These Dark Wings (23 page)

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.’

He lets the first remark go in his excitement for the second. ‘What kind?’

‘You tell me. I need to know something – about a certain type of bomb. I’ve been looking, but I haven’t been able to figure out exactly how it works.’

‘You should’ve asked me.’

‘Well, I’m asking you now.’

We stand in silence on the Green. He looks up at me, waiting.

‘It’s about a bomb they haven’t dropped yet,’ I say. ‘But everyone always talks about it. Poison. The gas bomb.’

He looks at me strangely. ‘Yes?’

‘How does it... kill? The gas bomb. How does it kill?’

He looks at me, nervous, thinking. ‘It is... the gas stops your breathing. So you die.’

We look at each other for a moment. I remember all the things he said.
We all do what we must.
It is cool in the dusk and soon we both grow still. He does not look away, but nods very slowly before speaking.

‘Like going to sleep.’

I nod, turning my face towards the now sinking sun.

Saturday, 10 May 1941

‘Uncle, I need to talk to you.’

‘And I need to talk to
you
. Come, dear.’

He is in unusually good spirits today. Perhaps I can finally get him to answer me honestly. But first things first.

‘No, no,’ he says, seeing me reach for the gloves. ‘The birds can take care of themselves today. We’re going out.’

I stare at him, no words coming. Dazzling light streams in through the stained glass. Finally, I manage a cracked, ‘Where?’

He grins, a rakish gleam in his eye. He looks almost flushed. ‘Where else? Wembley.’

I nod dumbly, unsure what to make of his transformation.

Wembley?

We walk out in the cold. Uncle wears a brown suit and a trilby hat, limping slightly. I have changed into the new spring outfit Nell helped me pick out. Although the white jumper is hers (it is a little long at the arms), the navy skirt is straight from the shops.
Now I really look like a Magpie, glowing in the sun.
I smile at the thought but suddenly shiver. Maybe I should have worn my old trousers. Those blessed few days of warmth seem a different life ago. Is it really May?

It must be because buses now run on summer timetables. The driver punches our fourpenny tickets and we find seats as near as we can to the front. The air is stuffy, with an unpleasant smell like damp laundry. Green gauze is stretched tight across the windows. Out there is the city where I have spent my whole life, Which I may no longer recognize.

‘What a match,’ Uncle is saying. ‘Preston won in nineteen thirty-eight. Haven’t lost a game this year. But Arsenal is older, more experienced, and miserly with goals.’

While Uncle’s enthusiasm has startled me, I have not forgotten my determination to get the truth.

The bus driver calls out: ‘Sorry about the detour, folks. There’s been a nasty old man in the sky dropping stones.’

A few low chuckles, Uncle among them.

‘Did your mum ever tell you about the QPR games?’ Uncle smiles widely. ‘Oh, she loved them.’

There is nothing possible to say. Mum at a football match?

Uncle reads my expression clearly enough. ‘Oh yes. Dad loved the Hoops, and we would beg him to bring us along to White City. Your mum too, though I fear her love was more particular. How she swooned over Harry Pidgeon!’

I feel my face go red. ‘Who?’

‘He could dribble up the field like a dancer. Scored the odd goal, as well. Your mum must have been around your age. I think her affection was quite serious.’

Uncle is laughing like I have never heard him before. He is too pleased for me to say what I want to – what kind of name is
Harry Pidgeon
? – so I just gaze round the strange green interior of the bus. I keep staring, tangled in thought. I don’t mean to think it, I don’t
want
to, but it is everywhere.

‘Mum died on a bus like this.’

Although he goes very pale, he says nothing. After a moment, Uncle reaches over and squeezes my hand.

Despite my new resolution I can’t bring myself to ask the question.

Didn’t she?

When we get off the bus, the streets are humming like a beehive. I almost offer Uncle my arm, but he seems steady enough. Hawkers are selling red and white peonies and small Union Jack flags. Girls stand in summer dresses, despite the cold. I know Timothy Squire wishes he could be here.

‘Isn’t it dangerous?’ I wonder aloud.

‘No, no,’ Uncle says. ‘Perfectly safe.’

Perfectly safe?
The sun glints off the shining faces as we march along. If there is a daytime raid, we’ll be a perfect target. Another, slightly less terrifying thought grabs me.
How long is the game?
Surely we won’t still be here after nightfall. Surely.

We are inside the stadium.
I am inside Wembley
: sixty thousand people in the cold sunshine, all staring towards the brilliant green pitch. Uncle looks so happy that I can’t bring myself to ask anything more about Mum or the length of the match. His eagerness is infectious.

The game is set to begin at 3.30 p.m. A cheer rises up, and the players emerge from the tunnels. Uncle cheers too, and my heart surges to see him.
He looks like Mum now.
Mum when she would read me
The Hobbit
, doing all the different voices. Her voice for the dragon was low and scary, but she laughed, too.

The national anthem explodes into the arena. It is easy to become dizzy amid all the roaring voices.

‘See the young lad up front for Arsenal?’ Uncle yells to be heard, pointing vaguely at players in red and white. ‘Denis Compton. A sublime talent.’

I nod. This is almost as loud as a raid.

Preston in dark shorts looks like the slower team. Something happens – people are screaming – a penalty to Arsenal. The shot, hard and sure, is saved. Only three minutes gone. My legs are
frozen
.

Soon Uncle hands me my ‘picnic’ lunch of a cheese sandwich and crisps. Afterwards, though, I feel a little queasy. I adjust my positioning, stretching my legs in the light.

Now Preston moves faster. The post rattles. Another shot, and Preston scores. Uncle looks tired, but is always smiling. Happy. Just before half-time, Arsenal scores and the game is tied. Five clouds hang in the sky.

Although the players looked exhausted in the second half, the crowd cries with the same enthusiasm, even Uncle. The game goes on for a very long time, the ball kicked back and forth. Eventually, it ends in a draw. They will have to play again to settle on a winner. I make a note to tell Uncle that examinations are coming up and I’m really not feeling that prepared.
That is only half a lie.

It is 5 p.m., beautiful and sunny and freezing. Even though I move as quickly as I can, the crowd is in no hurry to leave the stadium. Once we reach the gates, the pace is slower than Grip waddling to the roost for bed. I pause, knuckling my back, before lumbering long with the laughing figures.

‘Our day is not over,’ Uncle looks down at me with a wink.

‘Oh, Uncle. I have had the most glorious day. I can’t thank you enough. But I would really rather just enjoy the sunshine – maybe wander around London a bit.’

‘Oh no, dear. You will not want to miss this.’

Uncle may be wrong. As another bus winds through the invisible streets, we sit in silence. Kate told me that the police have agreed to a new closing time, and cinemas and pubs are now open until 10 p.m. Uncle can’t plan to be out for so long, can he? I glance at him now. He looks older, worn, hidden under a hat.

Once we’re off the bus, we stop for tea and scones, which are delicious, and then Uncle checks his watch and says we have to hurry. When we finally turn and walk up to the Queen’s Hall, I cannot raise a smile.

‘A concert,’ I say, straining to keep the disappointment from my voice.

‘Oh no,’ he answers, not looking down. ‘Elgar’s masterpiece.’

Of course, once we get inside and take our seats, it turns out to be very much a concert. ‘
The Dream of Gerontius
,’ Uncle says, assuming perhaps that I am familiar with Gerontius. He makes various noises about Mum, how pleased she would be if she could see us.

The room, though, is quite splendid, and the fancy musicians and singers fill the stage. I wonder, and not for the first time, if Uncle truly had me in mind when he bought these tickets. Football and concerts? Is Oakes on duty at St Paul’s tonight?

When Mum took me out for a birthday treat, she always
asked
what I wanted to eat. Even if we couldn’t have it, she’d find us something similar.

The music is long and dull. My legs are sore from the day of sitting in the cold, and it is a shock to go from the screaming openness of the football to the quiet unmoving stiffness of the concert hall. My mind drifts to Monopoly. My little silver dog, moving along the board. Timothy Squire, laughing and talking. Not doing anything evil or horrible.

It’s not Timothy Squire’s fault. It’s the war. We are not ourselves.