These Dark Wings Page 7

  ‘We’re near the coloured quarter, Jews and Indians too.’

  I nod. I know that once the war started, aliens had to move away from the coast – had they all come here? I remember too what Mum said about ‘class feeling’. During war, we’re all the same. We still don’t look the same, though. Mum always said not to be narrow-minded.

  Lonely fires burn themselves out. It is amazing how slowly all the clearing up is done.

  ‘It’s nice to be out,’ I say instead.

  Timothy Squire gives me an odd look, perhaps guessing my lie, and I immediately ask, ‘So you spent your whole life here?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Like it? Sure.’ He frowns. ‘Not Frederick. Or Malcolm – or anyone from class. Or any of the Warders, the old bores. It’s brilliant, though. And with Elsie and the NAAFI girls here now...’

  ‘Elsie?’

  But he is already walking down the wharf.

  ‘Come on,’ he says.

  We get free of the docks, and once again I recognize things: the post office, newspaper and cigarette shops. I can smell something delicious – the smell of frying.

  ‘Look at this,’ he says in awe, standing over a clump of silver. He gestures for me to pick it up.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You’re a bright spark, have a guess. Go on. Give it a go. It’s why we’ve come.’

  Not certain he isn’t teasing me, I reach down and grab the clump of metal. Cold, and only jagged on one edge, it’s some piece of shrapnel; I’m not listening to the lengthy explanation. The silver reminds of something else, something I am foolish enough to have forgotten until now. Even if I could sneak off to the docks and find a ship bound for Montreal, how would I pay for it?

  And when I arrive in Canada, where will I go? Ask around until I find someone who knows Florence Swift from Maida Vale?

  The North Sea is dangerous. It killed Father.

  I offer the metal to Timothy Squire and, after a moment of fake protest, he pockets it.

  As we march down the narrow streets, past the small ruins of terraced houses and the great ruins of factories, the sound of the lapping river recedes. I clutch my bag tightly, my eyes turning back to the waiting ships.

  ‘So what bomb was it that got you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you were bombed out, weren’t you? High explosive?’

  I shake my head. Can’t we talk about anything else?

  ‘You don’t know? Your own house, and you don’t know?’

  He seems truly shocked.

  ‘Maybe now,’ I say, refusing to look up, to look west. ‘Maybe now it is in ruins. When I came here, the house was fine.’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  He is looking at me like I have wings or something.

  ‘My mum died,’ I say. My throat is hot. ‘On a bus. I don’t know what type of bloody bomb it was, all right? She died, and my father drowned when I was five. My house was fine, but I couldn’t go on living there alone, could I? My only family left is my uncle, so that’s what I’m doing here.’

  ‘Did you get the furniture out? Or was all your stuff spoiled?’

  ‘Why would Uncle take the furniture out? If the house is still standing when the war is over I shall want all the furniture exactly where it was.’

  It is late. No matter what arrangement the Warders have – and they seem to have an arrangement with everyone – the fish market looks closed. It smells open, though. Then a woman walks past – shiny face and tall hat – a bag in her hands. The scent of fish tickles my nose.

  I hang back, shivering, while Timothy Squire strides ahead. I wonder if I should try to change into my trousers, or at least put on my wool coat. What would Timothy Squire think? He would wonder why I am carrying all my clothes to the fish market.

  Before I can decide what to do, he has returned with a newspaper-wrapped fish. How do I not eat this myself?

  ‘We should get back,’ I say. ‘We’ll be late.’

  Timothy Squire smiles. ‘I know. This was your idea.’

  But our pace has quickened. The air is cold, with sand blowing around us from torn sandbags. I am aware of eyes watching us. The refugees from the docks?

  What time is it? None of the church clocks tell the right time any more. Entry to the Tower is banned after 7 p.m.

  ‘Well? What will we do? We won’t make it back in time.’

  He is still smiling, as if inspecting some newly discovered piece of shrapnel. I am sure someone is following us. Two kids, carrying food through the streets at night? By the docks.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘There’s a drainpipe.’

  A drainpipe? I hurry ahead at a jog, with Timothy Squire stubbornly walking behind me.

  We have to climb a drainpipe? In almost darkness? And over the wall? A far more dangerous route than the handholds on the side of the Develin Tower. What will Uncle say? Oh, and if someone sees us – in the dark – and thinks we are spies? Parachutists?

  I walk even faster, willing the Tower to appear. It will be worse if someone catches us before we get there. In the dim light I can make out four towers, rising like great teeth. There it is! I couldn’t have imagined being happy to see the great pile of stone. And thank God the guard is still visible at his post.

  He does not even look angry. He was waiting for us.

  Of course he was. He wouldn’t lock up with us still out there. Another truth rushes in, and my face feels hot.

  Timothy Squire was teasing me. There is no drainpipe.

  Mr Thorne nods and Timothy Squire, handing him a wrapped bundle, has the nerve to smile back.

  5

  Wednesday, 16 October 1940

  Hitler swooped down on us again last night. Never before did I think of night as early, middle, and late. It used to be one blank stretch.

  Yesterday I awoke in the late night, a Wife’s words in my head. I can’t bear the night. I can’t bear the night. When I tugged free a wax earplug, the bombs roared. Moments later, the siren called us all into the shelter.

  Once I arrived at breakfast, I discovered how dreadful the news was. Balham Station, not far from Clapham, took a direct hit and six hundred people suffocated when the bomb trapped them inside. As always, Mr Cecil referred to it as ‘an incident’ and Oakes went on a long rant about the evils of war.

  Malcolm, Mr Brodie’s often-mentioned but rarely seen son, appeared at breakfast. Despite Uncle and Mr Brodie talking about our great friendship, the boy looked at me precisely zero times. Apparently, I learn from Uncle, Malcolm has a great love for diamonds and jewels.

  At school, Headmaster Brownbill called me into his office. The foul man slurped his tea and delivered a long speech, of which I will forever remember each ridiculous word.

  ‘You like to write, don’t you, Anna? Some of the teachers say that you even write during lessons. That is not good because you will never learn what they are teaching you if you do not pay attention’ – I am missing lessons now, I wanted to shout – ‘but I understand. I like to write as well, you see. So I have a plan for you. Stop writing in class – really, you must learn along with your classmates – but keep writing after school.

  ‘Write down everything, how you feel, what you think. And then don’t show it to anybody, not your teachers or your uncle. Write only for you. Write only for your eyes.’

  Setting his cup down he jostled it, hot liquid tipping over the rim.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered to the cup.

  ‘While I was in the trenches, I wrote a letter every day that I could. You should do the same. Keep every letter you write and store them away. Somewhere safe, mind you. You never know how they may help you. Do you understand me, Anna?’

  When I saw Headmaster Brownbill later in the hall, he was still stern and cruel, and he growled at me to walk faster to class.

  The rest of the school day was equally horrid. Lessons about the war effort, the agen
cies, the committees, and the abbreviations. Girls calling me Magpie and rubbish eater. The end seemed like it would never come and staying awake was nearly impossible.

  ‘If no student has any questions, we can conclude for the day.’

  No student did.

  All in all, a terrible day. Now, from under the hard bunk, I take out my diary. I will write, but not because the headmaster told me to.

  I should write to Flo and ask her address – tell her I’m coming. All I can think of is the Balham disaster, and my own time with Mum down in the Underground. The only toilet, up in the booking hall, was closed at night despite the need of it. There was a heavy stench of too many bodies and overflowing latrine buckets. Some people just used the rail tracks. Children were running, playing hide-and-seek on the (switched-off) escalators, darting beneath signs on the walls: Coughs and sneezes spread diseases.

  Trains, before they came in, were stopped in the tunnel so policemen could march down the platform and gently (for the most part) push in any overhanging feet or arms. Then the train came rattling along. People slept heavily, through the terrific noise and the blazing electric light, bundled together on the cold floor, under the clouds of mosquitoes.

  I tuck the diary back under the bed and close my eyes.

  The press photographers have returned. Churchill is not with them, no tour of the damage is given. They are led straight to the roost, and Uncle offers me an apologetic smile.

  He steps forward, clearing his throat. He seems to be addressing me as much as the press.

  ‘Since Charles II the ravens have been here. If the Tower ravens leave, the kingdom of Britain will fall.’

  Cameras whoosh and clunk, the flashbulbs firing off.

  ‘As you can see, they are safe and well looked after.’

  He does not mention that there are always six ravens. That one of them is gone. A few more flashes, which Raven MacDonald clearly finds annoying. He hops away. Photographs, we are always reminded, are never allowed at the Tower during the war.

  Uncle gives a soft smile, and accompanies the press back to the entrance. I will finish the dusk feeding alone.

  One raven returns ahead of the others. I can tell it is MacDonald from the slinking walk. Up close it is obvious. Hard to believe I once thought they all looked the same. I close MacDonald in his cage and whistle for Grip. Grip is the largest, and he has the thickest beak and most prominent ruff of feathers at his neck. He is last to be rounded up for the night.

  He tilts his head at me, scoots away in two-footed jumps, looks at me again. I feel certain – I am certain – that such displays are for me to see. If I wasn’t here, he wouldn’t do it. Are you telling me something, Grip? Or just trying to avoid your curfew?

  Ravens are not robins. They are not cute; they don’t sing happily or hop in excitement. You don’t want to hold one, to feel the softness of its belly. At home, it was always my job to fill the feeder, a much more pleasant task than here. And though I never got close enough to touch one, a robin’s belly must be the softest thing there is.

  If there are still robins in this city, they keep away from here.

  I whistle again as Grip makes his slow way towards me. The ravens are not like pets either. Nothing like Mrs Morgan’s old terrier. Uncle is always talking about how sophisticated, how smart the ravens are. He even says that they recognize him. They do look at him differently – differently from how they look at me anyway; then again, I haven’t been feeding them for years like he has.

  Something changes, something in the air, and we both look up at the sky. The rain has not come, and it is slightly warmer beneath the clouds. Something else is coming.

  In that moment, the unthinkable becomes necessary. Grip, so hostile to humans, does not protest when I grasp him firmly by the wings and heave him off the ground. When I remember that I must hold his beak closed, he is already inside the cage.

  ‘Sorry!’ I yell as I run, the first flashes of gunfire lighting the sky.

  I hurry down the long stairs into the White Tower basement, the siren wailing. The warden, an irritating girl called Violet, lets me in, too shaken to be suspicious.

  All the questions I was prepared to answer must now seem pointless. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Are you in the right shelter?’ ‘Where is your uncle?’ Violet asks no questions. My name is not ticked off a list.

  I move swiftly inside. Dark shapes occupy the corners, shapes that turn out to be old weapons, cannons and pikes. A hurricane lantern sits in the middle of the narrow room. No dartboards or newspapers down here, though an electric radiator provides heat. It is not heat we need.

  An explosion.

  Despite being deep below the ground, surrounded by thick stone, the shelter itself lifts and moves, like a barge in the choppy Thames. With a horrible crunching sound the steel door pushes inwards and outwards with the suction. The heat is immense. No one stands near the door; no one speaks.

  The White Tower is being bombed.

  Another blast and everyone huddles together. Maybe Uncle is safe in the Casemates. Timothy Squire too – even he is not mad enough to wander out during a raid.

  ‘My house!’ A woman suddenly stands. ‘It’s got my house.’

  ‘All right,’ says Violet, her voice nervous. She tries to start a song.

  ‘Shut it.’ Another voice – Headmaster Brownbill? – shouts her down. ‘We’ve got enough noise without you.’

  Silence again, until voices rise up, whispers becoming conversations, impossible to ignore.

  ‘I wish you would all stop talking.’

  ‘My house. I know it. It’s got my house.’

  I blink behind my hands. I see Father’s face now, not serious but smiling, a full wide smile. I can do this.

  The slow hours pass.

  The All Clear sounds. The man – it is Headmaster Brownbill – is the first to leave, not even testing the shelter door before shouldering it open. His choked sobs seem to echo across the entire city.

  I stumble into the near darkness. The White Tower still stands, proud and tall amid the smoke. The rest of the Tower has not been so lucky.

  Walking among the shrapnel, the red-hot lumps of metal, I keep my eyes on my feet. Timothy Squire is fine; he always is. Uncle, too. I will see him in the morning. Mere hours from now. I talk to no one, look at no one, and soon I reach the top of the stairs and the door to my room, and fall on to the hard bed.

  ‘With high explosives, always count the bangs. If the noise gets louder, the next one is coming your way. Then you lie down fast and raise your chest off the ground. That way the vibration won’t crush all your ribs. Keep your arms over your eyes too because glass will be flying everywhere.’

  After another horrid day of school, it is difficult to follow these new lessons. Timothy Squire and I sit in the study along the Casemates, the flats and rooms built into the Tower walls. The Inner Ward is an unholy mess, so all the students have come here after class to play the few games stacked inside the trunk.

  Some of the babies play hide-and-seek. They don’t even go to the good spots, down the long corridors or into the towers, but just crouch behind a wall. Even in here, the heavy smell of smoke finds us. Monopoly is the only game I know, so Timothy Squire and I are playing that. I am quite hopeless. Florence would get so mad if I didn’t understand some game she wanted to play. Timothy Squire just laughs.

  I find myself liking him and his slightly too large head. He acts as though life hasn’t been cut in two. As if this new life, with its bombs and shelters, could be filled with laughter and fun. ‘A bloody good sort,’ Flo would say.

  I wonder, for a moment, if Timothy Squire is falling in love with me. Flo told me all about it when annoying Edward fell in love with her. I wonder if he will try and kiss me? Perhaps I will let him, and then we will talk all the time – even at school – and he will help me feed the birds every day. He bites his fingernails, though, which is disgusting.

  ‘Magpie. It’s your turn.’

  ‘I k
now.’

  It is difficult to imagine him outside of these walls – in Hyde Park, or at the café Mum used to like by the canal. But he does not fit with these stones and the towers. I take my last sip of the weak tea.

  ‘You don’t have brothers and sisters?’ I ask.

  ‘I had a sister once,’ he says, ‘when I was little. She was older. Gone when I was three.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t really remember. Mum talks about it, though.’

  Well, at least he still has his mother and father. And all of his things.

  I shake my head, concentrating on the board. My little silver dog is now surrounded by spaces owned by Timothy Squire. When did he manage to get all those? This game is stupid.

  I squeeze the looped handle of the empty teacup.

  ‘Why don’t you say anything in class?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anything.’

  ‘It’s class.’

  ‘But you grew up with them, right? Don’t you like any of them?’

  He finally looks up at me. He seems several years older under his checked cap.

  ‘I like your birds.’

  ‘Do you?’

  We sit in a happy silence. So what if he is a little boastful? He likes to have fun, and I have fun with him. And he likes the ravens.

  ‘You never told me,’ Timothy Squire says, ‘why you wanted to go to the docks. You don’t care about the explosives.’

  ‘I wanted to escape.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ I say, not sure at all what I mean, ‘I thought I needed to get away from here.’

  He is looking at me. ‘Not any more?’

  I shrug. It is strange to be back in the Tower. I was outside, I was free. I keep thinking about the docks. Or a train – a train to the countryside.

  My eyes wander to the window and the remaining sunlight. As if it were a day sunny with the promise that the sirens will never sound again.

  ‘Want to go and look at the river?’

  He gives a great shrug of his own. ‘I see the river every day.’