What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘Two spots, sir. There’s another sapper, who trained with me in Aberdeen.’

  A trace of caution enters his voice. I’m going to muck up the whole thing. ‘Another gifted sapper who failed basic training?’

  ‘Afraid so, sir. He helped me, ah, not blow up the bridge. Knows how to cock it up... how to stop a detonation, that is, better than anyone. He’s been down at the docks, too. Arthur Lightwood, sir.’

  I can feel his eyes, measuring me like a fish at Billingsgate market. ‘Fine. But you’ll both be required to finish your sapper training and pass the test properly. You can do that with my unit. The men are assembling in Tarrant Rushton, in Dorset.’

  My first thought – not Aberdeen? – is instantly cancelled by my second. ‘But that’s an RAF base, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Squire, so it is. I thought you knew all of Churchill’s plans?’ The dark eyes gleam. This is a dangerous man. Don’t forget it. ‘You’ll need the RAF to get where you’re going.’

  I’m as wide-eyed as a posh kid lost in the East End. I’d assumed we would cross the Channel in a minesweeper, or a fishing trawler. But a plane – like Anna flies – that would be kicks.

  I feel my face turning hot. ‘I’ve never even been in an aircraft, sir.’

  ‘No aircraft. They’d hear you coming, and that would decimate years of careful planning, assuming you haven’t done that already down at the pub. No, we need you to land swiftly and silently, and begin operations immediately.’

  Flying without aircraft? What is going on?

  ‘You and your friend can find your way to Dorset, I trust? And refrain from sharing any of your knowledge with your mates?’ His look says he very much doubts it.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  I salute – twice – and slip out before he can change his mind. My luck is back.

  Monday, 19 April 1943

  My first day of leave since the test, and the sun looks ready to give me a glorious show. It feels strange to be walking around in civilian clothes. Clothes that barely fit – I seem to have grown taller since January. I must be as tall as Timothy Squire now.

  At least I have money to buy new clothes. If only I still had Nell as a friend; I remember with a sad smile when the two of us went to fetch the goose for Christmas during the Blitz. I was almost too scared to even speak to her. She said so many shocking things that it was impossible to know what to say. How I would love to talk to her now.

  But I have not come to the Tower on the off chance I might run into Nell. I must speak to Oakes, tell him I have passed my solo flight test. And of course I would like to talk to Timothy Squire, if he’s not off somewhere with Flo.

  But the real reason I am here, the reason I need to be here, is the ravens.

  As I reach the roost I see Yeoman Stackhouse has beaten me to it. Not that he has put them to bed. I spot Oliver, frolicking, and guide him into the cage. He moves a little too quickly for a bird that’s supposed to have just finished his biggest meal of the day. I add Stackhouse to the list of Warders I have to talk to.

  ‘Good day to you, Oliver. Do you remember me? You do?’

  Oliver croaks as I usher him to bed, adding a high-pitched whistle I’ve never heard a raven make before. A clever bird.

  ‘Timothy Squire tells me he’s teaching you how to speak. What have you learned so far?’

  Oliver looks back at me. Not even a croak. What would Timothy Squire teach a raven to say anyhow? That was kicks? Some fact about bombs? I close the gate tight. For a blissful minute, I simply breathe in the air – the smell of the Tower, of stone, of the river. Of home.

  ‘Good night, Oliver.’

  Now where is Portia? And Rogan, for that matter?

  In the moment before I turn, the moment before I walk away to find them, I see Oliver’s beak open. It is the raven’s beak, but it is Timothy Squire’s voice. The word he has been teaching him, the one word the raven can speak, is perfectly mimicked. Clear as a bell I hear it, and it rings through me with fear and wonder.

  Anna.

  A rustling sound behind me makes me turn. Out of the shadows walks Timothy Squire.

  ‘Magpie.’

  I stare at him in shock. He remains quiet, hands bolted to his sides, bag slung over his shoulder. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Taking care of the birds, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’ve seen the wonders of your work.’

  ‘You think? Follow me.’

  It’s only been a few weeks – less than a month – since I last saw him. But he does look different somehow. How do I look? After that night on the battlements – on these battlements – has everything changed? Or does he only care about Flo now?

  ‘I’ve just put them in their cages,’ I say.

  ‘Not all of them.’

  He gestures for me to follow. We cross the Green to the King’s House. He ducks around the corner into a little garden – I never knew that was there – and comes back dragging a great ladder behind him.

  He sets the ladder just between the two high windows, where the slopes of the two roofs sink and meet. That must be as high as the ravens can fly with their clipped wings. It’s also smack in the middle of one of the most important buildings in the Tower.

  Timothy Squire guesses my thoughts before I speak them.

  ‘Don’t worry, if the King turns up, we’ll move off.’

  Holding the ladder firm, he gestures for me to go up. I can’t help but glance around first, looking for Warders or Wives, but see only a distant Scots Guard, intent on his own business. I climb.

  At the top is a wooden box, filled with grass and sticks and mud – a nest. Portia and Rogan are here. And there is a nestling in the box.

  ‘Oh, Timothy Squire. This is wonderful.’

  He squeezes up beside me on the ladder.

  ‘This is Yugo.’

  I was greeted with a harsh quork, but Yugo makes a soft sound as Timothy Squire’s face looms over the nest.

  ‘It’s been near a month. Opens his eyes now and everything.’

  The nestling’s eyes are open – a startling bright blue that will in time turn a deep brown like the others. Feathers are coming in, too, shiny and black on his head and wings.

  ‘Spends most of the time lying with his beak tucked on his wing, or begging loudly to be fed. Might’ve fed him a bit too often.’

  The young bird sidles up to the edge of the nest, and Timothy Squire pinches some food into the waiting mouth. I’d wager it: the bird only has eyes for him. It looks like the two have bonded, whether Timothy Squire realizes it or not. Portia can certainly tell, letting him up here without a scolding. That harsh treatment is reserved for me. She still recognizes my face, but my importance around here has clearly been usurped.

  Yugo now stands at the edge of the box, flapping his wings. Does Timothy Squire know anything about bonding? Well, he knows enough to hatch a nestling at the Tower, something even Uncle couldn’t do. And that’s not including Oliver, the bird he taught to speak.

  Junior Ravenmaster, indeed.

  ‘Can’t be doing such a crap job then,’ he says, with his unnerving habit of reading my thoughts. ‘Corax still hates me, though.’

  ‘Thank you, Timothy Squire.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says, helping me down the ladder.

  ‘You are?’

  We wander over to the hard bench – our old bench – and his face takes on a stiff, serious look. ‘’Course. Thing is, I am going off for training in Dorset. Properly this time – to become a real sapper. God’s honest truth. Major’s agreed to take me and Lightwood back on. I’ve never been brilliant with letters – and I wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘Oh. That’s great news. I just thought... on account of your guest.’ My attempt at a casual tone is an utter failure.

  ‘My what?’

  I force myself to look up at him. ‘I know about your visitor.’

  For a moment he st
ares at me, white as a sheet. It’s all I need to see. Oh, Timothy Squire. My stomach drops like a shoddy take-off.

  I laugh, a harsh, grating sound in my own ears. ‘She’s so great, isn’t she?’

  His face changes again. For a second he looks – what? Relieved? But then the same wide-eyed shock.

  ‘Anna. What? Flo? Are you talking about Flo?’

  ‘Oh, Flo, is it? You two got to know each other pretty well.’

  ‘What? Barely. She came to the Tower – she didn’t know you’d left. She didn’t know anything.’

  ‘She came to see you?’

  ‘She came to see you.’ He takes a blue mug from his bag, holds it out. ‘She wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘She has.’ I don’t move to take it.

  ‘What? You’re mad at her? At me?’

  ‘She came back though, didn’t she? Why do you think she keeps coming here, Timothy Squire?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His voice is heated. He puts the mug back in his bag. ‘To see the ravens? She’s read all about them in the bloody papers.’

  He stands, and I’m only an instant behind him.

  ‘Does she help you feed them, too?’

  ‘I wish she’d help me feed them. No one else does. You don’t. Every morning I go up there and feed them. Did you even know that? Yeoman Bloody Stackhouse is happy to let them all starve and die. They likely would be dead if it wasn’t for me. What would the papers make of that story.’

  He starts walking away, but I refuse to let him just run off. Together we stomp at a hurried pace across the Parade Grounds. A passing Scots Guard gives us a wide berth. The wind seems to push us faster.

  ‘Don’t make yourself a hero. Clearly you had the time to hang around building boxes. I have to help win the war.’

  A dangerous moment of silence. His pupils are enormous, his face too pale. Well, it annoys me to no end. This little conversation he had with Flo – he’s going to tell me everything he told her and more.

  We are climbing the steps to the battlements, directionless and at speed. His bag scrapes on the stone wall as he climbs. On the top stair I pull up, stopping dead. After the briefest hesitation, Timothy Squire stops too and turns back to face me. He frowns, not quite meeting my eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Bethnal Green?’

  ‘You weren’t here.’

  I flinch, hearing the thought behind the words. You don’t care. ‘Well, I’m here now. Are you OK?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have told Flo about firestorms.’

  ‘She asked,’ he says quietly. ‘She likes talking about bombs.’

  For a moment my heart breaks for him, the boy who loved bombs and adventure, and then joined the sappers and got thrown out.

  ‘You scared her, Timothy Squire.’

  ‘Why? It’s the same as they did to us,’ he says. Then when I don’t answer, he adds, ‘They’re Nazis, Anna.’

  ‘Not all Germans.’ I don’t know why I said that, but it’s too late to take it back.

  He takes a step towards me. The wind pauses, draws breath.

  ‘Anna, he’s not there.’

  ‘What?’

  Now he is looking directly into my eyes. ‘Your father. He’s not there. You can’t worry about him, that he’ll be in Hamburg or Cologne or wherever.’

  Why is he saying this? But I know why. Because I lost Mum and he thinks I’m scared to lose Father, too. Even if he is a Nazi.

  ‘He’s not in danger from firestorms or any kind of bomb, OK?’

  ‘How do you know?’ I ask.

  One last look before he turns and marches off. ‘I just know, all right?’

  This time I do not follow.

  *

  Another meal with Oakes in this cold kitchen. A thin potato soup and weak tea. But for once I am not thinking about food.

  ‘Is it truly a crime,’ I say, trying to keep my voice soft, ‘for my father to be German? I mean, what if he isn’t... isn’t a Nazi?’

  Oakes’s spoon slides gently down his bowl. He is staring into his soup as if it has something to tell him. ‘I have resumed my research, for my book on the history of prisoners in the Tower. So far, I’ve recorded one thousand, eight hundred and thirteen names. One of these many prisoners was a man named Fernando Buschman, who was held here during the Great War. He was born in Paris, and his mother was Brazilian. But his father was a German.’

  Oakes looks up at me now, and I almost wish he’d go back to his soup. Something is stirring behind his eyes. Fear?

  ‘Fernando Buschman was in London on behalf of his family business, importing musical instruments, and he sent several telegrams to a man in the Netherlands. Mr Buschman claimed it was business, but Scotland Yard suspected otherwise. This Dutch contact could be a spy; Mr Buschman could be a spy.’

  With a great creak, Oakes leans back in his chair, our meagre supper abandoned.

  ‘He was arrested and brought here, to be executed at the rifle range set up behind Constable Tower. Mr Buschman was an exceedingly gifted violinist, and he requested his violin, to give him solace during his final night. It was granted. He played all through the night, and the other prisoners stayed awake, listening. The last piece he played was Vesti, “La Giubba by Pagliacci”, the saddest song in the world.’

  Thursday, 22 April 1943

  I return to the crew room, helmet in my hand. A solid day of flying today; but one thing still niggles in my thoughts. On my third approach, happy as a bird, Gower suddenly took over the controls and landed the plane herself. Why? Had I done something wrong?

  If anything, I thought my previous landing had been my best. She certainly hadn’t said anything – no more talk of being clumsy. She seemed quite impressed, in fact. Then why steal back the controls? And without a word, without any explanation at all?

  No sense getting cross with Gower. She doesn’t seem like the type to try such tricks, but one never knows. Maybe it is important somehow. Maybe I was growing too confident too fast? When I saw Westin yesterday, I lied and said I was going solo already. Not that he seemed impressed. And Westin certainly wouldn’t go to Gower, no matter how much I was bragging. He doesn’t talk to a female pilot unless he has to. I put it from my thoughts like Timothy Squire and Flo.

  My knees ache. My eyes, too, from the glare through the cockpit. The goggles only do so much. I march down the corridor, keeping to myself. I check the pigeonhole for any letters, but the box is empty. Timothy Squire could find some time to write; at least offer an apology. Sometimes, when I am too knackered to keep studying, I think of how he braved the air raid to switch shelters and be with me. Foolish, mad thing to do, but I remember how it felt when he gripped my hand in the darkness – how it helped.

  Well, no one’s coming to help me now.

  ‘Someone asking for you, Cooper. A boy, can’t be a day over sixteen. Says he’s from the Tower.’

  Now that is lucky. All I had to do was think of him making a great gesture, and he goes and turns up at White Waltham. Come to explain himself, tell me it’s all a mistake – he doesn’t even like Flo. She is so annoying, so perfect all the time, with her stories about ice hockey and Canada and ending the war by reading poems to the Germans. I rush to see him.

  But it isn’t Timothy Squire. In fact, it’s the last person I expect to see.

  ‘Malcolm.’ I breathe in sharply. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Working.’ He smiles as if this was the commonest thing in the world. Malcolm Brodie, the most boring human I have ever met, is here at the airfield.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ve joined the Met Office centre here at White Waltham. I’m training to become a meteorological adviser. It’s really quite fascinating. Did you know that our weather here, today, is affected by the pressure which has travelled thousands of miles from the Arctic?’

  I can say nothing. Malcolm never says more than three words at a time. And none to me. What is he doing here?
>
  ‘Well, it’s great that you’re helping, Malcolm. But I have lots to do today.’

  He nods, still smiling, as I leave. What on earth is Malcolm doing at White Waltham? Meteorological adviser? I shake my head to clear it. I have too much studying to do – and something I want to do even less. Something we are forbidden to do.

  But apparently I can’t say no to Joy.

  *

  I slump on the corner of my bed, frowning at nothing. Frowning at everything. Joy carries on trying to teach me to use the instruments, pacing up and down the cramped room. She seems to have smuggled some books from an RAF pilot. Maybe one of the men she was dancing with at the Lansdowne.

  And here I was thinking they all wanted us dead.

  ‘But we’re not allowed,’ I say, once again, my voice calm as I repeat the familiar mantra. ‘ATA pilots are only permitted to fly under visual contact conditions: two thousand yards visibility and an eight-hundred-foot ceiling.’

  Joy shrugs me off, pushing the book under my nose. ‘Tell that to a thunderstorm.’

  I take the heavy book but leave it closed.

  Joy insists that I must learn. But I can’t risk being kicked out – which I will be if I don’t pass my cross-country exam. I must forget about the instruments and focus on avoiding situations when I’d need them. I must focus on studying my map.

  ‘Joy, I understand what you mean. But at the ATA pilots must endeavour to make a safe landing to avoid being caught in instrument conditions. You know this better than I do.’

  ‘But, Cooper, it’s crazy, don’t you see? Not letting us learn the instruments? How in the world – why in the world—’

  ‘It’s the rules, Joy.’

  ‘It’s the RAF’s rules.’

  Not this again. Maybe she didn’t borrow the book from an obliging RAF pilot.

  ‘Cooper, just think about it, OK? We are being sent up there to die if it’s cloudy. If it’s cloudy – in England! We’re lucky any of us ever comes back. There’s no excuse for sending us up there blind. No excuse but what the RAF says.’

  I shake my head, but remember the fear during my solo flight as the heavy clouds threatened to surround me.

  ‘Joy, it’s absurd, of course, I agree. But there is no conspiracy. It’s just, well – it is what it is, all right? We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?’