What the Raven Brings Read online

  WHAT THE RAVEN BRINGS

  John Owen Theobald

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About What the Raven Brings

  London, 1942: the Blitz is over but the war rages on. With the country still fighting for its existence, a young girl takes to the skies...

  After her mother was killed in an air raid, Anna Cooper was sent to live with her uncle, the Ravenmaster at the Tower of London. Now, he too is dead.

  His dying wish was for Anna to be the next Ravenmaster, keeper of the birds who, according to legend, guard the fate of the kingdom. But the Tower authorities won’t stand for a female Ravenmaster, let alone one who is not yet sixteen years old.

  Denied her destiny, Anna is desperate to escape the Tower and join the war effort. She bluffs her way into the glamorous – and dangerous – world of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.

  But no matter how high she flies, Anna can’t escape her past... nor the secret that it conceals. A secret that could change the course of the war.

  For Grammie

  Jean McIntyre (née Murray),

  RCAF 1941–1945

  ‘You shall go as the others have gone,

  Lay your head on a hard bed of stone,

  And have the raven for companion.’

  Dylan Thomas, The Ploughman’s Gone

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About What the Raven Brings

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Part I: Shadow Over England

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Part II: The Ghosts We Called

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part III: Attagirls

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part IV: The Sky Between Us

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part V: The Shadow of Her Wings

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part VI: Across the Sea

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgements

  About John Owen Theobald

  About the Ravenmaster Trilogy

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  Map

  I

  SHADOW OVER ENGLAND

  ‘that thick and formidable circle of ancient stone, where so many drums have beaten and heads have fallen, the Tower of London itself.’

  Virginia Woolf, The Docks of London

  1

  Saturday, 16 May 1942

  My run of luck is over. During the Blitz, luck’s the only thing that keeps you alive. Every bomb that falls next door, every fire that whips up just as you reach the shelter, every scrap of food you find before someone else – that’s your luck, draining away. After a year, it’s flat gone. And you’re left trapped in the belly of a cement monster with the most annoying person in the world.

  ‘Squire. You asleep over there?’

  I turn to face the grinning voice. ‘Working hard as you are, Lightwood.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ From above comes the quartermaster’s voice. My head is down, focused on tying together the steel bars with wire. I don’t need to peek over my shoulder to know that Lightwood’s done the same.

  ‘Timothy Squire and Arthur Lightwood. I should not have to remind you that one word from me and neither of you will ever wear a uniform.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I grit my teeth. Three months of demolition training to become a sapper – a Royal Engineer in His Majesty’s armed forces – and here I am reinforcing concrete down at the docks. Tie the steel bars together with a figure-eight knot, cut the wire free with pliers. Repeat until death.

  Lightwood and I work together, apart. As far apart as you can be in a ten-foot cell. Even in the shadows cast by the walls, sweat drips into my eyes. We’re in a giant hollow concrete box, with twenty compartments, sunk into the earth. All that’s needed is a top, and we’re as good as in a coffin. If we were truly dead and buried, at least we wouldn’t notice these bloody midges.

  It’s hard to imagine a smaller space to work with another human. I could well do with some light, or air. The river is so close, but the dry dock blocks it. Seagulls cry out, mocking us.

  My luck has run to empty.

  I keep working, not daring to check if the quartermaster is still atop the ladder, watching like a riled hawk. Crabby little apple, that one.

  The armed forces have taken over the docks, and brought their discipline with them. I suppose I should be happy to be here. As long as I’m close to these sappers, I can find another chance to become one myself. Truth is, I’d rather be anywhere else.

  Finally, I glance up and risk turning full around. Cranes on tracks swing and swoop high above, intent on their own work. The walkway that runs down the centre is clear. He is gone. Long gone, I’ll bet, smirking as he left.

  Pressing a hand against the small of my back, I watch Lightwood working away, furious, tying the wire, yanking it firm. Did I look that stupid?

  ‘Lightwood.’

  He stops, panting, and turns to me, face bright as a cherry. ‘He gone? Thank Christ.’

  Letting the pliers fall to the concrete, he leans his back against the wall, closing his eyes. I watch him with a smile. Arthur Lightwood – sounds like he rides a white horse in some poem from school. Looks a bit like it, too. The horse, that is.

  ‘You know what I should be doing right now?’ I turn and spit in the opposite corner. ‘Learning about mines. But some fool – some blighter – added a Type 70 fuse instead of a 67.’

  His eyes still closed, he looks almost relaxed. ‘I reckon another day in Aberdeen and you’d have been dead as a doornail. Can’t keep your sticky fingers out of TNT for five minutes at a time. One of ’em was bound to go off eventually. Fag?’

  Lightwood’s eyes blink open, and he’s rummaging in his pockets.

  ‘Bleeding liar.’ I wave the offered cigarette away, casting a look up at the walkway. ‘Better get back to it. This bloody Phoenix isn’t going to build itself.’

  Who knows, maybe it will. No one here’s got the first clue what a Phoenix is, and no one is allowed to ask. The armed forces brought that with them, too – no questions, just make sure the concrete is reinforced.

  Not even Lightwood knows, and he knows everything. Doesn’t stop him from guessing, of course.

  ‘Think about it, Squire. There’s a ton of sappers down here. Obviously it’s vital to the war. So what could it be?’

  I almost guess a battleship, but the thought of Lightwood’s horsey laugh makes me want to clobber him. And we really should get back to work.

  ‘Massive old block of concrete,’ he says after I fail to respond, then snorts when I don’t understand him. Man’s a bleeding talking horse. ‘You sink it, you’ve got a foundation underwater.’

  ‘A foundation for what?’

  ‘Harbours. Roads. Whatever you want.’

  I shake my head. ‘You were wrong about the clockwork fuse.’

  ‘That was your fault, Squire.’

  Lightwood is full of it. No one knows what anyone is building. At least three other Phoenix units are under construction here, and similar work’s going on at the other docks. And the clockwork fuse was partly my fault, that’s the worst bit. How could I get the fuses mixed up?

  ‘The Germans hold all the ports, right? If we’re going to land over there, we’ll need to bring our own�
�’

  A voice booms from above. ‘Another peep out of either of you, and you’re both gone. Final warning.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Don’t lose your wool, mate. Didn’t think it would be possible to miss the training, but two ticks and I’d go back and start it all over again. Who’d have thought I’d ever miss the endless buckles and buttons of the uniform. The marching drills were the worst, of course. The day my blistered feet finally burst, flooding my boots with blood, I thought I was done. But I learned a few tricks – get your boots one size too small, urinate on them, and never wear socks – worked a treat.

  Lot of good marching tricks and rifle drills will do me stuck down here. At least when we spent hours in a bomb hole, we’d wonder what would happen if the bomb went off. Here we know nothing is going to happen. Ever.

  Only two weeks away from completing sapper training; written tests, live demolitions, working with time-fused and magnetic response bombs – I’d finished it all. All I needed to do was blow the fake bridge. A single bloody bridge.

  I was better than all those Kensington boys.

  A whistle cracks the air. For what seems like the first time in hours, I look up. The sun has dropped behind the wall. Workers are hurrying across the wooden walkway. Another hellish long day. Midges cloud around me.

  ‘Lightwood.’

  He looks over, eyes wide. I already have my hand on the ladder.

  ‘Let’s close up shop, yeah?’

  He nods, adds the final touches to some work, drops his pliers. We climb up to the light. I slide off my cap, take in as much sun as I can.

  The docks had been hit hard during Hitler’s fireworks. Many are now unusable. Ours, the South Dock, was badly damaged and turned into a dry dock – drained and sealed with a concrete barrier at the lock. And in the middle, four great Phoenix units. Nearly 200 feet long, I’d wager each must be, and close to 60 feet high. A giant harbour, and not a drop of water. Just cranes and concrete boxes.

  The Greenland Docks are just to the east. From here I can see the shining water, with a ship in dock. When the day comes that we’re done here – if that day comes – they’ll open the gates and let the tide rush in, lifting this giant concrete bastard off the ground.

  ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Lightwood says.

  He grabs my shoulder, his grip exaggeratedly strong. Wants to be the big man, can’t help himself. Arthur Bleeding Lightwood. I didn’t get on with most of the kids at the Tower, but Arthur and I have palled up since training together in Aberdeen. He slept in the bunk above mine in the Aberdeen barracks. Now I’m stuck inside a concrete box with him.

  Some day I’ll have to tell Anna the truth.

  *

  In the quiet of the pub Lightwood once again guides me through his injuries working with our ill-fated fuse.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the pain.’

  ‘Hard luck, mate.’

  I take small sips of the beer. You get a good pint in the Fox and Hounds, but Lightwood always goes for broke. Not that I can really complain to the guy. He is, after all, saving me from humiliation. Lightwood’s mum lets me sleep in his room, though I’m shoved away in the corner like old socks. She keeps a fine eye on us, too.

  I don’t have enough for a bit of grub – I am skint – and Mrs Lightwood barely feeds us beyond a slap-up meal of bully-beef sandwiches and the odd sardine. I could always go home. Mum and Dad would make sure I got a proper meal with potatoes and all. But I’ve told them we’re only at the docks for a few weeks and then we’re being sent back up north to finish our training. If I stayed at home, Mum would weasel the truth out of me in no time. No, it’s safer to stay at Lightwood’s with a growling belly.

  ‘There was blood on my helmet,’ Lightwood is saying. ‘The cut didn’t look so bad, but the blood, I tell you, it was everywhere. The wrench just slipped—’

  ‘Who is that?’

  Lightwood blinks, startled. ‘Who?’

  ‘The bloke over there. Third table from the bar, brown hat. He keeps looking over here.’

  Lightwood peers foolishly across the room. ‘I don’t know. That pipefitter, isn’t he? From the unit next to ours?’

  I nod, turn back to the beer. Bloody hell, I’m going mad. Seeing Anna’s dad in every face at the pub. Coming to England was a mistake that man won’t make again. They’d shoot him on sight. I’d shoot him myself.

  ‘Fag?’

  Lightwood tilts the pack towards me. I slide one tube free, hold it between my thumb and finger. Well, maybe I wouldn’t shoot the man. But I’d at least chase the bastard away.

  You already did. He’s long gone back to see Hitler. I still can’t wrap my head around it. Anna’s dad – a German!

  ‘You gonna smoke it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I light it, puffing out a huge grey cloud, and swallow the itch that seizes my throat. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What is it, Squire? You’ve gone all white.’

  ‘Lightwood, I couldn’t tell you, mate. Not even if I wanted to.’

  He lets it go with a snort, intent on his pint.

  ‘You shouldn’t have used a wrench,’ I say. ‘A magnet would’ve got the fuse out. Lot less blood and whinging.’

  He looks up, surprised I’d been listening to his ramblings about slippery wrenches. ‘A magnet, eh? They were in short supply on the training ground. Unless you had one on you the whole time?’

  ‘’Course not. But a sapper’s got to use his head. Not that we’re sappers, though, are we?’ I glance down at my plain work clothes. ‘We’re just labourers, Lightwood, that’s the truth of it. No sense bantering about bombs.’

  I crush out the cigarette, swallowing the harsh dry taste. I take a long sip of beer. Another. How does Lightwood suck these things back all day? I feel like I’m going to lose what little food is in my stomach.

  I will go, tomorrow, to the Tower. My first day off – might as well get it over with. I will talk to Anna; she’ll believe me. She isn’t likely to guess the truth: that I’m sleeping in Lightwood’s flat in Shadwell, pretending to live in the barracks.

  A voice comes back to me, a horrible sing-song voice from school.

  Timothy Squire is a rotten liar.

  ‘Come on, Lightwood. I’m knackered and I ought to get some proper sleep. Tomorrow’s set to be a long day.’

  Sunday, 17 May 1942

  ‘What do you mean, “Not the real Ravenmaster”?’

  ‘It’s a ceremonial role, Anna.’

  ‘I know more about ravens than Mr Sickhouse—’

  ‘Mr Stackhouse.’

  ‘—ever could and it’s not fair at all.’

  Oakes sighs, drops his spoon. The clink echoes throughout the Stone Kitchen. Life in the Tower of London is filled with echoes and long silences. It is also filled with Beefeaters – Yeoman Warders – and their traditions.

  ‘It’s a ceremonial role, Anna. You need to be a Warder. Serve in the army. Be a man.’

  ‘Why all these rules? Uncle was the first Ravenmaster.’

  I stop the moment I say it, but it is too late. Oakes’s face falls. It has been a month since Uncle’s funeral, and neither of us has said much about it since. I feel quite terrible. Yes, he was my uncle, but Oakes was his greatest friend. Since Uncle passed away, Oakes is mostly quiet. Sometimes, after school, when he speaks I can smell whisky. At least he does not smell of whisky yet.

  I can still see Uncle Henry’s thin, grey-cold features – how old he looked before he died. He became like this place – old and grey as stone. It is strange not to have him here, it feels wrong. Despite the roaring fire behind us, the room is suddenly very cold.

  ‘You can’t just make up traditions as you go along,’ I mutter.

  ‘Sometimes you can.’ A rueful smile and Oakes lifts his spoon to his breakfast. ‘Finish your porridge, Anna. It’s the first real milk we’ve had in ages.’

  I eye the bowl suspiciously. Is this even real milk, or is Oakes just saying that so I
will enjoy it? I have long forgotten the taste of real milk. Now the hens have all stopped laying, we have dried eggs – everyone calls them ‘dregs’, which is just what they taste like. I am so tired of these Blitz dishes. Mum used to worry we were living a ‘pinched existence’ on Warwick Avenue. What would she say about this? The thought is enough to make me laugh.

  But I am not in the mood for laughing.

  ‘And who decided on Mr Sickhouse—’

  ‘Stackhouse.’

  ‘Shouldn’t there be a test – or a vote – or something?’

  There isn’t and there won’t be. After only six months on the job, I have been demoted. And only one of the ravens tried to escape. And if Malcolm got pecked on the skull, well maybe it’s Malcolm’s own fault for trying to pet the raven like it’s a cat.

  ‘We’re going to open to the public soon, Anna. As soon as the war is over. And they expect certain things about the Tower of London – Warders in uniform, for example.’ He casts a look down at his very unWarder-like shirt and tie.

  I am sick of the Warders and their stuffy traditions. Always there have been thirty-five Yeoman Warders at the Tower – for six hundred years.

  Everything is planned perfectly. I will act as Ravenmaster, with Timothy Squire as my assistant, and one day when we’re older we will live in Maida Vale, bringing three ravens with us to look after there. They will have plenty of trees and space to fly around, and on Saturdays Timothy Squire will bring them meat from the Warwick Avenue butcher.

  Working with – working under – this new Warder is not part of the plan.

  ‘I just don’t understand why we need him.’

  Oakes clears his throat. ‘It was my suggestion, actually.’

  ‘Yours? But, Yeoman Oakes, I know the ravens better than anyone.’

  ‘Yes.’ He frowns, or maybe smiles, it is hard to tell the difference these days. ‘But now that school is over, and you’ve no wish to attend another school, I thought perhaps you might be interested in... other things. Volunteering at the canteen, for example?’