These Dark Wings Read online

  He is standing in front of the thick walls of Wakefield Tower. His face too looks older – more serious. What does he have planned? The afternoon is calm and peaceful, and after the birds were fed, a sudden bright sun arrived. The ring in my ears has finally dulled away. Fresh air I would enjoy very much.

  ‘Today is the day,’ he repeats. ‘For a Roman holiday. You know. Go and look at the ruins.’

  Again I feel the warmth of escaping the Tower. And there are plenty of ruins to see. People, too poor and thin, wandering around. More than I have ever seen, even in the docks. Timothy Squire does not try to hold my hand. It would not be right, I realize, amid all these horrors. Or has something else changed? I wonder – I have been wondering for days – what Timothy Squire’s father said to him. Maybe he took away his comics. I’m sure they had a dreadful row.

  What would Mum have said to me? I would be in trouble forever. When I got in trouble for laughing at Piper Jones in first form, she was quite shocking about it. What would Father have said to me?

  The thought dies instantly. I know nothing about Father. Mum only talked about how he played the violin and he was a sailor. And he drowned in the North Sea.

  Timothy Squire has the same carefree lope as always. Something, though, is different. Maybe Sir Claud spoke to him. Leaving the shelter is never allowed.

  The Tower has changed. Everyone is on edge.

  The NAAFI girls are fine, though the fire destroyed the canteen. Yeoman Cecil has been grumbling that 500,000 cigarettes were lost in the flames. The moat too had been bombed, clearing the Women’s Royal Airforce detachment from their huts. The barrage balloon went with them.

  I think back to how I felt the night before the raid. A sense of excitement, of the possibility that things could get better. And when Timothy Squire appeared like a reckless fool at the shelter, even then, though it seemed certain that a bomb would get us... there was something. A hope.

  Now I feel rattled like everyone around me. It’s easy to tell yourself things will work out OK, quite another thing to believe it.

  Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper.

  Before I have a chance to try asking him, Timothy Squire stops in front of a destroyed building. A whole house, I realize, fallen into the basement. He prowls amid the ruin, lifting up pieces for inspection.

  We move on down a twisting road that Flo would have called a ‘slummy street’. Another row of flats, recently hit. The firemen must have only just left. Sun shines in the gap where something – a church? – once stood. Everywhere else, the air is heavy, almost black.

  ‘Timothy Squire. I have to talk to you – about Oakes.’

  ‘The spy?’ he says, dripping sarcasm.

  ‘He met with a German.’ I plough ahead. ‘I heard them. Outside Traitors’ Gate.’

  ‘Traitors’ Gate?’ I can hear the smile. ‘Well? What did he say?’

  ‘He said – Oakes said he’d shoot him if he didn’t go back to Germany.’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dad says Oakes is practically a pacifist. Anyway what’s the problem? If some German has parachuted into the city, Oakes is right to chase him off. ’Course, he should’ve shot him dead there and then, but it’s Oakes after all...’

  As he wanders off I stare around, mesmerized. It is strange to find myself smiling. Am I hoping this same destruction has visited Germany?

  Blinking in the sun, I realize that Timothy Squire has got himself on top of a pile of rubble. He looks strong, important, up there. It takes me a moment to realize that he is peering into the window of the ruined flat opposite. He turns, catches my glance.

  ‘Come on,’ he says.

  ‘Where?’ To see more broken bricks and clouds of dust?

  Timothy Squire walks round to the front of the house, pushing cautiously against the door.

  ‘Timothy Squire,’ I call out. He has already gone inside.

  I twist, looking wildly around. If one of the firemen returns, or the ARP Warden passes by, they will think...

  Timothy Squire’s round face appears in the glassless window.

  ‘Come on.’

  I step inside. The ceiling light still shines, revealing Timothy Squire in the corner.

  ‘Too late,’ he mutters.

  Too late? The fires have only been out a few hours. Too late for what?

  He is at something – the gas meters – but they are broken. He moves quickly away, pushing the rubble aside with his foot. The light, though dim, seems far too strong now.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I read something... Ah,’ he says, unearthing a faintly recognizable object. A purse, which he turns open. Empty.

  ‘Timothy Squire,’ I say in a low voice, ‘let’s get out. Now.’

  He continues to search the room. I stay near the door, casting glances behind me.

  ‘We have to leave,’ I say, suddenly very scared. ‘We could go to prison.’

  ‘What? For scrounging?’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  My heart drums in my ears. If someone comes I won’t be able to hear.

  We are looters.

  He smiles, still looking. ‘Much good it’s going to do this lot.’

  My breath is short, too short.

  ‘Looting...’

  ‘Nothing here to loot, I’d say.’

  Despite his words, he keeps searching. A noise comes from behind me – I’m sure of it – but no one is there. Yet. Why is he doing this? Is he determined to go to gaol?

  ‘Well, well.’ An exaggerated intake of breath. ‘Someone left in a hurry. Dropped this.’

  He holds up, too impossible and bizarre to imagine in the setting, an orange. Gloriously bright and round, a tiny sun.

  ‘Who else is going to claim it? Rats? We have to look after ourselves.’

  He almost sneers the words. Maybe he is right. With Warders helping spies and Uncle refusing to listen – if we don’t look after ourselves, who will?

  His tone changes as he sees my face. ‘We’re just like the birds. Storing up for the winter.’

  I can say nothing. Would Mabel steal from the dead? The answer is more definite than I’d hoped.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, pocketing the orange. The room is suddenly darker, colder. ‘I bet there’s more back here.’

  There is more. I follow, slowly at first, then quickly. A lipstick. A lighter. Four stamps at twopence-halfpenny. All covered in dust, all slipped into the pockets of Timothy Squire’s oversized coat.

  We sneak out silently. The sun glares. I have no time to think; all I know is that we have to get back to the Tower.

  ‘All right, you lot.’

  I freeze at the voice. I expect Timothy Squire, who is several steps ahead of me, to dash off down the alley. Instead he turns and smiles up at the ARP Warden.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Aye, is it? And what are you up to here, lad?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  He smiles threateningly. ‘I’ll be the judge of that, won’t I? What are you two children crawling among the rubble for? You lining your pockets?’

  Despite how pale Timothy Squire looks, his smile never leaves. ‘No, sir. No use for rocks, not unless Hitler’s planes start flying lower.’

  ‘Boy, you’re fooling nobody. You are in real trouble, you understand me?’

  He seems to. His face passes to a further, improbable shade of white. His words seem to have drained away with his blood.

  I smile, stepping forward. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. Truly, it is all my fault. I just asked if he would show me around. I’m not from here, you see...’

  Of course he does see, from the moment I open my mouth, a West London girl in the East End, and his anger turns to scorn.

  ‘Christ. A good evening to be out sightseeing, is it?’

  ‘No, no, sir. Just headed home for dinner now. I am sorry to have caused any problem.’

  ‘I’m so tired of you gawkers, having fun from someone els
e’s misery. This isn’t a show, you understand.’

  He points to Timothy Squire.

  ‘Don’t you go helping this lot get their entertainment. You’d be right to be ashamed, the two of you. Now find your legs, on you go. Move.’

  We turn and leave without another word. My face burns.

  IV

  THE FIRE AND THE MOON

  If this invasion is going to be tried at all, it does not seem that it can be long delayed.

  It ranks with the days when the Spanish Armada was approaching the Channel, and Drake was finishing his game of bowls; or when Nelson stood between us and Napoleon’s Grand Army at Boulogne.

  We have all read about this in the history books; but what is happening now is on a far greater scale and of far more consequence to the life and future of the world and its civilization than these brave old days of the past.

  – Churchill, broadcast to London, 11 September 1940

  8

  Monday, 28 October 1940

  Across the table, the Daily Mirror headline screams out: Hang a Looter and Stop this Filthy Crime. A quick glance says it all. Those found guilty of looting from homes damaged or vacated for reasons of enemy attack will suffer prison or death. At least I see no articles about the ravens – how they are dying. How the kingdom is falling.

  I shift uncomfortably on the bench, looking around the Stone Kitchen, away from the newspapers. Again Uncle is not at breakfast. I am beginning to worry that he might become an invalid like Mum’s friend, Ester. The Warders chat, the plates have been cleared, and I fear I will soon be left alone with Oakes.

  It pains me to admit it; Timothy Squire is right. While Oakes may have met with a German, he also threatened to kill him. He can’t be a traitor then, can he? And one can’t be friends with a German. When it turned out that Mrs Weber across the street had an Austrian husband, he was sent to the Isle of Man, and she moved out to live in Surrey. It is not possible that Oakes helped coordinate the raid. It was pure chance that Salt Tower was hit. Oakes has even been gracious enough not to mention my accusation about MacDonald.

  As the talk and laughter dies down, the other two Warders stand and leave. We are alone. Perhaps Uncle will arrive to remove the newspapers with a great flourish, insisting that I have no need to read them. To hide them from me.

  Instead Oakes takes out a handkerchief, blowing his nose for a loud and impossible length of time. No one arrives. He puts his elbows on the table, leans slightly forward.

  ‘Well, Anna...’

  I collect the remaining cutlery as Oakes takes up the brush and Vim. Whenever Flo’s father would say one of those things I didn’t quite understand, he would smile and add, ‘Something to think about while you help your mum with the dishes.’ Now, though, no thoughts come. The scrape of the plate fills the world.

  The whole walk back with Timothy Squire, I didn’t say a word. Now, of course, I am bursting with all the things I should have said. That he is an idiot. That what he did was disgusting. The question rises up, refuses to go away. He paid for the sausage. I think too of his strange caps and mismatched blazers. How long has he been doing this? What do his parents think?

  Silence reigns as Oakes deposits plates into the lukewarm water.

  He pauses and holds up a dirty knife, staring as if seeing one for the first time.

  ‘Imagine,’ he says softly, ‘doing that – with this.’

  The cup slips clattering from my hands. MacDonald.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He smiles, dropping the knife into the rapidly disappearing foam. ‘The carving, Anna. Have you forgotten about Hew Draper so soon?’

  I fight the urge to step back. Why is he talking about the carving? Or is he really talking about MacDonald? Even a sneak like Oakes isn’t likely to brag to a thirteen-year-old girl about how he murdered a raven. I am not scared of him.

  ‘Do you know the legend of King Arthur, Yeoman Oakes?’

  ‘Not all of them, I’m sure,’ he smiles, trying to hide his disapproval of my tone.

  ‘That he is destined to return, some day, as a raven. So you must never harm one.’

  He sighs, a deep, heavy sigh. ‘Your uncle is the first “Ravenmaster”, did you know that? Before that, his title was plain old “Quartermaster”. He loves those birds.’

  Of course. Oakes would never do anything to hurt Uncle. After scrubbing the final few knives and spoons, I wait to release the plug. Always there is an errant fork somewhere.

  Once, when I was ten, and Mum had annoyed me by not letting me go to see The Adventures of Robin Hood, I thought about her dying. Except in my mind I moved in with Flo, and she became my sister, and her parents were happy and laughing as they watched us play. Flo’s mum was never mean or yelled even one time.

  I don’t know what’s come over me; suddenly I feel very brazen.

  ‘Yeoman Oakes, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Anna?’ He arranges the pots on the tea towel, leaving them to dry in the chill air.

  ‘Do you... do you know why he fought with my mother?’

  The expression that passes over Oakes’s face changes it completely. ‘I don’t, Anna. You really should not be asking such questions. The business of adults—’

  ‘I know. I am sorry, sir. I am. But Uncle tells me nothing.’

  ‘Anna... I never met your parents. Your mother was a wonderful woman, an extraordinarily brave woman, who championed unpopular causes and always fought for the truth. Do not think poorly of her.’

  Oakes mutters some words about the long day ahead and quickly leaves me standing alone in the kitchen. I release the plug and with a low gurgle the dirty water drains away.

  I have, without meaning to, come to the roost. Cora perches atop the inner wall. The sharp wind that tears the clouds above only ruffles her wings. She stays firm, claws curled, head cocked.

  It is not time for her feeding. More than bombs and smells and traitors, it is the lack of food that has made her life different. Does she understand why? How the world is different?

  The sun shines, yet it no longer bounces off her, no longer reveals the deep blue polish that is her true colour. Other birds look fragile; not ravens. Ravens are hard, sturdy – survivors.

  I stand there, staring at the plane trees, slowly blinking away hot tears.

  It’s a bloody bird! Mum was killed, and Father drowned before I was old enough to even remember his face, and I am crying over a bloody dying bird.

  No. Cora is not dying.

  Not while I am looking after her.

  School is hellish. My workbook is almost full and I’ve taken to borrowing paper from Leslie. This at least gives her a chance to tell me more stories. Even though raids have become a dreadful bore, Leslie still makes a fuss over every one.

  ‘Another Tube station was hit,’ she says, handing me three sheets. ‘Sloane Square. Got people just as they stepped off the train.’

  ‘Horrible.’

  She leans in. ‘Everyone died. Thrown all over, some on the live wires. And what’s worse, the explosion tore off all their clothes, so there’s just naked bodies hanging from the girders.’

  ‘Hanging?’

  ‘If you’re lucky. Most of what they found were just bits. A foot on the tracks, an arm on the platform. They sweep them all up in a dustpan.’

  Leslie has many stories like this. Two left feet found in a gutter, a torso on a rooftop – and, everyone’s greatest fear, people buried alive. She is not trying to scare me, not really, as much as she is showing that she is not afraid. But as she talks her face is more drawn than usual.

  Even as I listen, my eyes wander to Timothy Squire who, as always, stares straight ahead. What is he thinking? What is he planning?

  At least I know why he didn’t want to take me to the docks on my birthday. He’d just been down there, looting. That is why he missed Churchill’s visit. Those things, glittering in his closet – watches and bracelets, not bombs. He is not a bomb expert. He is a thief. He is a rotten liar.
/>   Who cares? Things outside are worse. Other stories and rumours besides Leslie’s have reached us. Of boroughs where water is unsafe to drink, where it must be boiled only there’s no gas to do so. Oakes goes on about it over breakfast. Still, it is exhausting to worry about the other boroughs, the other cities.

  During a break in Leslie’s stories, I whisper, ‘Will they invade? Truly?’

  ‘Doubt it, myself,’ she answers slowly. ‘They haven’t yet, and my father says it makes less and less sense. Longer nights and high tides, sea mists and fog.’ She shrugs. ‘But it’s Hitler, so.’

  How long can we wait, bombed every night, for the Germans to invade? A headache is coming.

  Germans can’t invade across the channel, Uncle said. The North Sea is our greatest ally. The Old Man has been a friend to British sailors for hundreds of years, now it protects us all. That is how much he cared for Father. He doesn’t even remember that the North Sea killed him.

  I am tired. Tired of Timothy Squire lying to me, of everyone lying to me. Tired of being here, waiting for the next dreadful attack.

  Miss Breedon calls us back to attention, but no Latin exercise can distract me.

  Timothy Squire will ask again. He will want you to come.

  What can I say?

  I open Cora’s cage. I know right away, of course. No movement, no croaking of her thick noise.

  I peer inside just long enough to see her, sideways in the straw nest, rigid and unmoving. I step away, heading towards the Green, the scaffold, the walls, my breath catching in my chest.

  I must tell Uncle. I should have told him before, when there was still time.

  It was not time she needed. It was food.

  Before I was brought to the Tower, two other ravens had died in a bombing raid (‘the spares’). Cora, who used to sleep under the boilerhouse with one of the spares, was brought to the cage so that they could all be together. Cora was always the smallest, the most shy. Now she too is gone.

  Kraa.

  I back away from Grip’s sharp challenge. Does he, too, blame me? Grip and I stand, facing off, in the slashing wind.