‘Well, Anna, I was wondering, if you are interested, whether you two cared to join me at the cathedral?’
‘At St Paul’s?’
Oakes nods. ‘You’re supposed to be over forty to join the Watch, but I think it will be all right just for one evening. I’ll tell them you’re my secretaries.’
‘Secretary?’ says Timothy Squire.
Oakes sees his frown, does not apologize. ‘Etymologically, a secretary is the person you trust with your secrets.’
Timothy Squire nods, still uncertain. I almost smile.
‘What do you think? There hasn’t been a raid in a while, but we need to be ready. I thought, as you’re not able to leave the Tower very often, it might be nice for you.’ Although he is smiling, it doesn’t seem like a trap. If anything, I feel a rush of affection for Oakes.
‘Give it some thought,’ he says. ‘If you want to come, meet me tomorrow night at the West Gate.’ He turns back before he leaves. ‘You’re not afraid of heights, are you? No? Good. Tomorrow night then.’
I hadn’t noticed as I dashed through the city, but the cathedral is more visible than ever. The buildings around it have been razed and now it looks massive and exposed.
I am a member of the St Paul’s Night Watch. There are around forty others, I am told, but only a dozen come each night. All in blue overalls, webbed belts and steel helmets, gathered round the choir stalls. They don’t look so silly when they’re all together.
‘This is Anna Cooper,’ Oakes says, introducing me. ‘She looks after the ravens at the Tower. And Timothy Squire, who gives her a hand.’
I feel another surge of affection for Oakes that I can tell Timothy Squire does not share.
All of the members are men, about the age of the Warders (so they wouldn’t be called up), though many are shorter, slighter. Mostly they are architects, I discover, or lovers of buildings. One is a historian. Each one knows the cathedral as well as Uncle knows the Tower.
Light pours into the great chamber, until the sun, smouldering, disappears.
There is no raid, so we go down to the crypt and drink tea, talking while two men play chess on a camp bed.
I learn much about the cathedral. There are twenty staircases. It is dark, as dark as the Tower in places. Twenty-eight bombs hit St Paul’s in the 29 December raid. I hear about the Watch’s amazing training. How members are taken to a remote corner of the huge building, and then tasked to find their way back, alone in the darkness. Then certain passages are said to be unusable – pretend debris has clogged it, or a bomb has struck there – and each test gets harder. Far better than our school examinations.
Oakes, it turns out, is part of the ‘dome patrol’. He has, at times, crawled along the wooden beams high above the nave, once in order to extinguish an incendiary that threatened the organ.
‘I remember when Henry first brought you into the Tower. The look on your face.’
‘Like a terrified child.’
‘Like a regular girl. Maybe a little tired,’ he adds with a smile. ‘But after... everything... to be so normal. That is remarkable.’
‘Extraordinary,’ I correct him gently.
Whatever Oakes thinks of Churchill, he laughs now to hear me repeat his joke.
Timothy Squire is invited to play a game, and he picks up the chess pieces with enthusiasm. Boys and their games. I have a sudden thought.
‘I am sorry,’ I say, ‘about Wembley. I know Uncle wanted to go with you.’
Oakes shakes his head; there is a strange look in his eyes. ‘Me? Oh no. I’m barely a Preston fan, truly.’
‘It was pretty boring, sir.’
A smile sweeps back on to his face. ‘So I heard. Luckily, it was a one–all draw, so we got to see the rematch a few weeks later. Ewood Park is no Wembley, but the right side won.’
‘Yeoman Oakes. I don’t want to be awful, but... what is wrong with Uncle? He is sick, isn’t he?’
A look, almost of sadness, passes over his face, then is gone. In that moment I don’t care who the mysterious German visitor was.
‘Yes, he is sick.’
‘And it’s... quite serious?’
‘Yes, your uncle has an illness. And he always will. He has good days and bad ones, like the rest of us. He is a strong man, Anna. Yours is a tough family.’
We stand for a moment in silence.
‘Yeoman Oakes, will you teach me more about the carving in Salt Tower some day? I don’t know the names of any of the stars.’
He smiles. ‘It would be my pleasure, Anna.’
‘So?’ he says after another quiet minute. ‘Do you want to see this view?’
I hear Timothy Squire laughing over some grand play. I look up into the great dome, past the nave and the choir stalls, the high columns and pillars, the gleaming organ pipes and windows, and I smile.
You could see my smile in the dark.
16
Wednesday, 20 August 1941
It is time.
Of course, the soldiers are having another dance, and I pass the girls, marching across the cobblestones, laughing in summer dresses. I even see, with a bloom of joy, Nell, in a black chiffon dress and satin shoes, looking as stylish and sophisticated as Mum’s friends from the theatre. She is on leave, which suddenly sounds glamorous.
She only has a moment to say hello – she is with the handsome guard, the one who pushed me aside in order to hide Hess – but I will never forget the words she says.
‘Good hair, Cooper. Looking snappy.’
‘Thank you, Nell. I love your dress.’
From across the Green she winks at me.
My grin soon fades. It is my fault. I spent too long with Timothy Squire. I left Mabel alone, unwatched, unwilling to break up their reunion, even after Uncle warned me. I thought she’d want to be back. Already, though, Mabel is gone. It is all my fault.
Uncle has taken her second disappearance far worse than her first. He is worried about Grip now. He even secured a bracelet, a circle of heavy yellow plastic, round his foot. ‘To identify him,’ he said. ‘Should he ever get away, he can be found.’
Poor Grip. It is almost as if, as I approach the roost, I can feel his yearning. I shake my head, walk faster. Grip is our last raven and his wings have grown too long. Always there have been ravens at the Tower of London. Without them the kingdom will fall.
Timothy Squire said Uncle made up it all up. Made it up to give me hope. To give us all hope.
It is my duty. To Uncle, to all the Warders. To the kingdom. It is my duty.
And here he is. He looks up at me through the bars, head tilted, eyes knowing.
‘Hello, Grip.’
Shrugging off my bag, I stand before his cage, gloves on, scissors in hand. I pry open the hinge.
He looks at me, his leg stretching in its bracelet. So he can be found.
I drop the scissors, pull off the gloves. Grip looks at me as I kneel down and firmly clasp my hand around his wings. He does not move. My other hand reaches in my bag, searching. I find the box, slide it open.
‘Goodbye, Grip.’
I hold the knife edge to the bracelet and cut it free.
Uncle looks up. Even though he is getting better, he is still very pale. Good days and bad days, as Oakes said. Like the rest of us.
‘It must be time to clip his wings again,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I answer.
‘What is it, my dear?’ Uncle struggles to sit up. ‘Are you unwell?’
‘I am fine, Uncle. It’s only that, well, I knew it was time to clip Grip’s wings. So I went there now... even though I’d just put him to bed. It was time.’
‘Good girl.’ He lowers himself slowly down. ‘It’s our last raven, after all. We must keep a special eye on him.’
‘It’s just that...’ I’m not sure quite what to say. You’ve come this far. It’s too late now. Go on, you’re a bright spark. ‘Uncle, I think I know why Mabel came back. I mean, I’m sure it wasn’t for the reason that I thought at first,
but for a different reason.’
I am making no sense as words seem to have failed me – nothing that I want to say comes out the way I want it to. Of course, I can’t mention my late-night visit to the East End to capture her, but I have to somehow get him to know, to understand, what has happened. Whether he is understanding anything is uncertain. He sits quite still, silent, watchful.
‘I know it sounds... mad... but I think that Mabel returned because of Grip. And not just because she missed him, which of course she did, but because she wanted to... tell him something.’
What in the world...? It’s too late now. Bright spark, indeed.
‘To tell him about out there, about the city and the rooftops and flying. Ravens are very sophisticated birds. What I mean is, I think – I’m sure – that she came back to get him. So they could be together, out there.’
Uncle has not moved yet something has changed. He is still watching me, his soft eyes somehow softer, and for a terrifying minute I feel sure that he is going to cry. Oh, what have I done?
‘Do you know,’ he says finally, ‘that a group of ravens is called an “unkindness”? But I do not think so.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle. Grip is gone. I just couldn’t... I couldn’t do it.’
Once again, he moves faster than I could have imagined, and his arms wrap round me and pull me in. I worry about hurting him – he is still so frail – but I can’t help squeezing him back. I sit for a long moment, perched on the edge of the small bed, feeling the warmth of Uncle’s hug.
Wednesday, 27 August 1941
The late summer sun is shining. I walk beside the Casemates with Uncle, who seems in fine form. All through breakfast he held court, telling old tales of Grip and Mabel, of the morning Edgar appeared in Chapel, of MacDonald turning the squirrel inside out (that was MacDonald?), to the rapt audience of me and Timothy Squire and Oakes.
Yeoman Brodie is back now, too. He winced at the story and apologized again – he seems much better now – and even found time to talk about all the new friends Malcolm has made in the country (I can well imagine), while Yeoman Cecil ate the newly harvested potatoes in quiet satisfaction.
As Uncle and I clamber across the battlements, his new cane ticking on the stone, once again I am the one struggling to keep pace. He must be hot under that buttoned coat. Surely a cloak isn’t required every day.
‘There is talk, any week now, we could open again,’ Uncle says, his voice wistful but with a smile in it. ‘Can you picture it? People swarming about? Tourists taking photographs?’
I look round at the scorched stones of the White Tower and Salt Tower, the ruins of the Byward Tower, the crumbling buildings of the Main Guard, trying to imagine it, the people, the cameras, the excited children.
‘No,’ I say.
I am ready, though. Leslie once said that the whole Tower changes completely – you can’t go anywhere without some bloody West End kid staring. Like living in a bleeding zoo. But she had smiled, and so do I. Still, it makes me think of her, and the ravens, again.
The loud, calling birds, moving round us, as Timothy Squire and I handed out the biscuits. MacDonald and Cora crowding us, Grip eating in dignified solitude, MacDonald and Cora fighting over the scraps, Edgar and Merlin long finished and looking for more. Laughter amid the croaking birds, the glistening black feathers, the black eyes that know you.
I finally got a letter from Flo, forwarded by Headmaster Brownbill, who turns out to know our old form teacher. (‘Looks as if your friend likes to write too.’) My heart sank when I tore it open – only two lines! – then I read it and laughed so loudly that Sparks gave me a surprised look as he descended into some chamber.
Mother says the bombs are over so we’re coming home in November. So tired of Peter and Michael, and Ellen is such a baby. Can I come live with you?
I stared at Flo’s words, the letters sloping downhill, my face beaming. This time I let the laughter come crashing out.
Uncle and I come round to the White Tower. Past the scaffold, down towards the empty cages. I take a deep breath.
A crow hobbles past. Uncle raises his cane, points to the great, scarred fortress.
‘And they will be here for tomorrow.’
They? I look from Uncle to the cages. He sees my look, smiles brightly.
‘But of course, Anna. The new flock will be here by midday. Six adults and a spare. You’ll have to help me with the names. We’ll give them ID tags too, so others can tell them apart.’ He smiles again.
I nod as we walk, clicking towards the empty roost.
‘And I think, if you’re happy to, you should take over my position as Ravenmaster. Now don’t argue – I’ve earned my rest. Though I’ll be free enough to give you a hand, should you need it.’
‘Thank you, Uncle.’
‘After all, there have always been ravens in the Tower, since the time of Charles II. Without them, my dear, the kingdom would fall.’
‘The Crown jewels.’
I squeeze Uncle’s hand tightly and we keep walking.
Monday, 1 September 1941
‘Hitler’s first plan, if we ever surrendered, was to take a pair of mated ravens from the Tower and bring them back with him. You know, to protect Germany.’
I nod as Timothy Squire goes on. Even if he looks older, he is still the same boy who loves Rockfist Rogan and hunting for bombs and is always curious about everything. Now, it seems, he considers himself an expert on Tower legend and a protector of ravens. The junior Ravenmaster.
Everything feels normal again. The grim towers and turrets, the dark uniforms on the battlements, the coal-black ravens parading round the Green, sunning themselves. Kraa. Kraa. Home.
‘Seems fair we all got put up to third form,’ Timothy Squire says with his grin. ‘Brownpants, though? Worse than ever, isn’t he? The Blitz ending didn’t soften him.’
We climb the east Casemates, now mostly cleaned and repaired. Home to the new school, as well. Timothy Squire sits up front, but every once in a while the giant head will turn and smile at me. I bet we’ll have to make up the summer term.
‘You know the old legend, right?’ Timothy Squire says. ‘The ravens hold the power of the Crown, so if they fly away, the kingdom will fall. No need to worry, though, they’re in good hands.’
Tomorrow is the 2nd. The day I lost Mum. A long year has passed. But last night I had a dreamless sleep.
She made a terrible mistake. And I don’t need to be reminded that I sacrificed myself, and the fate of the kingdom, for the happiness of a single bird.
She loved you.
I take Timothy Squire’s hand in mine. Together we turn the corner where the new roost, in the soft morning light, shines with a fresh beginning.
I will take him to Warwick Avenue, to see my house, check on the magnolia tree. Perhaps tomorrow we will go.
A commotion sounds at the front gate.
Timothy Squire releases my hand, marches proudly towards the entrance. Ready to show that he is up for it. Mr Thorne the Watchman has stopped a man from entering. A too eager tourist?
Voices grow louder. Timothy Squire turns back, casts me a protective look. If only you knew. Whoever the unwanted visitor is, he is not a Nazi leader.
I still cannot see the man, yet his voice reaches me, loud and haggard. A drunken officer, late for a ball?
‘Residents only,’ the Watchman is saying.
‘Let me through.’
I squint, trying to see the figure. I cannot make out the exchange.
‘I don’t give a damn if he’s on death’s door,’ the voice comes again. There is something – familiar – in the accent, the stern tone. ‘Send out Gregory Oakes so I can shoot the bastard myself!’
A horrible chill seizes me. The German. It is the same voice as the man from Traitors’ Gate. He has come to kill Oakes.
Oakes, oblivious as always, chooses this moment to appear.
‘What is it? What is going on here?’
He looks at me and
his eyes travel to the fracas at the gate.
‘Anna. Get back to your room. Now.’
‘No, Mr Oakes, sir – you mustn’t.’
But he is racing ahead and I follow. Faster, I slip through the arch before him.
The Watchman has raised his gun, and Timothy Squire stands poised between joining in and running for it. At the sight of the German between them, his hands held up and no weapon drawn, I stop dead.
He is the same – thinner, wilder, but the same man I have glimpsed across the Green. He is not wearing a hat. His hair, thick and ruffled, is pale as moonlight. His ears stick out.
Oakes breaks into the circle.
‘Coward,’ the German spits. ‘She is not in Yorkshire. What right do you have? To hide her from me? Where is she, you snivelling—’
The German, feeling me watching, turns his gaze on me and falls silent. Everyone falls silent. I stand rooted, my mind reeling, flustered by the inconceivable, catching on nothing. Yet certain of the impossible truth.
The German’s eyes are locked on mine. There is nothing else in the world.
I don’t have to say the word out loud; everyone hears it.
Father.
~
We hope you enjoyed this book.
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Acknowledgements
About John Owen Theobald
An invitation from the publisher
Acknowledgements
For their generous support, I am indebted to the Arts Council England.
My thanks to Bridget Clifford at the Royal Armouries Museum, Tower of London, for being so generous with her time and knowledge. For championing the idea and helping to bring it into the world, I am extremely grateful to Alex Drago, Megan Gooch, and Ceri Fox at Historic Royal Palaces.
For her wonderful artwork and willingness to tackle the most absurd deadlines, my thanks to Sarah Carter. To my copy editor, Helen Gray, for her insight and efficiency. To Nic, Henry, Suzanne, Clemence and the great team at Head of Zeus, for their enthusiasm and professionalism.
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