What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  ‘Yes, sir, ATA Headquarters. I’m on the Paddington train—’

  At that moment the giant Yeoman Brodie, Malcolm’s dad, enters the Stone Kitchen. We smile at each other – I like Yeoman Brodie, but we have never been truly friendly since I discovered that he killed one of the ravens, MacDonald. He was in a great panic about his son, and he worried that the ravens were bad luck – Uncle explained it all to me so I wouldn’t hate him too much – but it is hard to laugh at his loud jokes as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Ferry pilot, eh?’ He looks at me disapprovingly. ‘Those Hurricanes weigh near to ten thousand pounds, you know?’

  ‘I’m not planning to carry it, Yeoman Brodie. I’m going to make it carry me.’

  He laughs – a great booming sound destined to echo throughout the castle.

  I say my goodnights and march away as the talking and laughter crash on, afraid of overhearing anything. I learned that lesson. You don’t always want to know what people really think.

  I never imagined I would long for my old mattress. Hard, yes, but at least it doesn’t sag in the middle. I am sorry to have missed Timothy Squire. Before dinner I wandered down to the docks, but no one seemed to know of Sapper Squire; I got only blank looks and shrugged shoulders. Perhaps he is at work on his secret mission. I will write to him, arrange to see him on my first leave from the ATA. What will he say when he learns that I’m training to be a pilot? I will write to Flo, too.

  As I climb the stairs to the Bloody Tower, I cast a fearful glance behind me. I can feel eyes on me.

  I am being watched.

  Staring hard into the darkness, I tell myself to relax. Stranger things than watching eyes can happen in the Tower. Could there really be someone standing in the shadows? The Scots Guard are still here, and the Warders are no more than twenty steps away in the kitchen. I am safe.

  He’s not coming back.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out, without realizing I have spoken. There is no answer from the shadows.

  My old room is much colder from my absence. Like it felt when I first came here. Cold and empty, impossible to imagine a life here. Dust an inch thick. As I get ready for bed, shivering, I notice a folded leaflet next to the diary Timothy Squire once gave me for Christmas but which I have long since filled up.

  My heart clenches as I unfold the strange paper. Flames reaching for Tower Bridge, a couple screaming in terror. Who did this I have no idea, but I’m certain what it is.

  The V1 poster.

  A warning.

  III

  ATTAGIRLS

  ‘Women who are anxious to serve their country should take on work more befitting their sex instead of encroaching on a man’s occupation. Men have made aviation reach its present perfection.’

  Aeroplane magazine, January 1940

  5

  Sunday, 28 February 1943

  Maidenhead is a large village, with elegant bridges spanning the Thames. I have brought my bicycle to speed back and forth from my billet to the airfield, and from the classrooms to the hangars, but now I push it through the uniformed crowds – many the dark blue of the ATA – my pack heavy on my back.

  And after several moments, I am sure I’ve found my new home. I had assumed my billet would be in the barracks again, but this time I am in a small private house. I am not far, though, the constant roar of aircraft tells me that. The house is modest, and if the furniture is old and stuffy, it is still a far more comfortable situation than the WAAF barracks.

  Mrs Wells, a carefully dressed lady with a searching look, greets me with a warm hello and sends me up to my room to get changed for tea. She is a widow and both her boys have been called up, so I will be alone. I am very much looking forward to that. Not that I have time to enjoy it; I have only a day to settle in, before I report to Headquarters at 9 a.m.

  I do not think of the V1 poster. It must have been Stackhouse who put it there – who else? – but that means he was in my room! The thought is too much to consider.

  I am a little taken aback by how clean the house is. When I reach the bedroom I am doubly surprised. Not because the room is covered in yellow wallpaper, but because it is not empty.

  ‘Ah.’ A girl stands, shakes my hand. ‘The roommate arrives. How do you do?’

  ‘You’re not British,’ I blurt out.

  ‘You got me,’ she says with a smile. She is wearing a dark blue uniform, the ATA wings on her left breast, the golden stripe of an officer on her shoulder. ‘Joy Brooks, New York City.’

  I don’t know what to say. I’d heard that some Americans have come to help – ‘cousins’, they are called – but you hardly ever see one. And there is one other thing that is unusual about my new roommate.

  She is black.

  She notices my hesitation. ‘They won’t let me fly back home, but no one’s asking questions here. I guess it’s that bad, huh?’

  I give a slight nod. I haven’t seen a black person since Timothy Squire took me to the coloured quarter in the docks. But I’ve never seen a woman pilot, either.

  ‘I’m called Anna. Anna Cooper.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Anna Cooper. Now let’s fly some planes.’

  *

  Turns out I am not Joy’s first roommate. Others have come and quickly left again, but Mrs Wells never thought to throw Joy out.

  ‘I owe her for that.’ Joy smiles. ‘Almost enough to chew down the peas and boiled potatoes for dinner.’ She sticks out her tongue.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Every night.’

  Nothing I’m not already used to. But my roommate is an American. A black American. I am still a little shocked, but when we come down for our peas and boiled potatoes I can see Mrs Wells takes it as calmly as the rain.

  Joy tells me more while we eat. ‘Anyone who can fly, can fly here, Cooper. I saw Jim taking off in a Hurricane – he’s only got one arm. Ted’s missing an eye and he’s got to be nearing sixty.’ She scoops up the peas keenly, despite her earlier complaints. ‘You’ve never been up in a kite before?’

  It takes me a second to understand. I finish chewing a large chunk of steaming potato. ‘No.’

  ‘Funny to think about, isn’t it? Flying?’

  Is it? My mouth is on fire, and I reach for the glass. Mrs Wells smiles at me from across the table. Taking a hurried sip of water, I try to smile back.

  ‘My father runs an air circus. C. A. Brooks’s air circus,’ Joy is saying, ‘and he taught me to fly his plane. I’ve trained a few others myself.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m from New York. None of those laws up there.’

  What laws she’s talking about I have no idea, but my tongue has finally stopped burning, so I hazard a question. ‘You trained pilots as part of the circus?’

  Joy laughs, a deep, husky laugh that I immediately like. ‘I was a stunt pilot, Cooper. Mainly sixty-five horsepower trainers, but I got my hands on some of the four-hundred horsepower beauties. Bent a few in my time. Looking forward to some real engines.’

  I nod, feigning understanding. Bent?

  But she’s a pilot. She can help teach me. Do I really want to fly? Being around Cecil distracted me somehow. But the actual experience of flying I remember with a faint and still present dizziness. I’m not so sure I want to do it myself, to be the pilot, the one responsible for the aircraft. Do I?

  Some hours later, as I lie in the darkness across the narrow room from a strange American, I listen to the faint roar of engines, and wonder whether I ought to have stayed at the canteen.

  Sunday, 28 February 1943

  Snow dusts everything, making the ancient grey Tower look white and new.

  ‘Timothy,’ a voice says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Mum. I’m... looking for something. Is Dad at the White Tower?’

  ‘Oh, who knows with him, dear. I assume he’s where he always is.’

  ‘Right.’

  Mum offers me breakfast, which I wave away despite my hunger.
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  ‘Just be careful, Mum. Keep an eye out for anything, or anyone, unusual.’

  ‘Of course, dear.’ She is smiling, thinks I’m suddenly acting like the big man in uniform, telling the civilians to be vigilant. Whatever works.

  ‘What is it you’re looking for, dear?’

  I’ve not given this any thought. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just get it.’

  I go into my room. The oak panelling, the bed with the headboard, the comfy chair, the wide window; so much of my life, up here staring across the river. I thought the war would take me there, out into the world – Algeria, or Italy, or some island where we wait to plan our next move. I thought I’d be in a tank, or a great ship, sailing across the ocean to strike Hitler his killing blow.

  I glance out of the window now, seeing the rectangle of the Green and the stone Parade Ground. No one out there but a Warder – Brodie, by the size of him, heading towards West Gate and the Tiger Pub no doubt – and a Wife, clicking away towards King’s House. The black smudge of a raven, perched on the bench. Somehow, even from this distance, I can tell it is Stan.

  Opening the thin closet, I check that the old hiding spots are still in place; bombs under the piled jumpers, shrapnel at the back of the drawer. I guess Mum only found that one incendiary. It was the best one, perfect condition, clean silver, as long as your forearm – a complete dud, only a small scratch from the landing. It would have been dropped as part of a breadbasket, one of seven hundred. Had this one caught fire, it would have burned at two and a half thousand degrees Centigrade.

  Mum must have thrown it in the rubbish.

  Well, so long as she doesn’t mention it to Dad, I’ll chalk it up to what’s left of my luck.

  I push the shrapnel well back in the drawer – no sense being sloppy. The only other stuff here is a pile of old comics and I flip through a few of them. I stare at the Champion – on the cover Rockfist is delivering a punch to the chest of a nasty polar bear, while his co-pilot hides pitifully inside the igloo – and slip it into my coat.

  At that moment Mum appears in the doorway. ‘Now that you mention it, dear, there was a man that came to the Tower this morning—’

  ‘What man?’

  She blinks. ‘I don’t know. A relative, I suppose, of one of the Scots Guards. Spent some time down at the roost looking at the birds. I would’ve said hello but I was tied up with work.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘If you see someone unusual, stay away. Stay far away, yeah Mum? Tell Dad to do the same.’

  ‘What’s this all about, Timothy? Are you in trouble with the wardens?’

  ‘I’m not in trouble with the air raid wardens. I’m not a child, Mum.’

  I say goodbye to a confused but not suspicious Mum, and march down the stairs. There is no one at the roost now. It probably was a relative of a Scots Guard. Even Anna’s dad is not mad enough to hang around the roost in broad daylight.

  In Oakes’s current state, he wouldn’t notice if a Nazi sat down to breakfast with him. I still can’t believe he signed a consent form to let Anna join the WAAF. Some guardian he is.

  I prowl the area. The wind raises a wall of dust, which no amount of blinking will clear. I should have just gone to Aberdeen. Mad fool.

  No, then Anna wouldn’t know her father was lurking around. She still doesn’t know. Well, no one would know and she’d have no one to protect her. Not that I’m turning out to be much of a guardian myself.

  The sun dips beneath the clouds. A slight cool breeze – not cold, though, despite the snow settled around the Green. No one is around so I slide the comic free. I flip the pages – Rockfist dishes out his left hook, escapes in his Spitfire.

  Someone is coming and I can see from here that it is not a vicious German madman.

  ‘Hello,’ says a girl. She is walking a black dog on a lead.

  How’d she get in here? What is the point of all these bleeding Warders if tourists and German spies just wander in? Is Mr Thorne asleep at the gate? Tourists aren’t allowed in the Tower while the war’s on. I don’t say any of that, though. I put the comic face down beside me. ‘Hello.’

  We look at each other. I stand, abandoning the comic. Stan will tear it to pieces in a second.

  ‘I’m looking for Anna – Anna Cooper – do you know her?’

  I almost laugh. ‘You might say that. Are you the friend I’ve heard all about – Flo?’

  She turns a little red. ‘And you’re Timothy Squire.’

  We stand there, not quite looking at each other.

  ‘Is she with the birds, or...?’

  ‘Ah, right. Sorry. She’s away at the airfield.’

  Her face falls. ‘Oh. I thought she was volunteering at the canteen...’

  ‘Don’t feel too bad. I thought she was at the WAAF. One of the Warders had to tell me she’d joined the ATA. She’s training to be a pilot, it seems. She must be well busy.’

  ‘You haven’t heard from her either.’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Who’s this?’ I point to the dog.

  ‘Geoffrey.’ She tugs at the lead. Then, ‘Oh,’ she says, pointing, ‘is that one of the ravens?’

  ‘That’s Portia, yeah.’

  ‘Portia? Nice name. It’s from The Merchant of Venice, right?’ Flo smiles. A nice, warm smile.

  ‘Of course.’ I move a little closer. She is tall, taller than Anna, and her hair is long and brown.

  ‘I read all about them in the papers – the Ravens of the Tower. How all but one died in the Blitz and the prime minister ordered a new flock brought in to keep England safe.’

  I nod slowly. Did Anna not tell her? That she let the last of the ravens go free? That it was her uncle, Yeoman Reed, who ordered the new birds? Seems like Anna’s happy to keep her great friend in the dark.

  ‘Churchill himself ordered them,’ she says, a little breathless. ‘And it’s up to you to look after them. It must be a lot of responsibility.’

  ‘A little, yeah. They’re well important. You, ah, want to go and see the roost? Most of ’em should be hanging around there, waiting for their dinner. Might have to keep Geoffrey on his lead.’ Gesturing for her to go ahead, I scoop up the comic as I pass.

  She looks up at me, her eyes big and pretty. ‘That would be grand.’

  But even as we cross the Green, walking in step, my eyes scan the battlements for any lurking figures.

  *

  ‘Look, mate, can you come or not?’

  Lightwood stares back. He worries I am going mad. Too much time at the docks can do that. Too much time in the pub with Lightwood can do that, too.

  ‘Is this about a bird?’

  ‘No, I just need to check something. Can you come with me?’ It burns me to ask him, but I am afraid to go alone. The truth of that burns even more.

  He finally nods. ‘Where are we going then?’

  ‘Catesby Street.’

  *

  There’s no one here. He’s not fool enough to leave his real address. He knew I’d come down here myself and see him tossed in gaol.

  Nah, even I know that’s bollocks.

  So where is he? He’s checked out, that’s easy enough to see. A crack through the curtains shows there’s nothing but a dusty table and a few mice inside. Back home to Germany? In time for tea with Hitler?

  Or has he found out where Anna is stationed? If he’s mad enough to show up at the Tower when the Warders are looking out for him, he’s mad enough to storm up to an airfield and demand to see his daughter.

  Sure enough he’ll mention he’s had a nice chat with me. Yet again I’ll be seen as keeping secrets from her. This time, I’ll wager, she’ll never speak to me again.

  Speak to me? This man is mad – he’s a bleeding Nazi – who knows what his plan is? Maybe he means to kill her, to kill us all.

  She has to be warned.

  ‘You planning to loot the place, or what?’

  I shake at the voice. I forgot all about Lightwood. ‘No... I just
thought...’

  ‘Stood you up, did she?’ He is all smiles. ‘No harm in it, Squire. Happens to the best of us. But I’ve never heard of a girl up and moving house just to avoid a bloke.’

  I ignore him, gazing around. There is nothing. Only a man in the window across the road, and a lady walking a little white dog by the stop sign.

  He is not here.

  ‘Don’t sweat it, mate.’ Lightwood clamps me on the back. ‘Pint’s on me. It’ll take your mind right off it.’

  Monday, 1 March 1943

  Aircraft line the rough grass airfield, wingtip to wingtip. I have never seen so many planes together in one place. I didn’t know there were this many. Only the Germans seem to have endless planes. There are more, many more, huddled in that lump of hangars like great tin sheds with rounded tops.

  Timothy Squire with two broken legs wouldn’t miss seeing this.

  I cannot fly one of those machines – I simply can’t. White Waltham airfield is surrounded by giant barrage balloons; grey whales, floating in the sky above. Watching them gives me a haunted feeling.

  And the planes must take off amid those great looming shapes.

  I took the bus this morning with Joy – it is far too wet to bother with the bicycle, though I miss the fresh air. Not that I noticed any of the Berkshire countryside. I felt quite important in my ATA uniform. The navy jacket is a slim cut, and it pulled close as I looped each black button in the mirror. I tied the tie and fixed the forage side cap so it stays put. I always thought the cap was a little silly, but now I like it. It changes my face somehow, makes it less round. Less like a girl’s.

  The whole uniform seems to transform me into a woman. Into a pilot. Most important of all are the narrow stripes, one on each shoulder, of the thinnest gold, which announce me as a cadet.

  I glance over at Joy’s ATA wings. Someday it will be me.

  White Waltham is made up of huge, flat-roofed build-ings, built of solid brick, and crowded with important people, gold bars of rank on their shoulders. Before the war this was the School of Flying. Now it’s ATA Headquarters.

  As we enter the main building I stare back at the congested traffic on the grass runways. Joy says she does two or three flights before lunch, sometimes coming back to base on a train.