‘Cecil. Thank you for the pleasant evening. Goodbye.’
*
The ravens will be the end of me.
Somehow they have heard my footsteps. I was nice enough to Mr Thorne – though his look told me this is my last abuse of curfew, permanent resident or not – and I have almost made it past the nest when the bloody birds start croaking. I fight off the ridiculous urge to walk on tiptoe. Timothy Squire has clearly done a bad job as Ravenmaster, and Stackhouse must not be feeding them properly.
Night presses down on the Tower. Not a single light on in the White Tower or the Jewel House. Like nobody lives here; like nobody’s ever lived here. Even the most familiar routes become a little hazy, and these shoes aren’t meant for the cobblestones. I stumble as I turn. A glass of wine too many, perhaps.
‘I think they miss you.’
I freeze. Of course, it is him.
I grab his bony shoulders, crushing him in a hug. ‘Timothy Squire. Are you – are you sneaking out?’
‘Me?’ Pulling free of my hug, he holds me at arm’s length. ‘No, I am a responsible member of His Majesty’s armed forces. I certainly wouldn’t risk my life and those of my allies by spending the night boozing it up with the lads.’
His tone is hard, and I am flooded with guilt. More guilt. I struggle for something – anything – to say, but suddenly his laughter fills the night.
‘Good for you, Magpie. How can you do the job if you don’t act the part, right? Come on, I’ll make you a cup of tea. Trust me, it’ll help.’
I nod weakly, following him to the Stone Kitchen. ‘We just had – a group of us – a meet-up for planning...’
I mutter on as we cross the Ward. Timothy Squire says nothing as he ushers me in, closes the door behind us. He starts making the tea, the soothing hiss of the gas burner, the familiar clink of mugs. I feel terrible about my time with Cecil. But that’s no use. ‘You can’t put honey back in the comb,’ Flo’s father would say. Not that it was honey, exactly...
‘So,’ Timothy Squire says, not turning around. ‘Is it exciting?’
‘The Lansdowne?’
‘The training to be a pilot.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling as ridiculous as I sound. Luckily he is still intent on the tea-making. ‘Sometimes, yeah.’
I notice a small portion of real milk – it must be his whole ration – and my heart leaps up. Tea with real milk. Now he turns around, carrying two steaming cups. He places one in front of me and it takes all my willpower not to reach out immediately.
‘Are they strict?’
I shrug. ‘About timetables and things. But it’s not the WAAF – we’re all civilians, so the worst they can do is send us home. And training a new pilot is not cheap.’
‘They seem to pay well enough, anyway.’ He laughs again. ‘They say it’s sixpence a pint at the Lansdowne.’
Eight, actually. ‘They look after us.’
‘What do you do?’ he asks, taking a quick sip. ‘Do you get to fly Hurricanes and things?’
‘Well, some pilots collect fighters from factories and deliver them to aerodromes. Though some are needed at small airfields in the country, to be tested and armed. The grass airfields are camouflaged and can be a nightmare to find. So I hear, at any rate. I’ve never even sat in the second cockpit.’
‘Some day that’ll be you, Magpie. Flying a Spitfire to where it’s needed most.’
I look down at my steaming cup. Why is he being so nice? ‘Some people think women aren’t strong enough to fly aircraft. But if you’re relying on force, you’re in trouble. The touch is really quite gentle.’
I finally take a sip. It is real milk. It is heaven. ‘And what are you doing, Timothy Squire?’
‘Eh? I’m still down at the docks. Building.’
‘Are you on leave?’
He nods, suddenly flustered. ‘A forty-eight, yeah. Here, you’ll need this, right? I’m sure the time is pretty important up there. In the sky. This was my grampa’s.’ He hands me a beautiful silver watch.
‘Timothy Squire – your grampa’s watch? I can’t take this.’
‘Don’t take it. Just borrow it. Until you come back, then I’ll take it again, yeah? See, it fits perfectly.’
He’s lying, of course. He’s fussing to get it on my wrist, to show me it fits. Even on the tightest notch, it is loose. But I am sure of how important this is to him.
‘Thank you.’
*
We sit together on the battlements wall, overlooking Tower Bridge. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job looking after the ravens, Timothy Squire.’
‘They’ve not been half-bad, to be honest. Well, Stan is always a bit of a—’
‘Say, you haven’t noticed Stackhouse hanging around Bloody Tower, have you?’
‘Stackhouse?’
I watch Timothy Squire, staring fixedly out over the river. He is hiding something – that much is clear. ‘Yeah. I know it sounds mad, but I think he might have been in my room. I don’t know for certain, but someone left a letter on top of my diary.’
‘A letter? What did it say?’ Timothy Squire has gone white as a cloud.
‘Nothing. It was one of the V1 leaflets. But it was meant as a message, I think.’
‘It was me.’
‘You?’
‘Yes,’ he adds weakly. ‘Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have gone into your room – especially after the last time – but I just wanted to leave you a letter. I thought it was better than posting it. But then I decided to post it anyway. And I forgot the leaflet on your desk. I’m sorry, Anna. I didn’t touch anything or read anything and it was only that one mad time.’
‘You posted me a letter?’
He holds my gaze for longer than normal. ‘Eh? No. Not yet. I wanted to write it again. But I will post it, soon.’
‘I can tell when you have a secret.’ He has frozen, more than confirming my guess. Something he doesn’t want to tell me. ‘You said you weren’t going to lie to me any more. Do you remember? Well, what is it that you’re keeping from me? This letter?’
He sighs, a heavy, elaborate sigh. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Timothy Squire...’
All at once his face crumbles. ‘I’m not a sapper, Anna. I was kicked out of training. That’s why I came home early – that’s why I’m stuck down at the docks. And now that’s over, and I’ve got nothing to do but mope around the Tower with these blasted ravens. The bloody Ravenmaster.’
He looks relieved again – the weight of holding back the truth must have been taking its toll. I knew it. Timothy Squire can’t keep a secret for more than a second. He’s not a sapper?
‘I – well, Lightwood and I – we messed around with the fuse. I mean, we were supposed to blow up this bridge, right, but we messed around with the fuse, just testing it out, just before and... nothing. The explosion was meant to be massive, but nothing happened. Just a tiny click, and silence. Major sent us straightaway to work at the docks.’
I am as shocked as he is by the laughter that rings through me. I can’t stop, I just keep laughing. Loud enough to wake the Inner Ward residents, birds and humans both. He stares back, at first annoyed, then a bit worried. Soon, though, a little smile cracks his lips.
‘I really thought it was going to work,’ he mutters.
Now we are both laughing, loud enough to wake the whole Tower of London.
*
Moonlight shines down on the turrets. It is no longer the wine, but the sheer exhaustion that has me light-headed. Timothy Squire is not the quiet, distant boy that came back from Aberdeen. He is his old self, laughing and talking rubbish, tapping his palms on the stone, looking out over the Thames, over the city. Laughter makes him hand-some – maybe not as handsome as Cecil, but still handsome.
Across the battlements warm wind sweeps up, and we sit, silent, but in complete awareness of each other. Even as my eyes look around – at the turrets, Tower Bridge, the new stars piercing out – they always come back to him.
&
nbsp; ‘This place kicks.’ He catches my glance, smiles, peers up at the sky.
‘That’s Ursa Major.’ I point up into the blackness. It is the deepest, stillest part of night. ‘The Great Bear. Can you see her – just across from the moon? One of the largest constellations in the night sky.’
‘Oh,’ he says.
Yeoman Oakes taught me that. When I first asked him to take me to Salt Tower to look at Hew Draper’s carving, an astrological chart, I was only trying to be nice. But to stand before it is to understand how complex it is, how fascinating a map of the stars can be. After Uncle died, though, we never went back.
‘Aren’t you scared?’ Timothy Squire says. ‘Of being... up there?’
‘I was...’ I sigh. ‘I wanted to volunteer, to help, but I didn’t mean to join the ATA. I didn’t know I could join up. I’m still not sure quite how it all happened.’
He laughs. ‘Rules aren’t what they used to be.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get another chance, Timothy Squire.’
‘Nah. But I’m done whinging about it, at any rate. I’ve got these birds to look after. And I’m proud of you, Anna.’
‘Thank you.’
Moonlight shifts across the towers, disappears over the battlements.
‘So what’s really happening down there? The docks, I mean.’
‘It’s meant to be a secret, Magpie.’
‘The invasion.’
He nods. ‘We were building some sort of great floating city.’
‘Will it work?’
‘I don’t know. Armed forces business, isn’t it? But it didn’t work when we tried to land at Dieppe. It’s never worked before, Lightwood tells me. And the Germans will be expecting it. Rommel will be there, waiting for us.’
‘But there is a chance? This time?’
He grunts. ‘The only way our invasion could ever work is if we throw everything at them – every plane, every tank, every soldier. And then we’re going to need some proper bloody luck.’
‘We have to get over there soon,’ I say. ‘Before the V1s.’
He coughs. I am aware of what he doesn’t say. That the V1s are impossible. That I shouldn’t worry.
We watch the pale disc of the moon, thinning as it rises. Darkness begins to fade from the sky.
Finally, he says, ‘We’ll be all right, Magpie. I promise.’
I reach out, take his hand, hardened by his months at the docks. Sapper, labourer, Ravenmaster – I don’t care. After an impossibly long instant, he squeezes back. Birds – robins, blackbirds, the returned starlings – chirp and sing up the sun. The dawn chorus, Uncle said. ‘A daily miracle’, he called it, and I can believe it. The ravens are still silent in their cages.
Thin rays of orange creep up Tower Bridge and I realize I have never seen the sunrise from here. I had no idea that it could rise, almost perfectly, between the two towers of the bridge. This new light is a new day, and Timothy Squire and I watch it together.
When he kisses me, his lips are as soft as I remember. Hesitantly, a little quicker than Cecil; after another moment, all thoughts of Cecil are gone for ever.
‘Timothy Squire. We should talk. About what happened two years ago. With my father.’
He smiles. ‘Doesn’t seem the right time, does it?’
I shake my head. Now feels the best time to talk about it. So many things that I want to say, that I’ve wanted to say but didn’t even realize, come flooding out.
‘You were the only one – you know that? When I first came here. The only one who wanted to help me, who cared about me. You were a great friend. I know – all your stealing wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. You’re just dumb as a brick sometimes. And you help with the ravens, and I know you don’t really like them. In the beginning I think you were actually scared of them—’
‘Anna—’
‘And when my father came – when that man came here, you were so brave. And you chased him away. You chased the bastard away for ever.’
His voice is different, softer. ‘Anna.’
I keep talking, terrified that if I stop now I will never say it, never tell him the truth. He is trying to stop me, he thinks it is the wine – can it be, after all this time? – but I must keep going.
‘Anna.’
I look up at him, forcing myself to stop. ‘Yes, Timothy Squire?’
His eyes are soft, kind. ‘I think it’s time to feed the birds.’
Sunday, 21 March 1943
I didn’t even try to sleep. I sat on the bed, writing in my notebook, staring out of the window, listening to the whistle and click of starlings. Anything but sleep. Walking down the stairs of Bloody Tower, my head feels stuffed. Even the stairwell is too loud and bright. All I can think of is breakfast. I almost miss a step – music comes from Yeoman Oakes’s room. Loud music.
Carefully, I knock. The voice at the other end is so loud it is startling. Usually Oakes is listening to the radio – ‘Life with the Lyons’ or ‘Workers’ Playtime’ – but this is something else. Screaming trumpets and banging drums. It is 7 a.m.
‘Come!’
I push open the door. Music hits me like a rush of wind. Oakes is standing in the middle of the room, looking almost flushed. He is in his shirtsleeves. He seems surprised to see me, but his face soon changes and he laughs. With a great hug, he lifts me off the floor.
‘It’s not English, I know,’ he says, letting me down and smiling at the Victrola. ‘Don’t tell Churchill, OK?’
My head throbs in protest at the trumpets and drums. For days I have been thinking – well, I’ve been thinking about it for much longer – that I must ask Oakes about Father, but, now that I am here it no longer seems such a good idea. I put it from my mind.
‘Your uncle loved this music, as you must know.’
Letting the door close, I enter the room, standing awkwardly amid the noise. I think of the ravens, how surprised they were to be let out so early by Timothy Squire and me. Especially Portia – she seemed strange somehow. She made all sorts of knocking sounds I’ve never heard her make before. And Rogan, too, was all puffed up, making his dominance displays and calling loudly.
Timothy Squire muttered that Stackhouse promised to leave them out. Leave them out? I decided not to ask. He’s meant to be the Ravenmaster now.
Timothy Squire didn’t say anything about the ravens’ odd behaviour, but I felt like he was... sad. Something is going on. But truth be told, the ravens weren’t the first thing on my mind at the time. Of course I won’t see Cecil again – but if I do, I will just tell him the truth about Timothy Squire and me.
Which is?
‘Listen, listen.’ Oakes is doing his thing where he is talking, but not really to anyone. Uncle always did that. ‘This part... here.’
And, after a moment, ‘Oh, he loved this piece.’
Oakes is too far away to notice my sour look. He is lost in his music. Or something. I glance around, worried I will see an empty glass of whisky and water. But there is nothing, only a tie lying across the chair.
A quick scurry of strings and then the sound of horns hangs in the narrow room, which is neatly stacked with books and papers. I’m sure Uncle did like this – he once took me to the longest concert I’ve ever heard at the Queen’s Hall, the night before it was bombed – but breakfast, and relief from this headache, awaits.
‘Tell me, Anna. Is this what it feels like to fly?’
I nod, trying to adopt a listening face. How can music sound like flying? This is just loud, swaying trumpets and horns. My eyes hover again to the shelves, yet no empty glasses can be seen. But as the music grows, it floods out, becomes somehow purifying, proud, the joyful horns reaching and ascending.
‘Do you hear it? The swan theme.’
The sound is – well, like being suspended, weightless, hovering, free and alone. Like great swans pounding their wings, soaring. Flying. It is remarkable. It is extraordinary. For a brief moment I forget all about my pounding head.
Oakes is smiling at
me like a fiend. ‘You see?’
I am smiling too as the music crashes around us.
‘Sibelius,’ Oakes says, as the piece finally ends. He carefully takes the needle off the record and then lifts his tie, slides it over his head and pulls it tight. ‘His Fifth Symphony. Marvellous. Now, how can I help you, Anna? Not another faked birth certificate, I hope?’
I shake my head dumbly, unsure what to make of his transformation. ‘I was hoping for some real eggs.’
*
‘Sorry,’ he says, as we take our usual seats in the Stone Kitchen. ‘I have all your uncle’s old records. Sometimes it’s nice to listen to them. Sorry about the breakfast.’
Oakes shrugs at me from across yet another bowl of dregs. At least they’re not burned. Sometimes Mum burned the pan. I don’t know why, but the eggs would be black and ruined, and Mum would curse – curse the pan, the eggs, herself. On burned-pan mornings I would just tell her I wasn’t that hungry, and anyway I didn’t really like eggs so much, but that I couldn’t wait to come home from school for cheese on toast. The cheese on toast was never burned.
‘Yeoman Oakes?’
‘Yes, Anna?’
‘I really miss Uncle, too.’
He squares his jaw. There is a smell of whisky I notice, but it is only slight. ‘Your uncle was a good man, Anna. The Tower is not quite the same place without him. We miss him here every day.’
I want to reach out, take his hand. ‘It’s only you and me now, Yeoman Oakes. We’ll just have to do our best.’
Oakes gives a sad smile. I feel terrible for bringing up the whole mess. The smell of whisky is not as slight as I first thought.
‘Did Uncle ever tell you the story of Bran the Blessed?’
Oakes draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. ‘I’d love to hear you tell me.’
‘“Bran” means raven in Welsh. Bran was the King of the Britons, and after a great victory, he was wounded and dying. He had his men cut off his head, and bury it under White Hill, so he would always be there to protect Britain. Even after he had gone. And the Tower is built over White Hill. So we will always be safe here.’
Oakes is nodding to himself, his eyes far away. ‘That is the kind of story your uncle loved to tell.’
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