What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  I sigh, lowering myself down to scrub the toilet. I can’t believe what a misery this whole WAAF training is turning out to be. Was Nell wrong? Maybe I don’t belong here. I am only here because so many of the girls refused to come back. And why was she smiling when she brought me here?

  It is too much of an effort not to be sad. But there is no privacy in the barracks, so I can’t crumple under the bed – the cot – and let it wash over me. I can’t. And I will not cry in some toilet stall while Nell marches off to a real job.

  Let her smile. I promised her I’d do a hell of a job for the WAAF, and I will.

  Gritting my teeth, I scour the stupid toilet.

  *

  My probation period cleaning the toilets is over. I’m trying my hand as a parachute packer. Nell, to her obvious frustration, is still tasked with discovering my talent. With a stern face she leads me to a long table crowded with other girls. She must regret agreeing to help me.

  ‘Untangle the rigging lines,’ she says. ‘And fold the parachutes like so, do you see? If they’re not properly packed, they won’t properly open. Pilots’ lives are in your hands, Cooper.’

  I watch the other girls, trying to follow along. I fold a piece of the white fabric over, realize it is backwards, fold it again. They work fast.

  ‘Right,’ Nell says. ‘It’s like this.’ She brings her fold down in a smooth motion.

  I nod, silently. This is the longest I’ve seen her go without a cigarette.

  ‘Not too bad, isn’t it?’ she says with a smile. ‘Escape from that freezing bloody Tower, meet girls your own age.’

  Blushing red, I press the corners down. There. I pass it to the right, where a plump girl ties the pack shut. Was that right? It must have been, or the plump girl wouldn’t have tied it up. She’d notice if I got it wrong. Wouldn’t she? It is now tossed in the corner. A newly mended parachute is pushed to me by the curly-haired girl to my right.

  ‘These posh girls.’ Nell shrugs, taking a pin from her mouth. ‘Can’t even sew their own things. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I can still see the pack in the corner. Should I check it again?

  Nell has worked hard her whole life, she tells me, and has countless hardships to look forward to. But I see it in her face too, that glimmer of happiness, and I suddenly know it for what it is: her world has opened up. She never dreamed she could be in a place like this. Neither did I.

  I see, too, the red gemstone on her finger.

  ‘Oh, Nell, congratulations—’

  ‘Cooper.’ She frowns at me, then quickly lowers her head. ‘It’s not that sort of ring. Just a gift.’

  ‘But he must love you then—’

  ‘Love me?’ a pencilled eyebrow is raised, and her voice drops almost to a whisper. ‘You’re supposed to be sixteen, remember? It’s only a gift from a boy, so I’ll remember him when he gets back from wherever they’ve sent him to.’

  For a second her smile falters, and I know to say no more. Was this boy her date to the film? She said he was being called away on a mission. Should he have returned by now?

  ‘Rule is no jewellery, but I’ll keep wearing it.’ She sighs. ‘A girl in my hut keeps stacks of Elizabeth Arden make-up in her pack, and no one dares throw it away.’

  Nell finishes mending another parachute, then hands it to me.

  ‘Nell,’ I say, still watching the tied parachute pack in the corner. ‘How can I be sure – I mean, what if I didn’t fold the corners just right...’

  ‘Cooper.’ Her voice is abruptly stern. ‘Don’t start with all that. A girl in here a few weeks ago got it in her head she packed one of the chutes wrong. Started opening them all up, mad to find it. They had to wrestle her out of here, in the end. CO said she needed a week’s leave.’

  ‘So she got it?’

  Nell shakes her head, takes up her sewing. ‘Found her in her hut. Hanging from the rafters. Now fold the corners tight, that’s the way.’

  Tuesday, 2 February 1943

  I see Nell again at the watch office. The parachute packers have deemed me unfit – I guess I really did mess up that parachute – and the barrage balloons workers just laughed at me.

  ‘You’d need to be twice your size, Aircraftwoman. Next.’

  So now I am to begin training as a R/T operator, using the radio and telephones. Nell tries to explain how to transmit and log communications, signal Morse code, and memorize ciphers. I mostly just make tea. I learn that the boy who gave her that ring has been gone for nine days on a bombing raid.

  Earphones tight, cramped in a small room, we help the bomber touchdown. Nell leans into the microphone at my desk, waiting to hear the voice, and she talks down planes returning from raids.

  Off duty, I head back to my hut, Nell muttering alongside me about the poor cigarette ration. Could I ever become a controller, helping guide the aircrafts to the targets? How could you? What if you directed the bomber that...?

  All at once Nell stops. ‘Well, now, would you look at that?’

  A huge bomber has just landed, and there is plenty of activity on the runway. Ground crew are on the strip, in balaclavas against the cold, refuelling the engines and putting oil in, while the newly arrived air crew – in their battle kits – cross the grounds to the Mess.

  The bomber is huge – more like a house with wings. There’s a great cockpit on the top floor, another on the ground floor for the bomb aimer.

  Timothy Squire will be properly jealous.

  The pilots look fairly ordinary, though with a confidence about them that is not unappealing. And they all seem to have shiny, slicked-back hair.

  I notice Nell is wearing a huge grin. ‘Just in time for the party tonight. Of course.’

  ‘Is that him?’ I hazard a guess. One man does stick out above the others – in the back, with dark hair and wide shoulders.

  ‘Captain Cecil Rafferty,’ she says.

  ‘He is very handsome, Nell.’

  ‘They’ll be there tonight,’ she says. ‘Drinks at the Links Hotel. Evening dress, cocktails and port and all that posh bother. You have to come.’

  She sounds very excited. I look away. Sounds like another ball at the White Tower.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I forget how young you are. One day you’ll be interested.’ She says the last words with a smug certainty. I am not so young. I really will be sixteen in the autumn. I’m only half an inch shorter than Nell, at any rate.

  ‘Dancing all night. Steak and kidney pie. Plum pudding.’ Nell is still lost in her vision of a grand ball with Cecil Rafferty.

  But for once, I am right along with her. Plum pudding. I missed it at Flo’s; I can’t miss it again. ‘I’d love to come dancing, Nell. But I don’t have an evening dress.’

  Her smile is huge, but she keeps one eye on the runway. ‘Don’t worry, Cooper. I’ll take care of you.’

  Friday, 5 February 1943

  I couldn’t imagine why Nell had brought evening dresses to the WAAF training centre. Now it doesn’t seem so strange, surrounded by balloons and paper streamers. Nell of course looks stunning in her sleek blue dress with a thin belt at the waist – as she would in the green dress with wide shoulders that I’m wearing. On me, it just hangs like a great curtain past my knees. She always did make me feel thoroughly second-hand.

  I am wearing a little of her red lipstick – she was aghast that I didn’t own any myself (‘good lippy is more essential than food’). Luckily she had a pair of flat shoes (only slightly too big) for me; there is no way I could glide around like she does in those great heels. I’d be totter-ing around like a fool.

  What would Timothy Squire think if he could see me now? I know what he’d think if he could see Nell. Timothy Squire regularly goes to pieces around Nell. He pretends not to, of course, but it’s plain for everyone to see.

  But I forget all about Timothy Squire when I notice who is standing directly across from us. Nell no doubt led us straight here while I was trying to smooth the bunches from the dress. W
ings pinned over his left breast pocket, Flight Officer Rafferty smiles at us. The curve of his lips, directed at us, makes my mouth go dry. He is holding a glass of strong-smelling whisky.

  ‘Well, hello, Nell Singer.’ He sees me, nods his head. ‘You girls keep us airborne. Every one of us owes you a great debt.’

  Once again his hair is shiny and slicked back – I remember that Nell called the RAF men the Brylcreem Boys. It certainly is a clean, smart look. Trying to imagine Timothy Squire with his hair so shiny and neat is impossible.

  ‘Allow me to thank you personally, Nell. I could not see a thing coming in.’ He’s lying – the afternoon was almost cloudless – but she is blushing red. ‘I was exhausted today, I fear. Longest mission I’ve done, and with the new aircraft... I put myself unreservedly in your hands.’

  Nell is silent as the grave. I glance at her in shock. She has the same bright-eyed look she wore when we saw Anna Neagle. I cough. I want to leave. Suddenly, I want to be anywhere but here, with smiling Cecil and stunned Nell. She’s clearly in love with this pilot and my being here is not helping. He senses my discomfort, and his eyes flick from beautiful, wide-eyed Nell, to me in my too big dress. I stand a little taller.

  ‘I must apologize, we forget that not everyone finds aircraft talk fascinating.’

  The flight wings on his uniform really do gleam in the candlelight. My words come out in a rush. ‘I do find aircraft fascinating. I just wish I knew more. I wish I had studied more... about planes.’

  ‘Ah,’ he smiles, ‘I feared that some other pilot had already cornered you with chat as boring as mine.’

  ‘She’s new,’ Nell says, giving her dress an adjusting tug it doesn’t need. ‘In training. She doesn’t know anything.’

  His eyes widen in mock surprise, and he turns back to me. ‘Well, would you care to ask any questions of a pilot who has just flown the much written about Lancaster?’

  ‘Cecil, darling.’ Isabella Pomeroy slides over and takes his arm. She locks eyes with Nell, and suddenly the old Nell rears to life. Isabella only spares one disdainful look for my wilting dress. ‘Shall we?’

  He nods, the gesture almost a small bow. ‘Another time, perhaps. Pleasure to see you again, Nell. And to meet your friend. Best of luck with your future studies.’

  I laugh to cover my nervousness. ‘You, too. I mean – goodbye.’

  ‘Steady on, Cooper,’ Nell mutters at my side. She is fidgeting with the ring on her hand. What kind of man gives a woman a ring and then ignores her to dance with some snobby git?

  Together Isabella and Cecil move to the dance floor. On her way she pauses, turns back, swings her hair, and smiles. Suddenly, and for the first time, I feel terrible for Nell.

  Sunday, 7 February 1943

  I could be living peacefully on a farm somewhere. With chickens. Farms always have chickens. And they never look ready to sink their talons into your arm. The first thing ravens eat is your eyes, Anna once said, plain as you like.

  Croak.

  ‘Go on.’ I stop myself from helping Corax along with a toe. ‘Get in your cage. Bedtime, isn’t it?’

  I push it shut. I watch her for a minute, behind the bars. What am I doing feeding these birds when I could be feeding myself? Mum’ll have dinner ready by now, and I haven’t had a bite since noon. Why starve myself half to death just to drop bloody biscuits in front of some fat crows? No, I have to do it. It’s my job to look after them. I’d better not make a cod’s head of it. Anna’s expecting that.

  ‘Come on, you.’ I squint at the approaching bird – Lyra. ‘We’re all hungry here, let’s crack on with it.’ I throw the slop in ahead of her, and close the gate once she’s inside. That’s the lot.

  But I don’t head straight to dinner. Not yet. I double back to the first cage along the roost. ‘Oliver,’ I say. ‘You still awake? It’s me, the new Ravenmaster.’

  The raven gives me a look. He’s not having that title from me. Well, better off him razzing me than Lightwood.

  It’s not razzing me, I remind myself. It’s a bleeding bird. But a smart one.

  I hope.

  ‘Right, Olly. Let’s practise again. Just once more, then I’m off to dinner. You remember what we practised?’

  Arrk.

  ‘No, that’s not quite it. Try again.’

  I kneel down, down to the bird’s level. I speak, slow and soft. He repeats with an nonsense croak. That won’t do. Again, and again, that rusty, metallic caw. Finally, I abandon the task.

  ‘You’re getting worse, Oliver.’ I stand back up, and the stiffness of ten months at the docks fills me.

  Something is about to happen. Soon. Whatever I hear, I have to forget. But the truth is clear to anyone with their wits about them. Something is about to happen, something... massive.

  The war seems to be turning in our favour. News has come that the Germans have surrendered at Stalingrad. Looks like I am destined to miss it.

  How to explain this feeling then? I have a... black feeling. As if things aren’t going to turn out all right. A lot of people will die in this war – I may be one of them. It’s a strong feeling, and I can’t seem to shake it.

  In truth, the black feeling seems to cloud my thoughts. Seems to happen more and more these days. Just scattered thoughts, black – like wings. I know what it is they remind me of, and I know what they mean. If I wasn’t so knackered, I’d feel like a right fool.

  I give my head a good shake. Looking at these bloody birds all day isn’t going to help: like little grim reapers, always eyeing you. I’m just sore and starving. Some food and a fire, and I’ll feel like myself again. Imagine, going down to Smithfields. But I don’t have enough points for a steak.

  I glance at the Bloody Tower as I pass; Anna’s room. I laugh at the thought of her chasing some RAF uniform. All the girls are wild for the pilots’ wings. Well, we can’t all be the sons of lords, some of us have to get by on skills and hard work. I have written her a letter, apologizing for acting like a fool. I will post it today. Tomorrow at the latest.

  Once she’s through being cross with me, I can tell her the truth about what happened at training. All of it. If I can keep these blasted birds alive, she’ll forgive me for certain.

  *

  Shoving open the Jewel House door, I begin to climb the many steps. This building used to be Wellington’s old barracks, they say; but now it’s all fixed up into flats. Thankfully, home is nothing like the real barracks used by the armed forces. Imagine Dad living in a proper barracks... Where would he keep all his books?

  Before I even reach the door, Mum swings it open. She hugs me; Dad says hello from behind a newspaper. I’d have wagered my ration card it would be one of the dusty old volumes. Dinner is already on plates, soggy-looking Brussels sprouts and boiled potatoes. We sit down to eating without any further fuss. It won’t take long; and Lightwood will be waiting at the pub.

  ‘It’s nice to see you, dear.’ Mum smiles. ‘Too bad your friend Arthur couldn’t join us. It’s wonderful of his parents to take you in, so you boys can be together.’

  ‘It’s only for a few months, Mum. Then we’ll go back up north to finish training.’

  ‘Months? Oh, well, you’re always welcome to come home. Your friend is welcome here, too. So, were you feeding Henry’s birds, dear?’

  ‘They’re Anna’s birds now,’ I say, immediately regretting it. ‘The Tower’s birds. They are the Tower ravens.’

  And they’re eating better than this.

  ‘It’s too bad Anna’s left us,’ Dad says, folding the paper away. ‘She was a real help around the White Tower. I have a new display in mind for when we reopen. I could use an extra pair of hands cleaning that old samurai amour. A gift to King James I, nearly five hundred years ago.’

  ‘She’s a wonderful girl,’ Mum adds.

  We manage to eat for a few minutes in silence. No doubt one of them is planning a clever way to ask more questions about Anna. Or talk about how I need to finish school.

 
; ‘Watch looks good, son,’ Dad says, stabbing at his mushy potato. ‘Kept your grandfather safe in the Great War. It’ll keep you safe now.’

  Dad never talks about the war we are currently fighting. Usually, he sticks to lectures about things that happened a thousand years ago.

  ‘I’m at the docks, Dad. Only the seagulls to look out for down there.’

  The watch is heavy on my wrist – I never seem to get used to wearing it. But I’ll take any piece of good luck I can get.

  ‘If you had managed to finish up at your school first—’

  ‘William,’ Mum cautions.

  ‘I’m only saying what the boy already knows, dear.’

  I’m not about to take this bait. Not with Lightwood waiting for me at the Fox and Hounds. He’s had a chance to bring up Anna, school, and correct my language. We must be done here.

  I spoon the last of the potatoes into my mouth, chewing as I talk.

  ‘Thanks for the grub, Mum, Dad. I’m off.’

  *

  Might as well change first. Be good to have a night out in clothes not stiff with dust. Maybe the tweed coat? With the cap? We’ll see who’s stuck at the docks for ever. I’m headed to Europe, you just wait and see.

  Oh, and the bloody letter. Should I even bother posting it to Dorchester? Or wait and give it to her myself? That seems the sensible thing to do. But I remember two Christmases gone, when I slid a book under her door. She was so mad at me before that, and then everything came out good afterwards. Might work again.

  I will race up to her room, slide the letter under the door, and get cracking to the pub. Sod the new clothes. I hurry up the Bloody Tower stairs. No need to worry about Yeoman Oakes. He’s changed more than a sight since Henry Reed died. Not all there, if I’m honest. He’ll be no good at spotting me like he used to. Years ago when I stole a cake from the Martin Tower kitchen, he saw me sneaking away all the way from Salt Tower.

  I reach Anna’s door. The memory of when I borrowed the knife from her room – she even punched me! – reminds me not to make a joke of it in front of her. I thought we might need that knife. I’ve said I’m sorry a thousand bleeding times.