These Dark Wings (8 page)

‘’Course,’ he says to my continued silence. ‘What do you want to see?’

‘The docks,’ I blurt out. ‘And the incendiaries around there. Can we go tonight?’

Timothy Squire shrugs, then shakes his great head. ‘No. Not tonight. Tomorrow – tomorrow morning after Chapel.’

I frown. That’s when Churchill comes.
What if Oakes tries to kill him?
What can I do? Uncle doesn’t believe me – he won’t have a bad word said against his great friend Oakes.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ I agree.

I can’t worry about Oakes or Churchill, about the ravens or the kingdom. Tomorrow morning I will be on a ship, headed to my new home in Montreal with Flo.

Tomorrow I will be free at last
.

Cold leaks up from the stone.

When is sleep more important than safety? I am now curled atop three blankets on the shelter floor, gas mask in my hands. Around me various parents and children are scattered across similar blankets. Uncle is here, on his usual bench, and Oakes and Yeoman Brodie in chairs. Oakes looks tired – old and tired and hardly like a spy.
He is a Warder, and a firewatcher at St Paul’s.

Warders are everywhere, at every gate. Churchill will be safe. They will all be safe. If there is a spy, he will be caught.

A woman I don’t recognize, with a child in her arms, sits on the single bunk. Above them is a sign, written out in big letters.

ONCE A PERSON HAS GONE INTO A RECOGNIZED SHELTER THEY MUST REMAIN IN THAT SHELTER UNTIL THE ALL CLEAR SOUNDS
.
IN EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES THE MALE OF THE HOUSEHOLD MAY BE PERMITTED TO LEAVE THE SHELTER WITH THE APPROVAL OF THE WARDEN
.

Usually the kids play ‘Air Raid’, which involves running up and down, shrieking, and knocking things over. Tonight, though, everyone is quiet, even the young child.

At home we had a Blitz drill. I would run and close the shutters and bolt the doors. Mum would hurry to fill the bath and the sinks with water. We assembled in the sitting room, opposite the fireplace. Even before the war Mum always drew the front drapes. We would run up for the mattress, and drag it bouncing down the stairs.

If bombing was close, we had to squeeze under the table. Any closer, and we gathered all the blankets and took the wet garden path out to the cold Anderson shelter.

Uncle has risen from his chair, and he kneels down close to me.
Did I say something, cry out?

‘It’ll be over soon, love.’

He is right. When I wake up it will be tomorrow. And Timothy Squire will help me get to the harbour and find a ship. And then everything will change. I will be headed far away from here. Montreal. Quiet nights, happy dreams, proper food. No ravens, no legends, no bombs.

Uncle is kind. I will write to him from Montreal and thank him. I will write to him and explain it all.

I would have liked to have seen home again. I have not thought of home in days. The blue door, almost grey at the edges. Pints of milk outside, the newspaper folded on top. My room, a front room, with views of the street – of people and horses and motor cars. Red geraniums on the window sill. The untidy bookshelves. Lavender-scented soap.

What will it be like now? It won’t be the same as Florence’s family, who covered rooms carefully in dustsheets, and packed silverware and pottery away in newspaper. The house will be as it was, maybe with a layer or two of dust.

Will someone look after it? The police, or the firewatchers, old Mrs Morgan next door? Some day, I will find out.

One more night.
I pull my knees closer. As the low, distant sound continues, I feel my eyes closing. When the sound dries up, I have fallen asleep.

I dream of red geraniums.

Long dark months of trials and tribulations lie before us. Not only great danger, but many misfortunes, many shortcomings, many mistakes, many disappointments will surely be our lot. Death and sorrow will be the companions of our journey; hardship our garment; constancy and valour our only shield.

– Churchill, speech to the House of Commons, 8 October 1940

Sunday, 13 October 1940

Not until eight minutes to four in the morning did the All Clear sound. That wonderful, flat, steady sound. Then two hours in my bed. For once I am happy to have slept in my jumper. It is far too cold to even imagine undressing. And now it is all over.

I have made it.

I wash my face and hands in the freezing water from the bucket (
not
lavender scented), immediately towelling myself dry and warm. This morning I put on a little of the cold cream – nearly half gone already – before lacing up my shoes and leaving the room.

Today is the thirteenth of October. It didn’t even occur to me how perfect it all is –
of course
today is the day I escape. The best gift of all. I swiftly take the long twisting stairs to the Stone Kitchen. I will not miss them, or the old thick rope that burns my hands as I descend.

Uncle is up and cheerful for the dawn feeding.

‘Do you see? Equal chunks, four ounces.’

He gestures to a square of meat, about the size of his palm, and begins to chop it into smaller chunks. The cleaver thuds on the wood.

‘Now, see this?’

I glance up, nodding. He is holding an egg, slightly brown and spotted.

‘Every other day. A boiled egg. Shell on.’ His slow voice is firm. ‘These are for tomorrow.’

Tomorrow
. I am almost sad to hear him say it. He will have to feed the birds alone tomorrow. He will have to find someone else to listen to his stories.
He will miss me.

I am wary of the next preparation, though, which also occurs every other day – the bloodsoaked biscuits. First they look like the dry Melba toast that Mum always had at tea, but then they are pulped into red oblivion with a potato masher.

What a thing to be doing on
this
morning. It suddenly dawns on me that Uncle might know that it is my birthday – maybe Mum once told him, and he remembered. I am not hopeful. It is not important, not now.
Proof that I will
not
be missed.

I watch as carefully as I can. As ever, his movements are deliberate, considered. Uncle manages not to get any mess on his suit and tie.

‘I know it is hard, when there is so little to eat, not to resent the ravens. But you should see their usual diet. A rabbit every month – with the fur, of course, the fur is good for them. And plenty of table scraps.’

The idea of table scraps makes my stomach rumble. Their meal prepared, Uncle pulls on his black leather gloves. While he always wears gloves, today he has something else in his hands, something different.

‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself.

He laughs, not trying to hide the large gleaming scissors.

‘Don’t worry, my dear. Every three months we do this.’

We climb into the weak light and up the stone steps to the Tower Green. Other birds, small, bright birds, sing as we pass. I study the trees, but Mabel is not perched in the low branches. She has not returned to say goodbye.

No one else is up and about. At this hour, the Tower is only open to the gate guards and the milkman. There is no sign of Oakes or the strange man.

‘Here,’ Uncle says as we arrive, opening the cage of Raven Edgar. ‘Watch.’

I take quick breaths, the air still heavy with soot from last night’s raid.

Uncle picks up the raven – not without some difficulty, Edgar is a bad-tempered bird at the best of times – and he flutters like a chicken and swoops round the cage until Uncle is forced to grip him by the beak.

Maybe Edgar knows what is coming. His eyes are sharp and wide open. Ravens
look
at you, recognize you, in a way that cats and dogs never could. The eyes are
not
black, I realize. They have dark brown irises. Human eyes.

I am not too squeamish to watch Uncle cut some feathers.
The birds are happy here. Special
. Uncle holds the black bird in his right hand – Mum was left-handed too – and calmly snips at the end of the wing. Small black tufts float to the grass. The raven bites at his gloves, but with no real force. Uncle grins.

‘Just like a haircut.’

I smile back, absently pulling my copper ponytail. Edgar marches away, his dignity seemingly intact.

I close the cage door and again hoist the bucket. We move on down the roost.

It is hard to look at Raven Grip now. It always reminds me of Mabel – which is mad because
they all look exactly the same
. Little black goblin creatures, teetering back and forth. I remember Uncle’s other words, spoken days ago now. ‘Ravens mate for life. Paired ravens mimic each other.’ Will Grip disappear too, go off in search of Mabel?

I will him to do so.
Go, be free.

‘Not too much trouble, was that dear?’

‘Not at all, Uncle.’

Now I am grinning. Feeding is over and it is time for Chapel. I am done with the birds. And I am meeting Timothy Squire.

The Chaplain, standing proudly in front of the grey Chapel, beams at the Tower residents. Even the NAAFI girls from the canteen are here. Clouds hang heavy and the air is white with mist. Sunday weather. But this is not a regular Sunday.

A bugle sounds and the Warders’ parade marches into view. Today the uniforms are red and gold, with white ruffs at their necks and short black hats – like travelling into Mr Fenwick’s history textbook. Medals and ribbons are worn across the chest, and they all seem to carry large spears over their shoulders. Sir Claud Jacob himself, the Constable of the Tower, is here. We watch the Warders turn and march, and then follow them inside the Chapel.

I sit in my usual wooden pew, listening to the whispering and shuffling. My stomach growls after the measly cereal and no egg (not even a brown and spotted one). Many other uniforms are here too – the Scots Guard, the Grenadiers, the Women’s Royal Airforce in their blue wool. Everyone has come: Miss Breedon, in a flowery dress; Sparks, sitting quietly by himself near the pillar; Yeoman Brodie, his funny red uniform pressing against his wide chest. Even Leslie, with a tall, horsey-looking mum.

Timothy Squire, though, I do not see.

A boy that I think for a second might be him turns his face slightly – it is not. Timothy Squire’s father, I have discovered from cautious questioning of Uncle, is the curator at the Armouries Museum – a rather boring man who I once helped pack boxes. I do not see him either.

I’m not bothered. At breakfast, I raced through the washing up. Yeoman Cecil’s eyes were wide – he may not have completely finished his cereal – but everything was dumped with a heavy splash into the sink. Moments later I was dashing down the stairwell.
He will come.

Organ music begins, slow and heavy. I pick up the books –
New English Hymnal
,
Book of Common Prayer
– and put them down again. Light floods in from the large windows all around. Still, it is cold. But I shiver with excitement. The service, Sung Matins, is brief. Although the choir is small – two boys, three men, and six girls – their voices are sweet. I am so happy I even smile at horrible Leslie and her horsey mum.

Instead of the Chaplain giving his sermon, a Warder stands and reads from a paper in a stilted voice.

‘Now that winter is approaching and the blackout is daily becoming earlier, it is essential to look carefully and improve the blackout. There are many windows and doorways still showing light...’

He drones on. The first thing I will do once I arrive at my new home in Montreal is tear any bloody curtains from the windows.

We sing a nice hymn, and it is a frenzy of giggling voices before the crowd reappears outside the Parade Grounds. I recognize some of the Wives – and, with a shock of distaste, Headmaster Brownbill. Raven Cora, a thin branch in her beak, marches past in her most military bearing, and carries it off rather well. No sign yet of Timothy Squire. Again, I think I see him except it is an older boy, who looks quickly away.

Then, through the autumn fog, a black car arrives and slows to a halt in front of the barracks. Timothy Squire is not here.