The Party authorities state: Party leader Hess, who had been expressly forbidden by the Fuhrer to use an aeroplane because of a disease which had been becoming worse for years, was, in contradiction of this order, able to get hold of a plane.
His family have been cleared of any involvement. His wife, Frau Ilse Prohl, has sued for divorce on the grounds of desertion and insanity.
‘Evening Standard. Used to read that one myself,’ comes a voice. Valerie, wiping the bar, is still watching me. ‘Now it’s full of the same lies as the others.’
I nod knowingly. My eyes turn back to the little ads. Nicholson’s Gin. It’s Clear – It’s Good.
‘Damn shame they lost her. Someone actually talking about the war.’ She keeps wiping, talking almost to herself.
For some reason, I refuse to look up, staring hard at the ads. Lifebuoy Soap. Olive Oil Brushless Shave. It doesn’t stop her voice.
‘Imagine, with all the people dying like they are – in bombs and fire and crushed in the shelters. Imagine, ending it like that?’
I blink rapidly. I don’t know who she is talking about – she could be talking about anyone – but my heart surges. Ending it like what?
She is talking about someone else – the Evening Standard must have so many different woman journalists. Mum was against the war, but she was definitely not alone. Ending it like what?
Uncle’s voice comes back to me, unbidden.
A terrible, tragic mistake.
I say goodbye to Valerie, assuring her I know the way. She makes me leave with a bun wrapped in newspaper – the Manchester Guardian – and I exit the pub.
It makes me so angry, that they all knew. Uncle and Oakes and Timothy Squire. That Valerie from East London knew. That everyone knew about Mum except me.
You knew. You always knew.
A wretched old woman stares from her door as I pass. Behind her, the house is blown open. There is a cloth on the table, pictures on the wall. A short staircase climbs to a floor that is no longer there. Some yellow flowers grow in their pot. Across the street, not ten feet away, a busted hydrant shoots a fountain of water high into the air.You always knew.
A family – a large family – carrying packs and clothes, trudges past. I stand, still, watching them step over the debris, broken wood and collapsed stone. They seem to go on forever, a line of dirty, unsmiling women and men.
‘God bless you, dear.’
It is the old woman from the doorway. She gestures to the filthy line of people marching on.
‘Are you with them?’
I shake my head. ‘What are they doing?’
‘Trekking.’
‘Trekking.’ I repeat the unfamiliar word. ‘Going where?’
‘This lot? Epping Forest, I gather. I’ll find out soon enough myself.’
A pause.
‘You have somewhere to live, little girl?’
I am not a little girl. But my head is shaking and the word escapes me. ‘No.’
‘Bomb?’
I nod.
‘Not from around here, though, eh? No matter, no matter. Hitler will make us all neighbours before long.’
I smile back. ‘Are you going... to Epping Forest?’
Wrinkled eyes stare into the distance. ‘It’s safer there. I’ve nowhere else to go.’
I reach into my coat, take out the tightly wrapped bun. ‘Here.’
For a moment she stares down at the bundle, the smell of it in the air. Then she looks up at me.
‘No, dear. No, that is rightly yours, however you came by it. Keep it until your belly rumbles again. If you’re off with this lot, that won’t be too long. It’s a mighty walk up to the forest.’
I think about it. We are not ourselves in this. We all do what we must. Then I see another image: a large inquisitive face, liquid black eyes.
With a strange feeling, a crumbling inside, I know the truth. Mum was wrong about no one being brave, about people just having different ways of looking at the world. It is having to be brave that makes you brave.
We all do what we must.
‘Here,’ I say, again offering the bun. ‘I have just eaten, more than my fill, on account of a helpful stranger. Please take this.’
Her head shakes but her eyes never leave the bun.
‘If you will not take it, can you carry it with you?’ I push it into her suddenly greedy hands. ‘For one of the others – a child, perhaps.’
The bun has disappeared into the layers of her coats. ‘A fine thing to do. A kind one, you are.’
For a moment we stand, silent in the rising light. I wish the old woman good luck.
As I reach the corner, I turn. The old woman has not moved to follow the trekkers. She stands, stock still, and even from the distance I can see her mouth furiously working.
The sun has risen over the buildings. Where am I going? I have wandered far. Many roads and bridges are closed, and I’m lost.
Where is he? No, he is out in the country somewhere. I am not searching for him. All the thoughts I’ve had – guessing at which northern town he could be in, whether or not it had a port so I could convince him to come to Montreal with me – all of that is silenced.
I must find Raven Mabel. That is why I am here.
I try Uncle’s ‘secret whistle’, but nothing happens. It doesn’t matter. I will find her somehow.
Then, as if waiting for my resolve, there she is. On a distant wire, tall and proud, with piled black feathers. Raven Mabel. I cannot believe my luck. How is it possible? No time. Casually the bird takes wing, miraculous, becoming lighter than air. I race after her.
Mabel veers east, a dark spot on the grey sky, and after a few seconds I can no longer distinguish the bird from the mist. She is gone. No, she is there, doubling back to land on a ledge. And she is off again.
Faces and landmarks blur past. Yet I see nothing except the streak of black above, coasting, disappearing behind the clouds, long wings confidently riding the wind. From time to time the bird perches on a lamp post or gutter, waiting for me to catch up, before flying grimly on.
The bird is leading me. How is it possible?
She has landed again. Now she does not fly on. Above, the Queen’s Head sign creaks in the wind. I am close. I take another cautious step. The words lunge in my mind, jump at me, and I try to avoid them.
It isn’t her. It was never her.
I come closer, carefully taking the bloody piece of meat from my pocket. I give Uncle’s secret whistle, and this time it sounds clear and strong in the still air.
It isn’t her.
‘Good morning, Raven Mabel,’ I call softly. ‘This is for you. It is from Raven Grip. He wants you to come home.’
Caw. Caw.
‘He is lonely there – and sick, too. Come on, we have to go and see him. He needs us, you see. We have to be there for him.’
I place the slimy meat gently along the brick ledge, near several empty pint glasses, and step back as I always do. The bird turns, takes a tentative step forward.
I try the whistle again, louder this time. Mabel just watches me. She is hungry, starving. That is why she looks so small, so much like a common crow. It is her. It is her and I will bring her back to the Tower and Raven Grip will live, and Uncle will smile, and everyone will have hope again.
It is not her. It is not even a raven. A common crow, nothing more.
The bird skulks across the ledge, oily black wings trailing behind her, claws clicking on the brick. After a brief inspection of me, the bird reaches the meat, pecks at it.
What happens next is a blur. All at once, I feel it zoning in. A quick upward glance reveals a dark mass, falling heavily, plunging towards me.
Two birds now perch on the ledge. A harried crow, its faint outline walking away, and, eating the meat, staring proudly down at me, a giant raven.
I walk along Great Tower Street, Mabel strangely quiet and content inside my coat. I wrapped her in my jumper just as I’ve seen Uncle wrap her in a towel to carry
her inside for the animal doctor. She barely resisted.
She must have heard the whistle. I can’t believe it. Even Timothy Squire couldn’t make up a story like this.
Yeoman Oakes can try and stop me. At least Uncle will let me return her to her cage. If Uncle wants me to leave, he will have to tell me himself. I will tell him I know the truth about Mum. I will tell him he doesn’t need to lie any more. Then I will leave.
Where will I go? Tilbury Docks? Epping Forest? No, I will go back to my house in Warwick Avenue. Home. Whatever is left of it.
Mabel is heavy. But she is quiet and still, and when I glance down to ensure she is OK, the great liquid eyes meet my own. Raven Grip, at least, will not hate me.
The sun is rising. I cross the cobblestones and step on to the bridge.
I have brought Mabel back to the Tower.
The guard sees me approach. His blue coat is bright in the growing sunlight.
I have no excuse this time, no bribe of fish, no Timothy Squire and his cheeky grin. If Oakes wants me arrested, there is nothing I can do. Once he pulled me from a fire. Now he’s pushing me back in.
I remember that the Watchman’s name is Mr Thorne. I take a deep breath. I don’t even have my ID card. I can only pray that he is in a good mood.
Or am I imagining things? I have not slept in over a day. By the time I reach the archway, there is no one in the box. That is queer. No guard? Or has something just happened – something terrible that drew him away? I enter the Tower in silence.
As I walk up towards the Green, everything looks as it always is. Warders on duty, Wives clacking across the stone. Did the Watchman leave his post just as I came up the bridge? Or was he expecting me? Did he let me pass unquestioned?
I decide to head straight for the cages, my strides normal and purposeful. Already I can see that Uncle has not yet opened them for the dawn feeding. Has nobody noticed that I was gone? Is it possible?
A smile overpowers me as I swing open the cage. I take Mabel from my coat, set her gently down. My jumper is stained, powdery and whitish, and the smell both sick and sweet. I don’t care. The two birds observe one another in silence. Then high, knocking sounds erupt. Toc-toc-toc. Toc-toc-toc. It is a cheerful sound, a welcoming, both harsh and lovely, and I feel suddenly as if I am intruding on a private celebration.
‘You’re up early.’
I freeze. But a strength of will comes to me, and I turn to face him.
‘Good morning, Yeoman Oakes.’ My voice wavers slightly. I catch it. ‘Raven Mabel has returned.’
‘So I can see. This is excellent news.’
He is smiling; something about the smile tells me that I don’t understand what is happening.
‘Your uncle will be thrilled.’
I stare at him in silence.
‘It has been a most unusual night – a trying night.’ He exhales loudly. ‘For both of us, perhaps.’
Exhaustion breaks over me like a wave. Punish me how you like. Arrest me. Add my name to your stupid book on the prisoners of the Tower. It doesn’t matter now.
‘Anna, you may think me an odd man, but I do have a special concern for you.’ The smile is gone. ‘You see, I myself have not been feeling terribly well. Already I can recognize the symptoms in you. Even in this early light... yes, you seem quite pale.’
I can say nothing, the weight of exhaustion pulling me to the ground.
‘In fact, I must recommend that you go straight to bed, and remain there until you are feeling quite better.’ The smile has returned. ‘But, first, there is someone here to see you.’
I must look dumbfounded, as if a bomb hit me and didn’t explode. Oakes clears his throat softly and leads me on. Why hasn’t he sent me away? Why is he being nice to me, a girl with no parents who doesn’t belong anywhere.
I walk the steps, unsure. A man in a tweed blazer and hat stands at the West Gate. He leans on an umbrella. For a second I am reminded of Churchill, that first day he came to visit. This man is tall, and much thinner than the Prime Minister. As I step closer I realize it is not a man at all; it is a boy. In his time away he appears to have grown, his cheeks ruddy from the country.
My smile is huge and wide and probably terrifying.
‘Timothy Squire.’
He has no chance to speak; I have folded him into a hug big enough to break his thin bones. When did he return? Did he know somehow that I have been searching for him across the city, worrying when the bombs fell north?
After a moment he looks down, serious, then he pulls me close again. His lips are soft. Even though he presses too hard, I don’t pull away.
I whip round, flustered and red, but Oakes has found another wall to captivate him.
‘Well,’ Timothy Squire says finally, turning clumsily away. He squints at my face, my hair. ‘You look different. Something... is different. I mean, you look nice, Anna.’
‘Thank you, Timothy Squire.’
He gives a shallow cough. ‘So my parents are going to bloody furious. But I figured Grip must be getting a bit lonely. Thought you might need some help chopping the meat.’
‘I need your help, do I?’
He squirms a bit, flashes a smile. ‘What d’you reckon? I have to send a letter to Mum and Dad straightaway, telling them I’ve come back. But first we can stop and see Grip. If you’d like.’
He has removed his cap, and his hair is almost as long as mine. Dark and bushy as ever, and his forehead just as large.
‘I suppose I could use an assistant,’ I say. ‘You’ll do.’
Even as we start walking, he is speaking.
15
Friday, 13 June 1941
Mabel and Grip are moulting, their beautiful feathers unkempt and turning copper at the edges (Grip’s turn almost brown), before falling off in heaps of feathers around the roost. Mabel is the more dramatic moulter, her pink head visible through her sudden baldness.
‘Don’t worry, Mabel,’ I say in sympathy. ‘New feathers always grow back.’
The birds don’t handle it well, pottering over the cobblestones with resentment. It is several weeks of indignity. My hair has grown faster than I thought. Another couple weeks and I’ll have a bob again. Mabel will be fine.
Not all old feathers fade, and when I find a perfectly preserved one, glossy and ink-black, I put it in my pocket. I’m not certain if it’s Mabel’s or Grip’s but I will add it to my diary. It says more than any words can.
Timothy Squire’s parents may have been bloody furious, but they did return. And the whole family seems happy enough to be back.
Uncle’s health has improved sufficiently to resume his dusk-feeding duties, and his smile is wide as he sees Mabel and Grip together. I watch them too. Already new bumps along her rounded skull mark coming feathers.
‘A little miracle,’ he says. ‘I had thought her as good as lost.’
‘Me too. It was your whistle, Uncle Henry. She heard it and came home.’
That part at least is true. Just not from where you think.
‘Surely a good sign. A sign of hope.’
I agree, and together we go to dinner. Oakes shows no sign of giving up my secret.
After dinner – pork has even returned to the table – Uncle and I sit alone. I am happy, feeling almost light, but Uncle’s words from that night on the staircase still linger.
I look at him, at my uncle, his soft eyes.
‘Can you tell me what happened to Mum?’
‘Your mother was killed, my dear.’
I pause. ‘Not by a bomb, though.’
‘She was killed by this war, Anna. She was a strong woman – but this war...’
I am aware of his gaze, flitting over the room, never once looking at me. I remember too how Oakes is always talking about the gas mask, yet never quite able to look at it.
‘She hated the war, Anna. She loved you – so much...’ He sighs, a great, pained sound. ‘I received a letter from your mum just before she died. It said very little. We hadn’t spoke
n in many years. The letter only said that she wanted me to take care of you. That you would be safer here, with me.’
‘You didn’t believe it?’ I say into the silence.
‘Wanting you to come and live with me and Gregory?’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing could be harder to believe.’
‘What did she want to protect me from?’
‘The war. These walls are strong.’
‘She didn’t need to die for me to come here.’
‘No.’ For a long moment he is quiet. He removes his glasses, wipes an eye with the back of his hand, and perches them again on his nose. ‘She made a great mistake, Anna. She loved you.’
‘But the bus...?’
‘The headmaster thought it was best. I’m afraid I agreed with him.’
I nod. There is nothing else to say. He is telling the truth, I know. Not all of it, I think, but it is enough. The business of adults.
She loved you. She hated this war. She made a terrible, tragic mistake. She needed to protect you. At any cost.
She loved you.
It is enough.
Thursday, 14 August 1941
I smile into the bright wind. From the ramparts the vast world opens up before me. I feel light-headed, unsteady on my feet. But smiling. Speechless and smiling. The summer dress that Nell helped me pick, a simple pattern of red flowers, is loose. My hair is once again in a bob. My feet are bare.
Timothy Squire and I walk across the Green, through the deep shadows and waves of drenching sun. Mabel and Grip shuffle close by.
And then, crashing into the newly painted world, comes Oakes.
‘Anna,’ he says. ‘Timothy. A beautiful day.’
‘It is, sir,’ I say.
‘The ravens seem happy, don’t they?’
I nod warily. He hasn’t got to his point yet. He looks down at us, smiles.
I see an image of Oakes, staring across the ramparts as I escaped into the night. He didn’t tell Uncle. Maybe not, but what does he want?
These Dark Wings Page 18
