These Dark Wings (2 page)

Startled, I turn to face the voice.

‘Yeoman Oakes,’ I say, controlling my fear. ‘Good morning.’

‘We should always carry our masks, Anna.’

Oakes holds up a black mask attached to a strap at his shoulder, and offers a smile as unconvincing as my own.

I stare, hunting for the proper words. In his Warder uniform – dark blue coat with a red crown on it, long cloak and stiff hat – Oakes is strict and imposing, like a painting of an old king.

‘I know, Yeoman Oakes, sir. I forgot this morning. I am sorry.’

‘Well,’ he says, watching the birds at their breakfast with a frown, ‘they are the real Beefeaters of the Tower, are they not? I must go and see if there’s any toast for us humans.’

Oakes heads off to the kitchen.

Ruffled, I lift the heavy bucket, continuing down the line.

I am forced to carry the black mask everywhere, the bloody nuisance, in case Hitler puts poison gas in the bombs. Everywhere I go, the mask must come in the cardboard box. Oakes is such a misery about it. Mum always carried hers. I can see her, in her Burberry and rubbers, mask over her shoulder. It didn’t help.

And I am
not
up early. Every morning I must be at the roost for dawn. Yeoman Oakes knows that. He practically follows Uncle Henry around. Likely, habit brought him here looking for Uncle. Was that why he gave me such a queer look? Did he forget that I help with the morning feeding? That I can do it just fine on my own?

He’s right about breakfast, though. Toast and an egg, tea without a spoon of sugar, and yet there is food for these birds. How is that fair? How can we care about birds when
people
are dying?

Uncle has told me why, though I don’t believe him.

Always there have been six ravens at the Tower. If the Tower ravens fly away, the kingdom will fall.
What does that mean? How can a bunch of croaking birds protect us from bombs and poison gas? My mind swings around slowly. Without them, we would have no King or Queen, no London or Edinburgh? What would there be instead? Germany? Nothing? I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

Taking a long breath of the morning air, I release the next bird, Merlin, avoiding the black swamp of his eyes. On each of them the flight wing is clipped, so they can’t get any proper height. Mainly they swoop and perch on the low branches and battlements, sometimes reaching a turret or rooftop. The ravens
could
fly away, Uncle says, but it is not a serious worry. Well fed and looked after, they have no desire to become just a common bird.

The cages are for their own safety. Foxes sneak inside somehow – I remember Uncle saying, in his official tour-guide voice, ‘The Tower is a place of great secrets and mysteries, of countless hidden passageways and tunnels.’ Uncle insists that, far from being prisoners, the ravens are in fact happy. Special.

Oakes gave a different reason. One night after dinner, his face splotchy and red, he leaned across the table: ‘The birds will not leave. They came here for the corpses. Their big dinner is coming.’ He laughed as if this were funny.

Happily, I approach the final cage, the now light bucket swaying with each step. This visit is the only reason I am able to make it through this dreary task. I always save it for last.

‘Good morning, Grip and Mabel.’

I cannot tell them apart by
look
, but they behave as complete opposites. The two birds are mated – they are both ten – and while Grip is angry and mean, Mabel is quiet and calm. She always responds to Uncle’s ‘secret whistle,’ leaving whatever she is burying to collect her meal. She does not look at me like the other birds do.

I pry open the tight hinge, which screams as it swings. Grip is out in a flash, blinking in the light. Ravens blink sideways, like some sort of feathered lizard.

Crrruck. Crrruck.

‘Good morning, Mr Grip. And where is your lovely wife? Waiting to take her meal inside the cage? Not ripping everything apart in front of me? Well, I know why
she’s
my favourite. Manners make the bird, you know.’

Showing Mabel the same courtesy, I peer inside the cage, alerting her to my presence before I enter. I can’t do Uncle’s secret whistle anymore than I can fly. Mabel is not grubby or horrid. She is proof that life in the Tower is possible. It is because of her that I have not gone mad in this place.

The bucket slips from my hand, clatters on its side. For a long moment I can only stare. All around ravens croak madly, knowingly.

Crrruck. Crrruck.

The cage is empty.

Mabel is gone.

Don’t worry about Mabel. She’ll be back
.

I’m the one who’s leaving
.

Uncle will not be coming to breakfast. Not because he’s upset about the lost bird – he knew all about that, though it surprised me when he said so. But, of course, he had put the ravens to bed and Mabel had not been among them. He’d hoped that she might be found sunning herself on the ramparts this morning. He did not seem worried when she wasn’t. Lying still, eyes almost closed, he smiled.

‘She’ll turn up. Just worry about the others for now.’

But I hear something else, something he didn’t say. If the Tower ravens leave, the kingdom will fall.
Well, there are still five ravens here, croaking and flapping. Surely five are enough.
Just eat your toast.

Like all the other rooms here, the kitchen in the Bloody Tower is made of smooth stone. Patches of white but mostly dark stone, climbing up to a huge vaulted ceiling. The stained-glass window pours down sparkling red and blue light. I had no idea how freezing it could be indoors. A thousand years old. All of that cold trapped inside the stone itself.

A large fireplace with too few logs extends into the room. All I want is to crouch down beside it. Instead I take my place on the bench, as far from Oakes as I can be. An empty, musty smell battles with the cooking eggs. At least I can put the gas mask on the floor.

Without Uncle’s smiling presence the kitchen is gloomy. Smoke clouds the damp air. Little can be seen aside from the small glow of pipes and cigarettes, washed in colour from the stained glass. Stony voices echo through the room.

‘Didn’t I tell you? The railings are gone, and suddenly everyone is walking across the grass.’

‘It’s a short cut.’

‘The green plots are not to be walked over.’

The Warders are a prickly lot, and it is strange to see them out of uniform. In regular suits and ties, they look almost... normal. There’s no talk of the missing bird. Uncle alone seems to care about them.

Oakes stares at the wall as he chews. The stiff hat is gone, but he is the only one in his uniform. Oakes is tall and freckled, his hair thin and brown. He might be Uncle’s age, though he looks older. Where Uncle is round and sturdy, Oakes is all straight lines and angles. Even his eyes are dark and strict. Always he wears an expression as if he is looking at something but not quite sure what it is.
It is a wall.

Warders with families eat in their own kitchens. The bachelors come here; I don’t know why. In addition to Uncle and Oakes, there is Mr Cecil – Mr Cecil’s wife died of illness years ago and his sons are old enough to be in the war, so he is all alone; and giant Mr Brodie with his almost crooked nose, whose wife and son actually live in the Tower, but who is here at every breakfast anyway.

Knives scrape plates. My thoughts are drawn again to Mabel – how she and Grip would hook beaks and play. Is she gone? Has she really escaped?

‘A fine room,’ Mr Brodie says in a ringing voice. It is clear that he is talking to me. ‘Medieval, you know. Well, except for the ceiling. Some modern adjustments are necessary at times.’ He leans in, as if imparting a great secret. ‘Had two Archbishops of Canterbury in this room. Not bad, as far as prisons go.’

I take the fork from out of my mouth. ‘It is a beautiful room, Yeoman Brodie.’

Even if the company was more welcoming, with food being so scarce one prefers to eat in private. Flo would have been great at this. Even before the Blitz, she ate slower than anyone I’ve ever seen. Once she carried the same banana from her bedroom to the parlour, taking a bite and putting it down again, as it turned all spotted and black. Cherries she ate like they were little apples.

Now the Warders are arguing. I hear occasional shouts of laughter, but Yeoman Oakes has an angry tone. Each time he brings his head forward to speak, I see the empty spot of hair. I focus on the mugs, the table.

‘That is what a leader is for,’ Oakes is saying.

‘For making peace with Hitler?’

‘For putting an end to the U-boat blockade, Brodie, so the people can eat. Putting an end to this bombing, so people stop dying in the streets. What will protect us from a two-thousand-pounder? These walls?’

Suddenly Oakes turns and faces me. I sit up with a jolt. That long, triangular face staring into mine. I look back through the smoke in surprise.

‘Sir?’ I say.

‘People – a certain kind of people – find Churchill inspirational. Well, here’s your chance to see for yourself.’

I quickly look down again, wishing he would go back to his wall. What is he talking about?
He is mad.

‘Thousands of innocent people, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters – they have homes, families, all the things that make life worth living.’ His voice is very loud now, loud and grating. ‘They didn’t want this war. They didn’t want the slaughter of their neighbours, of their communities. And our planes are the same to the German people. Right now, perhaps, a girl in Berlin looks up from her window in terror, waiting for our bombs to fall.’

‘Gregory, that’s quite enough,’ Brodie interrupts.

Oakes half stands, pointing a long finger at him.

‘That’s no more than Margaret Cooper would have said, and quite right. Imagine what she would write about this mess.’

I am stunned by the sound of Mum’s name. No one, not even Uncle, has spoken her name aloud. Why is Oakes talking about her? Then, before fully rising to leave, he mutters darkly.

‘Are we ready for an invasion?’

In the silence, I feel the chill of the stone underfoot.

Mr Brodie clears his throat. ‘Nevertheless, it will be an honour to host the prime minister. He is due to visit us Sunday next, as Yeoman Oakes mentioned. I think you will enjoy it very much, Anna. And your uncle should be feeling a sight better by then.’

I try to smile back. I don’t care about seeing the prime minister. Why would he come here anyway?
And how dare Oakes talk about Mum?

Mr Brodie is still watching me. ‘And you must be looking forward to Monday. Starting school again?’ He smiles kindly. ‘Be around some children your own age, and away from grouchy old men.’

‘Yes, thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to the new school.’

I know nothing of the school – not even where to find it in the castle. And why do classes start so late? It would be nearly half term at home.

He is still looking at me, waiting.
What do people even talk about in this place?

‘Bloody Tower is very old, isn’t it, Yeoman Brodie? Were the ravens here even before that?’