These Dark Wings (29 page)

She must have heard the whistle.
I can’t believe it.
Even Timothy Squire couldn’t make up a story like this.

Yeoman Oakes can try and stop me. At least Uncle will let me return her to her cage. If Uncle wants me to leave, he will have to tell me himself. I will tell him I know the truth about Mum. I will tell him he doesn’t need to lie any more. Then I will leave.

Where will I go? Tilbury Docks? Epping Forest? No, I will go back to my house in Warwick Avenue.
Home.
Whatever is left of it.

Mabel is heavy. But she is quiet and still, and when I glance down to ensure she is OK, the great liquid eyes meet my own. Raven Grip, at least, will not hate me.

The sun is rising. I cross the cobblestones and step on to the bridge.

I have brought Mabel back to the Tower.

The guard sees me approach. His blue coat is bright in the growing sunlight.

I have no excuse this time, no bribe of fish, no Timothy Squire and his cheeky grin. If Oakes wants me arrested, there is nothing I can do.
Once he pulled me from a fire. Now he’s pushing me back in.

I remember that the Watchman’s name is Mr Thorne. I take a deep breath. I don’t even have my ID card. I can only pray that he is in a good mood.

Or am I imagining things? I have not slept in over a day. By the time I reach the archway, there is no one in the box. That is queer. No guard? Or has something just happened – something terrible that drew him away? I enter the Tower in silence.

As I walk up towards the Green, everything looks as it always is. Warders on duty, Wives clacking across the stone. Did the Watchman leave his post just as I came up the bridge? Or was he expecting me? Did he let me pass unquestioned?

I decide to head straight for the cages, my strides normal and purposeful. Already I can see that Uncle has not yet opened them for the dawn feeding. Has nobody noticed that I was gone? Is it possible?

A smile overpowers me as I swing open the cage. I take Mabel from my coat, set her gently down. My jumper is stained, powdery and whitish, and the smell both sick and sweet. I don’t care. The two birds observe one another in silence. Then high, knocking sounds erupt.
Toc-toc-toc. Toc-toc-toc
. It is a cheerful sound, a welcoming, both harsh and lovely, and I feel suddenly as if I am intruding on a private celebration.

‘You’re up early.’

I freeze. But a strength of will comes to me, and I turn to face him.

‘Good morning, Yeoman Oakes.’ My voice wavers slightly. I catch it. ‘Raven Mabel has returned.’

‘So I can see. This is excellent news.’

He is smiling; something about the smile tells me that I don’t understand what is happening.

‘Your uncle will be thrilled.’

I stare at him in silence.

‘It has been a most unusual night – a trying night.’ He exhales loudly. ‘For both of us, perhaps.’

Exhaustion breaks over me like a wave.
Punish me how you like.
Arrest me. Add my name to your stupid book on the prisoners of the Tower. It doesn’t matter now.

‘Anna, you may think me an odd man, but I do have a special concern for you.’ The smile is gone. ‘You see, I myself have not been feeling terribly well. Already I can recognize the symptoms in you. Even in this early light... yes, you seem quite pale.’

I can say nothing, the weight of exhaustion pulling me to the ground.

‘In fact, I must recommend that you go straight to bed, and remain there until you are feeling quite better.’ The smile has returned. ‘But, first, there is someone here to see you.’

I must look dumbfounded, as if a bomb hit me and didn’t explode. Oakes clears his throat softly and leads me on. Why hasn’t he sent me away? Why is he being nice to me, a girl with no parents who doesn’t belong anywhere.

I walk the steps, unsure. A man in a tweed blazer and hat stands at the West Gate. He leans on an umbrella. For a second I am reminded of Churchill, that first day he came to visit. This man is tall, and much thinner than the Prime Minister. As I step closer I realize it is not a man at all; it is a boy. In his time away he appears to have grown, his cheeks ruddy from the country.

My smile is huge and wide and probably terrifying.

‘Timothy Squire.’

He has no chance to speak; I have folded him into a hug big enough to break his thin bones. When did he return? Did he know somehow that I have been searching for him across the city, worrying when the bombs fell north?

After a moment he looks down, serious, then he pulls me close again. His lips are soft. Even though he presses too hard, I don’t pull away.

I whip round, flustered and red, but Oakes has found another wall to captivate him.

‘Well,’ Timothy Squire says finally, turning clumsily away. He squints at my face, my hair. ‘You look different. Something... is different. I mean, you look nice, Anna.’

‘Thank you, Timothy Squire.’

He gives a shallow cough. ‘So my parents are going to bloody furious. But I figured Grip must be getting a bit lonely. Thought you might need some help chopping the meat.’

‘I need your help, do I?’

He squirms a bit, flashes a smile. ‘What d’you reckon? I have to send a letter to Mum and Dad straightaway, telling them I’ve come back. But first we can stop and see Grip. If you’d like.’

He has removed his cap, and his hair is almost as long as mine. Dark and bushy as ever, and his forehead just as large.

‘I suppose I could use an assistant,’ I say. ‘You’ll do.’

Even as we start walking, he is speaking.

Friday, 13 June 1941

Mabel and Grip are moulting, their beautiful feathers unkempt and turning copper at the edges (Grip’s turn almost brown), before falling off in heaps of feathers around the roost. Mabel is the more dramatic moulter, her pink head visible through her sudden baldness.

‘Don’t worry, Mabel,’ I say in sympathy. ‘New feathers always grow back.’

The birds don’t handle it well, pottering over the cobblestones with resentment. It is several weeks of indignity. My hair has grown faster than I thought. Another couple weeks and I’ll have a bob again. Mabel will be fine.

Not all old feathers fade, and when I find a perfectly preserved one, glossy and ink-black, I put it in my pocket. I’m not certain if it’s Mabel’s or Grip’s but I will add it to my diary. It says more than any words can.

Timothy Squire’s parents may have been bloody furious, but they did return. And the whole family seems happy enough to be back.

Uncle’s health has improved sufficiently to resume his dusk-feeding duties, and his smile is wide as he sees Mabel and Grip together. I watch them too. Already new bumps along her rounded skull mark coming feathers.

‘A little miracle,’ he says. ‘I had thought her as good as lost.’

‘Me too. It was your whistle, Uncle Henry. She heard it and came home.’

That part at least is true.
Just not from where you think.

‘Surely a good sign. A sign of hope.’

I agree, and together we go to dinner. Oakes shows no sign of giving up my secret.

After dinner – pork has even returned to the table – Uncle and I sit alone. I am happy, feeling almost light, but Uncle’s words from that night on the staircase still linger.

I look at him, at my uncle, his soft eyes.

‘Can you tell me what happened to Mum?’

‘Your mother was killed, my dear.’

I pause. ‘Not by a bomb, though.’

‘She was killed by this war, Anna. She was a strong woman – but this war...’

I am aware of his gaze, flitting over the room, never once looking at me. I remember too how Oakes is always talking about the gas mask, yet never quite able to look at it.

‘She hated the war, Anna. She loved you – so much...’ He sighs, a great, pained sound. ‘I received a letter from your mum just before she died. It said very little. We hadn’t spoken in many years. The letter only said that she wanted me to take care of you. That you would be safer here, with me.’

‘You didn’t believe it?’ I say into the silence.

‘Wanting you to come and live with me and Gregory?’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing could be harder to believe.’

‘What did she want to protect me from?’

‘The war. These walls are strong.’

‘She didn’t need to die for me to come here.’

‘No.’ For a long moment he is quiet. He removes his glasses, wipes an eye with the back of his hand, and perches them again on his nose. ‘She made a great mistake, Anna. She loved you.’

‘But the bus...?’

‘The headmaster thought it was best. I’m afraid I agreed with him.’

I nod. There is nothing else to say. He is telling the truth, I know. Not all of it, I think, but it is enough. The business of adults.

She loved you. She hated this war. She made a terrible, tragic mistake. She needed to protect you. At any cost.

She loved you.

It is enough.

Thursday, 14 August 1941

I smile into the bright wind. From the ramparts the vast world opens up before me. I feel light-headed, unsteady on my feet. But smiling. Speechless and smiling. The summer dress that Nell helped me pick, a simple pattern of red flowers, is loose. My hair is once again in a bob. My feet are
bare
.

Timothy Squire and I walk across the Green, through the deep shadows and waves of drenching sun. Mabel and Grip shuffle close by.

And then, crashing into the newly painted world, comes Oakes.

‘Anna,’ he says. ‘Timothy. A beautiful day.’

‘It is, sir,’ I say.

‘The ravens seem happy, don’t they?’

I nod warily. He hasn’t got to his point yet. He looks down at us, smiles.

I see an image of Oakes, staring across the ramparts as I escaped into the night.
He didn’t tell Uncle.
Maybe not, but what does he want?

‘Well, Anna, I was wondering, if you are interested, whether you two cared to join me at the cathedral?’

‘At St Paul’s?’

Oakes nods. ‘You’re supposed to be over forty to join the Watch, but I think it will be all right just for one evening. I’ll tell them you’re my secretaries.’

‘Secretary?’ says Timothy Squire.

Oakes sees his frown, does not apologize. ‘Etymologically, a secretary is the person you trust with your secrets.’

Timothy Squire nods, still uncertain. I almost smile.

‘What do you think? There hasn’t been a raid in a while, but we need to be ready. I thought, as you’re not able to leave the Tower very often, it might be nice for you.’ Although he is smiling, it doesn’t seem like a trap. If anything, I feel a rush of affection for Oakes.

‘Give it some thought,’ he says. ‘If you want to come, meet me tomorrow night at the West Gate.’ He turns back before he leaves. ‘You’re not afraid of heights, are you? No? Good. Tomorrow night then.’

I hadn’t noticed as I dashed through the city, but the cathedral is more visible than ever. The buildings around it have been razed and now it looks massive and exposed.

I am a member of the St Paul’s Night Watch. There are around forty others, I am told, but only a dozen come each night. All in blue overalls, webbed belts and steel helmets, gathered round the choir stalls. They don’t look so silly when they’re all together.