What the Raven Brings Read online

  ‘The canteen? Like a NAAFI girl?’ All I can think of is that horrible Elsie that Timothy Squire used to fawn over.

  Most of the students have gone – shipped off, called up – and the teachers have left, too. (Miss Breedon has joined the navy!) Even Kate went north with her family. As the only students left were me and Malcolm, I wasn’t surprised when Oakes told me Tower School was closing for good.

  In fact, the Tower is now more of an army barracks than the village it’s been these past two years. The Scots Guard parade and drill across the grounds, and in the (drained) moat new encampments of soldiers seem to crop up every week. The school is set to become a first-aid post, and the other buildings are being turned into fire stations. Now the cobblestone courtyard is empty, the kids gone. Only the ravens are still here.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Anna. The ravens will be fine under the care of Yeoman Stackhouse. You can see to his training yourself.’

  I barely hold in a shout. I’ve already trained Timothy Squire, and he’s still hopeless. The day before he left, he thought the youngest raven, Stan, was moulting when he was only preening. When Timothy Squire returns from Aberdeen, I shall have to retrain him – and now I have to train some bumbling old man on top of it. The whole situation is mad.

  ‘Anna. Your uncle spoke very highly of you. He said that you always did what needed to be done.’

  I try to smile. Well, that doesn’t sound like the best compliment. Surely Uncle said nicer things than that about me...

  ‘He thought you could do anything you set your mind to. I happen to agree with him. What I mean is, your uncle wouldn’t have wanted you to stay here, looking after the ravens, on his behalf.’

  ‘But I want to stay here. Timothy Squire will be back soon and he can help out. There’ll be plenty to do once spring comes and the birds begin to moult... and the legend of the ravens says—’

  Oakes waves his hand. ‘Yes, yes, there must always be six ravens at the Tower or else Britain will fall. Yeoman Stackhouse will look after them.’

  I mumble something, which seems to satisfy Oakes.

  ‘So, will you go to the canteen tomorrow? See if they’ll take you on?’

  ‘Yes, Yeoman Oakes, sir.’

  Oakes apologizes for abandoning me with the washing up and soon his footsteps echo away into the distance. Echoes and silence. Maybe it won’t be so bad, volunteering at the canteen. But if Oakes says I can do whatever I set my mind to, why do I have to be a NAAFI girl like horrible Elsie?

  I shiver in the stone room, with its stored cold of a thousand winters. Thoroughly underwhelmed with the dregs, I collect the plates and cutlery. At least Stackhouse won’t be joining us for meals, too. He has a family of his own.

  Well, good for him.

  I have eaten. Now it is the ravens’ turn. And they’re always hungry.

  *

  ‘Good morning, Portia. Good morning, Rogan.’

  I pull open the first cage. It is still cold in the morning air. Two ravens emerge. Their feathers reflect sunlight – catching the light and sending it back. As if the sun cannot touch them. There is little enough sunlight today.

  When Uncle first told me about the legend of the ravens, I didn’t believe him. But to see it now, printed out in big letters in newspapers – it almost seems possible. Of course it’s not true. I let the last two birds escape – I helped Grip and Mabel escape. And the kingdom didn’t fall.

  Not yet.

  We have a full roost of new birds; they should be up to the job. You lot are staying right here. That is the least I can do for Uncle. I whistle Raven Stan over but he keeps on bouncing off, biscuit in his beak ready to stash away.

  I look past Stan, over to the sounds of the Scots Guard garrison. They are still here in the Waterloo Block – drilling on the Parade Grounds and dancing in the White Tower. As long as they’re here, no one can sneak inside.

  I’ve started seeing his face everywhere. The ruffled hair, pale as moonlight, the ears sticking out. My ears don’t stick out. And my hair is red, same as Mum’s.

  I shake my head to clear it. Now who’s being mad?

  My eyes are pulled away by an approaching figure. It must be Stackhouse, in full blue uniform, with long cloak billowing behind him. I turn back at the birds. They hop, croak, oblivious to the confusing life of people.

  ‘They’re the real Beefeaters, eh?’

  I don’t look up at the voice. ‘Yeoman Stackhouse, hello.’

  ‘You are Anna Cooper, yes? I hear you’ve been taking pretty good care of these birds.’

  Of course I have. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Want to give me a hand feeding ’em?’

  My whole body screams in protest. Give you a hand? ‘Yes, sir. Let me introduce you to the ravens.’

  Uncle wanted everyone in the Tower to care about the ravens, so he let the Tower residents name them. So I have Malcolm to thank every time I call ‘Cronk’ over for feeding. The others have more suitable names – Corax, Lyra, Stan, Oliver, Rogan, and Portia.

  Portia and Rogan are mated. And though I miss Mabel and Grip – the mated couple from the earlier group of ravens – there is something about Portia. She is the smartest bird I have ever met. She is the dominant female, puffing out her throat feathers as she stalks past and glances up at me. Recognizes me, I am sure of it.

  Uncle always spoke of how sophisticated ravens are; only once did he talk, gently, about a feeling of connection. Maybe he thought I’d laugh at him, at the idea of having something in common, something important, with these croaking black birds. But Portia is definitely looking at me. She knows me. Well, I chose her name myself. She’s probably just grateful not to be called Mrs Cronk.

  Rogan, of course, is Timothy Squire’s choice of name – something to do with his favourite comic book. I only casually mentioned that I named my bird after a character in Shakespeare. I’m not certain he will ever grow up.

  It will take more than three months in Aberdeen to make Timothy Squire grow up.

  Hard to believe they took him at all. I told him he was stupid, that no one would take a sixteen-year-old boy, but he told the recruiting officer he was seventeen and a half and they took him at his word.

  ‘Good morning, Raven Oliver,’ I say, opening the last of the cages. ‘You must always say hello when you release them in the morning.’

  Yeoman Stackhouse smiles, looks around as we walk. ‘Whole place’ll be different come peacetime.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I feed the ravens in the welcome silence that follows. Surrounded by the high stone walls, the towers and turrets and the Warders in blue cloaks and uniforms, you could feel like a proper princess from an old story. I don’t. It is always cold inside, and the only room with a reliable fire is the Stone Kitchen.

  Stan is wandering off. I don’t dare try my whistle, in case he ignores me in front of Stackhouse. He is the youngest of the ravens, almost bursting with energy. Stackhouse is going to have his hands full with him.

  ‘Hitler sure did knock hell out of the place, didn’t he?’ Stackhouse makes a tsk tsk sound. ‘Lost the whole batch, didn’t you? Well, let us turn our minds to the future, shall we?’

  Batch? No, they didn’t all die. I let them go. But I say nothing, thinking that might be even worse.

  People believe the ravens saved us from the Blitz. The Evening Standard, where Mum used to write lots of articles about the coming war – she was a ‘very important journalist’, Oakes says – even called the ravens ‘heroes’ for fulfilling the ancient legend.

  They even seem to believe it. Oliver is strutting across the Green like he’s a film star. The ravens have done their part. Timothy Squire is off doing his.

  What about me?

  ‘Well, happy to have the help for the next little bit,’ Stackhouse says, smiling for an unpleasant amount of time. ‘But then you’ll be off – working in a factory likely as not. Conscription will extend to the women – to everyone but us old folks. Guessing from what I
’ve heard of you, missy, you’ll leap before you’re pushed.’

  ‘She always does.’

  The sudden voice jolts me upright. I can’t believe it. It’s too early. There is no way... but I turn and see him and know that somehow it is true.

  Timothy Squire is back.

  *

  ‘You’re early.’

  I am standing, amazed, in my old blue jumper and plain trousers. Timothy Squire is standing beside me; the same dark, bushy hair; the same almost too big forehead. He smells of some kind of shaving soap, which he clearly doesn’t need. He hasn’t been gone that long.

  He is eight days early. And wearing a tweed jacket. I expected him to be showing off his uniform. I expected him to come back Tuesday next. I wish I’d put on cold cream this morning.

  ‘Who’s that then?’

  I turn in confusion. Stackhouse has just wandered off without even saying hello.

  ‘Oh, that’s Yeoman Stackhouse. The new Ravenmaster, apparently.’ I turn back, all thoughts of Stackhouse and ravens gone. ‘Training ended early?’

  I know that look in his blue eyes. Something’s up.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So you’re a real bomb expert now, Timothy Squire?’

  The barest of nods. No sticking his chest out, no long lectures.

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘For now. Here,’ he says, fumbling in his jacket and handing me a one-pound jar of marmalade. ‘Getting paid a proper soldier’s wage now. Oh, and this.’

  From another pocket, he locates a slab of toffee and offers it.

  A soldier’s wage. I stare at the delicious food, stunned. There is something – a measured pace – to his speech that is surely the work of officers in Aberdeen.

  I hug him tightly, adding a squeeze to remind him how long he’s been gone.

  I’ll take this toffee to Flo’s for dinner tonight. The marmalade, though, is all mine. No more dregs in the morning. We walk on, Timothy Squire a little stiffly. He must be exhausted from the training. It is strange to see him so quiet – so serious. He was always silent around other people – like during class – but never when we were alone. Then he was in dogged high spirits. All this, from a few months of drills? Whatever it is, he’ll not keep it for long.

  ‘Where are you billeted?’

  ‘I’ll be at the docks. Important work down there.’

  ‘The docks?’ I laugh, loudly, for a moment overcome with delight. He’ll be a ten-minute bike ride away. ‘Go on, tell me all about it – what are you doing?’

  He shakes his head, and a glimmer of life returns. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Magpie, even if I knew. But it feels good, you know, to be doing something to help. Other than trigonometry.’

  So it’s a secret, is it? Well, you’re no good at keeping those, Timothy Squire.

  ‘You have to tell me if you’re leaving again. Even if it’s a great secret.’

  He nods, going a little red. ‘I will.’

  ‘Good. Well, school’s all done for me, too, so I’ll be volunteering,’ I say proudly. ‘Starting tomorrow. You can come up and get something from the canteen.’

  Now he turns bright red. ‘Well, I likely can’t. I mean, I can’t just go wandering round, can I?’

  ‘You mean you’re not allowed to have lunch in the armed forces?’

  He snorts. ‘Not really, no. But I’ll try and find you, yeah? You’ll have proper sausage rolls, I wager, like the ones at Borough Market?’

  I take his hand, a little more rough and callused than before. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Timothy Squire.’

  ‘Me, too, Magpie.’

  Now he’s grinning like he’s found a piece of shrapnel to take home and polish. Just when I think everything is going swimmingly, a terrifying sound wails. A sound we all know too well.

  The air raid siren.

  *

  Once, the thought of spending the night in a shelter was hard to take. The smell of the paraffin lamp, the feel of the clammy darkness. But not today. Instead of the whole Tower crammed into the room, it is just me and Timothy Squire.

  I decide not to wait until Flo’s for the toffee. The sweetness is almost painful on the tongue.

  ‘So what kind of bombs did you work with up there?’

  He shrugs. Shrugs.

  ‘Timothy Squire, are you OK?’

  ‘All right, Magpie, just knackered.’

  It’s just like back in school, when we first met and he’d ignore me in class. What’s going on?

  He’s got a new watch, too, which makes my stomach turn to see. Timothy Squire no longer ‘goes to see the ruins’ but the memory of the things he took will never go away. That watch looks old – it looks expensive – but there is no way he stole it. He doesn’t do that any more.

  ‘So you didn’t miss school, then?’ I ask, inching a little closer.

  The planes are nearly overhead, but no sound of bombs yet. Maybe just a scouting mission? We haven’t had a daylight raid in months.

  ‘School? ’Course not. I doubt Miss Breedon was going to train me to defuse a delayed-timer bomb.’

  Timothy Squire takes a piece of the toffee. Even in the near darkness I can tell he still bites his fingernails.

  ‘I’d like to see you, sometime – as a proper sapper. In your uniform.’

  He looks down at his tweed coat. ‘Bit hot to wear it when I don’t have to.’

  ‘You don’t want me around?’

  ‘Magpie. That’s mad.’

  ‘You do want to see me, then?’

  He smiles, his blue eyes brightening with their old mischief. He has not kissed me since he came back. He kisses me now.

  The door heaves open, and Malcolm Brodie staggers into the room, catching his balance after three steps. He stares at us, his eyes impossibly wide, before he slinks inside the shelter. The door thunders closed behind him.

  ‘Hi Malcolm,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he mutters before slumping into the far corner. Malcolm, Yeoman Brodie’s son, never says a word unless you force it out of him.

  ‘All right, Malcolm?’ Timothy Squire says. ‘Doesn’t sound like a lot of action up there.’

  Malcolm shrugs thin shoulders, keeps his eyes fixed on the door. ‘You’re a sapper now, Dad says.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I answer, the pride clear in my voice. ‘Nothing to worry about, Malcolm. Even if a bomb falls, Timothy Squire can help put it out.’

  A strange choking sound in the darkness.

  ‘One in five is a dud, ours as well as theirs,’ Timothy Squire says, sounding a bit strangled. He must have taken too much toffee. ‘Ones that are going to go off, though, we’ve learned how to stop ’em.’

  Malcolm doesn’t move. ‘Everyone knows the saying. Join the army and see the world. Join bomb disposal and see the next one. I’d be too frightened.’

  ‘Well,’ Timothy Squire says, ‘it is a bit scary. At times. Mostly it’s brilliant, though.’

  There is more, of course, prised out of him like rotten teeth. He must be ill. We learn that at the height of the Blitz we were getting three thousand bombs a week dropped on us. He also tells us of rumours of a new German weapon so powerful that nothing is left of the people killed.

  ‘We’ll have to put sandbags in the coffins,’ he says matter-of-factly.

  Hitler’s new secret weapon: launched from bases in France.

  The silence is solid enough to touch. I shouldn’t have encouraged him.

  ‘Malcolm,’ I say, ‘would you like a piece of toffee?’

  He waves the offer of food away but I can feel his eyes across the room, watching us. The minutes ooze past.

  *

  All the Warders seem to have gathered on the battlements. Apparently white-haired Yeoman Sparks, the oldest Warder at the Tower, is in charge.

  ‘Might as well be off to see your friends, dear,’ Sparks says as we approach. ‘No bombs from this lot.’

  I stare at him through the grey mist, barely comprehendi
ng. It’s not his thick Glasgow accent, but the words themselves.

  ‘No bombs? But the planes – they flew right over us—’

  ‘None were dropped,’ Oakes says, stepping forward. ‘You can go off to Mr and Mrs Swift’s, Anna.’

  Well, it wasn’t long enough to be a raid. Timothy Squire and I spent less than an hour in the shelter, trying in vain to make conversation with Malcolm.

  Despite Oakes’s words, I gaze around for the smoke, the flames, the signs of damage. I could tell from the roar, even from the shelter in the bowels of the White Tower, that the bomber flew directly over us. There is nothing.

  Well, not nothing, exactly.

  Dozens of white shapes flutter in the wind. Paper. One skids close to us; I reach down, pick it up. It is a leaflet, painted with red flames engulfing Tower Bridge, while two people – a man and a woman – dash through the ruins. No words are printed. Just large white letters:

  V1

  So this is it then. The weapon Timothy Squire lectured us about, Hitler’s new secret weapon. Why do we always have to be so afraid? Ever since that taxi brought me here on the day Mum died, to start a strange new life with Uncle Henry, I have been hiding behind these walls.

  I can’t hide here any more. Everyone else is doing their part to make life normal again. I have to do mine.

  Oakes’s laughter takes me by surprise. I didn’t hear him approach. ‘German propaganda has become feeble.’ But he takes the leaflet from my hands.

  Timothy Squire is staring at me in that way he does when he wants to get my attention – when he has something he’s desperate to explain to me. Something he’s managed to leave out.

  But I don’t need him to explain this. I know what the V means.

  Vengeance.

  *

  The Thames slides past. I put V1s from my thoughts as I bike up to see Flo’s parents. She wrote last summer to say she’d be back in October – but they stayed another six months in Montreal. I don’t know why she was delayed but it doesn’t matter; she is here now. She has been back in London for six days and I still haven’t seen her.

  At least she wrote a letter. Timothy Squire couldn’t find the time to do the same.