. What she types exactly, and for whom, remains a mystery. She asked if I had my monthlies coming on yet: I do not – but said I would tell her when I did
. It sounds horrible, and I hope it never comes, even if it does give me a reason to visit Nell.

  Even though I have not talked to her much since, she often smiles at me, or says ‘looking snappy’, to which I often say the wrong thing or forget to say anything at all.

  When I see her today, she is carrying a bag. A large bag, and full. I ask, politely yet casually, where she is going.

  ‘Leaving,’ she says.

  ‘What? But you... you’re an East Ender.’

  Her laughter, so unlike her voice, is high and clear. ‘I am that, dear. That is true enough. But I’m not moving house.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She shrugs. ‘Called up. WVS needs help.’

  I try not to imagine just how ill-suited Nell is for the work. And she is gone.

  Will conscription extend to all women? To girls? I know lots of women have been working in the munitions factories – Leslie once told me all about it. It sounds horribly hard and dirty. Will we be called up now?

  Things with Timothy Squire seem to be getting back to normal too. I haven’t seen him much – we still start the odd game of Monopoly (he always ‘lets’ me use the silver dog), or sit around and talk about nothing in particular. Once or twice he helped with the ravens. He even turned round to smile at me in class one day. I coughed and looked away.

  Soon this will all change. I cannot be mad at him forever.

  ‘Come on then,’ he will say, ‘I was waiting for us to be friends again.’ Then we will walk along the battlements, go back to the market and smell the baking bread. When the sun gets warmer, we will visit the beach and have a swim, the water not cold but deliciously cool. Timothy Squire likely isn’t a strong swimmer. He’ll be able to paddle out to where I am. Then I will show him how to kick his feet properly. The sea is a dangerous place.

  I do miss him being around, how he always seems to be enjoying life tremendously. Perhaps I was too hard on him. He can’t be himself. Not in war, not in this.

  No one acts like they truly are.

  A troop of the Scots Guard has arrived and moved into the barracks; they have turned the Tower into a party. Dances, concerts, pub nights. They bring their girls inside – all of them scented and made-up, with handbags and gas masks – and make all kinds of racket. I thought that I would welcome some life in this place. Something about the new soldiers, though – the attitude – feels out of place. I have glanced in through the windows (the Tudor Room has been cleared) when they’re all dancing. Fast waltzes, lots of stepping and twisting, and always a Highland reel with the screeching bagpipes.

  Uncle called it a ‘permanent’ garrison, which means I’ll have to get used to seven companies of Scots Guards and their parties. Some of us have to study. Final examinations before school reports are barely a week away. Already I fear Uncle’s disappointment upon learning that the perfect lamb is not at all a satisfactory student.

  After next year when I leave school, maybe I will join the NAAFI girls. Some are as young as fourteen, and they seem happy enough. After a few weeks of work I can save up enough money to book a seat on a steamer. It will be a scary journey – many days and nights – before I arrive in Montreal.

  First things first.

  I must meet Kate and begin studying. She is now back from the hospital and considerably less horrid. We don’t talk about Leslie a lot, how much we both miss her wild stories and her eye rolling. Headmaster Brownbill remains as mean as ever, glaring at us with his hard stare.

  If Timothy Squire wanted to apologize properly – for everything rotten he has done – well then, he would. I may avoid seeing him most of the time, but he can find me if he wants to. He can find bloody shrapnel in the streets.

  The rain will come, I know now, and spring will be no different from winter. Rain clears the air, Mum used to say. The thought of Mum talking to me makes all my examination study slip from my mind.

  I open my book: 239 days since the first raid. A lifetime.

  I am safe here. That is what Mum would have wanted, me safe.

  From behind me comes a strangled cry. Voices, screaming. I race back down the stairs, on to the Green.

  ‘Look at them! I know – I can see the evil. They terrify everyone. No more.’

  Warders have gathered alongside the confused looking Scots Guard. I push forward, catching a glimpse of Uncle in the middle of the circle. Someone is yelling at him.

  ‘They help the bombers. They want us dead.’

  The deep voice is familiar; I need to come to the edge to be sure. I watch with wide eyes. Yeoman Brodie is roaring at Uncle. What is going on?

  A flash of metal. Brodie has a knife. And in his other hand Mr Brodie holds Raven Grip.

  ‘They are evil. Can’t you see it? My son is terrified of them. I’ve had enough, Henry. It’s them or us!’

  I stare in disbelief. Yeoman Brodie, with his almost crooked nose and his stories about the Tower. How could you?

  Uncle moves faster than I could imagine, pulling the raven free from the giant man’s grasp. Grip, feathers ruffled, marches indignantly away.

  Brodie, snarling, continues to yell in his ringing voice.

  ‘They will get us all killed!’

  Uncle shouts too, his voice thick and angry, but wary of the larger man wielding a knife. ‘What is the matter with you? Bloody fool.’

  Malcolm appears from beyond the Chapel, running to his father’s side. I grab his arm as he flies past, holding him still. He tries to lurch free, but I am stronger.

  ‘Let me go!’ he cries, vicious.

  ‘Hold on,’ I say, keeping my voice calm. ‘Just hold on, Malcolm.’

  Malcolm squirms and mutters, but puts up little fight. My voice is calm but I am not. I can only stare at Yeoman Brodie, the kind, smiling giant from breakfast. He killed MacDonald. I can’t believe it.

  Brodie stares back, seeing his son. He lets the knife drop to the stone. Uncle reaches down and picks it up, slipping it into his belt.

  ‘Go get some rest, Yeoman Brodie.’

  Brodie still does not move. I let go of Malcolm’s arm and he races to his father. Brodie grips his shoulder, gives a sad smile.

  ‘Come on, son. Let’s go home.’

  Dazed, the two walk together back to the barracks.

  Sunday, 4 May 1941

  The light stays until 10 p.m. Well, the new 10 p.m. anyway. Someone has decided to change the clocks. ‘Double Summer Time’ means putting the clocks ahead two hours. I imagine they think we’ve earned it.

  Which means the return of regular sleeping patterns. It also means the extended daytime for Grip. A bird of habit, he returns every night by exactly the same route. I essentially wait for him.

  Grip has other worries. Stirred by the coming spring, he has begun to behave erratically, obsessively. He marches, chest puffed, carrying sticks and foil from cigarette packs. He is nesting. Anything found or stolen is put to use: paper, grass, clumps of mud.

  Male ravens don’t build the nest – and of course he won’t lay eggs. Still he carries sticks and twigs behind the crumbling curtain wall. It is not a choice. I realize the truth of Uncle’s words as I watch Grip. It is something beyond his control. He has changed with the new season.

  I can’t help but think of Mabel, somewhere in the city. Is she building a nest out there, high in a tree? Eating meals whenever she wants, noon picnics and midnight feasts? Or will she finally return to help, so she and Grip can build a nest together?

  The spring has changed us too. I feel the pleasant sting of a day in the sun, the tightness in my face. A new bloom of freckles; I don’t care what anyone thinks. The sky is huge, and almost perfectly blue.

  What happened to Yeoman Brodie, nobody will say for certain. He has not been at breakfast since that morning. Malcolm, though, I still see slinking around, with his mother glued to his side. I have seen her more times this morning than I have since I’ve been here.

  Uncle says that Brodie has gone to the countryside to rest. For how long?
He killed MacDonald and tried to kill Grip. What happens when he returns?

  ‘War is hard on us all,’ was all Uncle said. Something in his eyes gives him away. He is not telling me everything.

  No one tells me the truth. I know that now. But I too have changed.

  Timothy Squire and his NAFFI girl. I see them walking together. She is years older than him, at least fifteen or sixteen. I can see that he is telling one of his stupid bomb stories.

  So this is why he never talks to me any more.

  I think of my old form teacher, Miss Woodside. I remember with a hollow stomach how, directly after prayers, she once told all the students – not just the fifth- and sixth-form girls – to go into the music room. There she droned on about ‘the dangers of lowering morals in wartime’.

  I looked at the other second-form girls, mystified, because it didn’t concern us at all – people going to bed who are not married. (Flo had already told us that her mum said that war would make London ‘a paved double bed’.) The others squirmed too, having heard it all. But Miss Woodside still savaged on about it. Of course, Tower School is a boys’ and girls’ school so they would never have such talks here.

  The NAAFI girl is laughing, laughing in her stupid hat. And Timothy Squire in his. Or whoever’s hat it was before he stole it. I wonder how long it took to find one big enough for his head. Who would ever want to be a NAAFI girl – the stupid outfit, making food all day for the soldiers? It sounds awful.

  ‘Timothy Squire,’ I call.

  He waves, but does not move from the NAAFI girl’s side. Her lips are red. Too red. Of course, that lipstick he stole.

  I raise my voice louder. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Timothy Squire. Come here. It’s important.’

  This seems to give him pause, and after a brief and obviously ridiculous exchange between them, Timothy Squire approaches. NAAFI girl wanders off towards the White Tower.

  ‘What’s important?’ he tries to give his old smile; it just looks foolish.

  ‘What else – besides canteen girls – do you care about?’ I smile back. ‘Bombs.’