These Dark Wings (28 page)

Pots bang in the back room. The chair is warm, comfortable. Different from the ones at the Tower, I flip through the black headlines of the newspapers.
Berlin Claims 1,000 Tonnes of Bombs on London.

The
Evening Standard
is in the pile. I have not seen a single copy, not even among the stacks in the Casemates shelter. Mum didn’t like me reading it either; she didn’t
hide
it from me.

I recognize the strange, difficult-to-read font of the paper’s title. The headlines, grave though they are, seem warm, familiar:
Bismarck Sunk.
Ulster Not To Have Conscription.

I flip the thin pages, remembering the lettering, the sections. It looks almost the same. Eight pages. One penny. I turn to the back, before
Amusements
and
Radio
. Her writing would be right here, usually, though sometimes it was closer to the front. And then I see an article I somehow missed. An excerpt from a German paper, translated.

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.