These Dark Wings (20 page)

Searchlights, over and over, stab the sky. It is empty.

Friday, 15 November 1940

Nothing has happened.

A trick? Perhaps they will come tonight instead, wear us down with waiting and guessing. While at breakfast I learn the truth. They did come. Only not to London.

‘Coventry,’ Uncle says, his voice low, ‘is destroyed.’

‘Destroyed?’

‘Gone. They came in waves. Ten hours. There is nothing left.’

The rest of breakfast is eaten in silence. This time Yeoman Cecil does not call it an ‘incident’. Even Oakes fails to point out some flaw of Churchill’s that is at the root of it all. At least until the plates are cleared away, when he seems to have come up with something.

‘That’ll be for Munich, which we bombed last week. Throw a punch, take a punch, throw a punch. Churchill and Hitler’s great boxing match.’

No one bothers to respond. It must truly be awful. How many casualties? Hundreds? Thousands? I hear that horrible voice in my head.
Jairmany calling.

Timothy Squire seems quite pleased when I see him on the Green. He goes on and on about how he suspected something, how no one is being honest. I am too hungry to tell him to shut up. Is he right, though? Are we being lied to? Are we all just waiting to die? Coventry is gone, and London might be next.

What is the point of just waiting – starving – for the Germans to come.

He looks across the bench at me.

‘I am hungry,’ I say.

‘There is no food in the Tower.’

I say nothing, yet Timothy Squire sees something in my look. Without a word, he nods.

‘Today after school,’ he says, standing.

I watch him go before hurrying after him to class.

Timothy Squire and I shiver through a ruined flat. Nothing is inside, no clothing, no food – not a crumb. Only the wind at the cracked window. There is enough light to see clearly Timothy Squire’s tired face. How long has he been doing this? How long has he been so horrible?
You are no better now.

‘Don’t move.’

My entire body trembles.

‘I see you. You’re both dead.’

A woman appears, a broomstick in hand. The whole world shrinks.

‘They told me to leave, that my house would be safe. That no one would try to rob me.’

She stumbles in, cuts off the doorway. Why? Why is she standing in the doorway? We are two robbers, killers as far as she knows.
Move
.

She doesn’t. She is a rock, cutting off our escape.

No, she is inching closer, approaching us.

Timothy Squire is making a sign at me, but I’m not looking at him. I see now, on the table amid the dust, a coloured photograph in a silver frame. The woman, in the back, with her husband and two young children. The woman’s hair is long, much longer than it is now, and though she is not smiling you can feel her happiness.

Timothy Squire whispers, a harsh sound – ‘
Magpie
’
–
and I finally turn.

The woman is close now, broomstick raised, threatening. And then it happens. In Timothy Squire’s hands, shining in the light.

My knife.

The dusk light is impossibly bright. Timothy Squire is still pale, casting backwards glances as we run. After we are well free of the neighbourhood, I gesture for him to stop.

‘You all right?’ he pants.

I time it perfectly, and my fist connects, hard, with his stomach. He stumbles, falls to his knees on the wet pavement. Although his grip is strong I have taken him by surprise, and soon the knife is in my hands.

‘Are you mad?’ he cries out, a hand clutching his gut as he rises to his feet. ‘You could’ve sliced your hand off—’

‘I’ll slice off yours if you ever steal from me again,’ I gasp for air, putting the knife in my bag. ‘Don’t steal from people – from homes—’

‘There’s nobody in them!’ he says, the pain clear in his face. ‘Jesus.’

‘That only makes it worse.’

We walk on. My face burns.
There was someone inside
that
house. Has he forgotten that already? Is he really
that
stupid? He threatened a woman with a knife in her own home so that we could run away.

‘It’s horrible,’ I say.

I sense his anger, but he says nothing.

‘And you’re horrible for doing it. How did you get my knife? Don’t
ever
go into my room.’

I think of the diary under the bed. The things I’ve written, about Mum, about how scared I am – the things I’ve written about
him
.

‘It was in case – in case something like
that
happened,’ he is still holding his gut. ‘You said your uncle got you one, so I – bloody hell, Anna. That hurt.’

‘You
expected
to run into people?’

‘So you want to just starve, waiting for the Germans to come—’

‘You are a coward, Timothy Squire. You hide in your comic-book world and collect bombs and make up stories like it’s all a game – and now that you can’t hide any more, you go mad, and steal from people and threaten them with knives! You only care about yourself.’

Timothy Squire has a wild look in his eyes. ‘What about you? You want to run away but you’re too scared. You think Oakes is a spy and you do nothing because you’re frightened. You don’t care about anyone either.’

‘You have your mum and dad, and all the stupid NAAFI girls. I have no one. Who should I care about?
You?
’

He looks at me, looks down. ‘Stop whinging. You have your uncle, who cares about you enough to make up a whole legend just to keep you happy. All that stuff about the ravens just to make you think you’re helping – that you
can
help. We all do what we have to.’

‘Is that why you killed Raven MacDonald?’

‘I didn’t kill your stupid bird.’

‘MacDonald was
so
much smarter than you. You are a dirty liar.’

We are not looking at each other now, but staring at the street ahead. All I can picture is MacDonald when I found him. His head cut off by a knife. Dumped in the ditch like rubbish. I say the next words, slowly, calmly.

‘You should not have come to the shelter that night. I wish you never had.’

As we walk I feel his pace slowing, falling out of step. Looking forward, I keep walking, step after step, through the thickening snow.

Finally, reaching a corner where I can quickly glance back, I see that he is not there. Without thinking, I stop and turn, looking down the street, into the dusk.

He is gone.

Tuesday, 24 December 1940

‘It’s nothing, you know,’ says Yeoman Cecil over breakfast. ‘This rationing. You should have seen us in the Depression. Half starved, everyone was, in the Hungry Thirties. You practically needed to steal in order to survive. We all pinched a bit of food back then.’

Even though I feel that the words are meant for me, of course they are not.
No one would excuse Timothy Squire’s looting.

Despite his grumbling, Yeoman Cecil is in an excellent mood. He received a message that his son is safe in a PoW camp. ‘The Christmas miracle,’ he calls it.

We have just listened to the ration-book cooking tips that follow the 8 a.m. news. Today they gave Christmas recipes. Although no truce has been brokered – no football match on the Western Front, no laying down of arms – one seems to be implied. Even Nell was nice to me and wished me a ‘Happy Christmas’ before the school break.

But I was not ready for Mr Brodie’s announcement. ‘Well, you’ve been down there once already, haven’t you?’

I nod yes.

‘And you know the way?’ Brodie asks.

It’s not that I can’t find it again. Of course I can.

‘What? You can get food for birds but not birds for food?’

It’s not that either. It’s the company.

‘Then it’s settled. You and Nell head down and pick up the nicest goose you can get your hands on. The boys have already brought back as many chickens as they could carry. Get our goose and we’re all set.’

So here I am walking through the snowy streets of London with Nell.

‘What do you think?’ she says, after many quiet minutes.

‘What do you mean?’

‘A haircut. You fancy one?’

‘Now?’

‘No, not now, girl. Now we got food to collect. After the holidays, say. I’ll take you down to St Katharine Docks myself.’

‘Yes,’ I say after a moment. ‘OK. Thank you.’

In the winter dark, growers and traders sell their goods by small oil lamps. Nobody really seems to notice how beautiful Nell is. We get the goose quickly enough and dash back through the cold. I still feel a bit second hand around her, but now we are nearly friends.

Flo would be so jealous.
I keep thinking about my new haircut. All the girls wear their hair in curls now. Can I wear mine in curls? I would give anything to have hair like that.
Like Mum’s.

A man in an overcoat stands outside the twin-towered West Gate.

He is not the German, I can tell that straight away. I like the sight of him only slightly more.

He turns at our footsteps, fingers itching towards his camera.

‘Hiya, girls,’ he calls. ‘Happy Christmas to you both. You two live in the Tower, do you?’

Neither of us answers, and I follow as Nell walks on.

‘Just a quick question, nothing to be alarmed about.’ He moves to stand before us. ‘About the other residents of the Tower. I’m with the paper, you see? The people want to know how the ravens are doing. You know, all this business about some old Tower legend. Folks want to know if the birds are fit and healthy and all.’

‘Of course,’ I say, hoisting the giant goose as we pass. ‘Just bringing them their Christmas meal now.’

The Watchman senses some disturbance and steps out of the Gatehouse. The photographer slinks away. But I am smiling. Uncle Henry didn’t make up the legend of the ravens. Even the newspapers know about it. I ignore the voice in the back of my head that whispers,
you
told Churchill. Timothy Squire is the rotten liar, not Uncle.

At dinner, the table is covered in a cloth embroidered with red flowers. We have goose and roast potatoes, with cabbage from the allotment. The Stone Kitchen looks positively festive, with paper chains and sprigs of holly decorating the ceiling (no paper hats, though). For pudding, we are each given half a fig. Nuts are still scarce and dear, so we don’t have those.

We open presents before the fire. My pillowcase is here in place of a stocking, and there is something inside – it is heavy. Has someone gone to Oxford Street? Uncle has given me a book (
The Sword in the Stone
), which I have read a million times. I smile and thank him.

From Oakes there is a card. It is only a card – no present – but with a quite lovely decoration of a robin on it. Inside it says
A Happy Christmas
. I mutter my thanks.

We sit listening to the wireless, carols from a college chapel (exact location censored – likely Cambridge). ‘Star of Bethlehem’ plays with Brodie’s deep hum as accompaniment.

Back in my room, I write a card to Florence. I wish I could send it; I wish I knew where exactly she was.

A knock.

‘Come in.’ Strange for Uncle to visit at so late an hour. I wait another moment before calling in a louder voice.

‘Come in!’

No one comes.

Quietly, I get up and push the door open. Nobody is there. But something is. Even though it is not wrapped, I know it is a present. A bit too small, the pages not lined; it is perfect.

A new workbook, with the name already filled in, in small, neat letters.
Magpie.

A note inside.

I bought this for you – sod the paper ration.

I’m sorry. T.S.

Wednesday, 25 December 1940

The parade is at 9.50 a.m. outside the King’s House. Again the Warders are in full red and gold dress, with their medals and ribbons proudly displayed. Sir Claud carries a staff with an enormous head, and Sparks, the Gaoler, carries an axe.

I think of Mum, and when we saw the Coronation together. Well, the Coronation parade, at any rate. Mum took me to see all the royals pass along Regent’s Street. Three summers ago, though it feels like ten.