These Dark Wings (21 page)

They even filmed it, and broadcast it all over. People covering the sidewalks and hanging out of the windows, cheering as the lines of soldiers and horses passed – the glittering uniforms and plumes, the wailing trumpets and bugles, the screeching pipes and drums – all leading the royal buggy on its way down Oxford Street, into Hyde Park, and to the palace.

Mum gripped my hand, told me who was who – the Canadian mounted police, the Colonials, the royal princesses – and she cheered loudly with everyone else. I remember her cheering anyway, even if I can’t quite picture it now. She always liked the Duke of York, and was happy that he was going to be King.

Staring at Uncle, the parade of the past in my thoughts, the words just come.

‘I don’t remember,’ I am saying. ‘I just... don’t. I’m
sure
I saw her, I always saw her before I left for school. She would make porridge, on the mornings she didn’t have to go in early. Other days she walked me right to the bus stop, waving as I pulled away.’

I stop, look down at the dark stone.

‘I don’t remember
that
morning. If she was there, in the doorway, or at the bus stop, or already gone...’

Uncle leans forward, places a hand on my arm. The Warders march on, and we watch in silence.

Timothy Squire is there. His eyes, freed from the irritating brick dust, are not grey but a surprising blue. He keeps up his smile.

‘Thank you for the gift,’ I say, before turning back to the parade.

At Chapel the choir is smaller now, yet the voices seem louder. It is a short sermon: we must pray for peace, but peace is impossible until there is goodwill between men. I try to listen, to believe it, my eyes on the tall Christmas tree in the corner.

At home, our tree was always left up until New Year’s Day, when Mum and I put it outside. All day the street would be lined with trees, still green while the real street trees were dead and empty of leaves for the winter. Even after the truck came to collect them, little needles littered the drive, shards of green in the white snow.

I stare around at the flagstone graves and memorials that fill the cold, white room. Buried underneath are Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Lady Jane Grey, Sir Thomas More. ‘Residents are baptized, married and buried at the Chapel,’ the Chaplain once said.

Will I be buried here?

The sermon is over, and the choir sings again. I look back up at the stained-glass windows, thinking of the horrors of the slow-passing year.

Oh, God. Don’t let me be that frightened ever again.

We were promised it would happen, yet to hear it now is astonishing. Church bells ring throughout the city. An incredible sound – the signal of death now the signal of hope. As the voices rise in ‘When Shepherds Watched’, tears fall from every eye.

I walk through the snow-dusted Green.

Grip careens into view, intent on his own business. Mabel, at least, would visit. She would examine you, nod in greeting, before moving on. I can still see him, though, and, wet from the earlier snowfall, I can detect the strong, almost fragrant smell of wet feathers, and it feels like I am sharing some of Christmas with Grip. I added some of my goose to his feeding (a bigger than palm-size slice) and he devoured it with obvious pleasure.

It is my duty to protect them.
To protect us
.

Always there have been ravens at the Tower.

We too are like the ravens
. Maybe Timothy Squire isn’t so wrong. We
have
become animals in order to survive: animals and thieves.

The houses were empty. Who are we leaving the food for? Rats?

I am so mad at him. I can scarcely think of that giant head without wanting to throw something at it. He doesn’t understand anything. He doesn’t
see
. How horrible it is.

To have another thing to lose.

‘Hear that?’ Uncle says, pointing at the wireless. ‘The bells of the Coventry Cathedral. What remains of it.’

Christmas Day lunch was happy. Chips, beans, mince pie, a glass of port. I could have asked for nothing better. Osborne biscuits too.

Last Christmas, I went to the pantomime with Mum. Different from the other years, when Mrs Morgan came too. Rumour is that only one pantomime is showing in the West End –
Aladdin
– and the show times are strange – 12 noon and 4 p.m – in case the raids begin again.

We, of course, are staying in the Tower. An afternoon programme called
Christmas Under Fire
is on, and, along with the bells of Coventry Cathedral, there are interviews from troops in Iceland, Egypt, Bethlehem. Civilians in the country, in shelters, in the Underground, sing ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Then, of course, the King himself speaks. For days Uncle has been readying us for this moment, his excitement almost enough to make him seem healthy again.

The radio voice, if occasionally halting, is clear enough:

Remember this: if war brings separation, it brings new unity also, a unity which comes from common perils and common sufferings, willingly shared. To be comrades and good neighbours in trouble is one of the finest opportunities of the civilian population.

It all happens like a kind of dream.

Another lovely dinner (though there are never onions any more), with Christmas pudding and mince pies. It is just nice to be almost warm inside, away from the dark windows and frost. To forget about bombers hunting the skies. Someone has even found a red tablecloth.

Uncle stands, and we all raise a glass.

‘To our friends and families in the forces. To absent friends.’

‘To absent friends,’ we all repeat.

Everyone knows someone who is missing. Maybe prisoner, maybe killed. But then we smile, all of us, like in a play.

The fire is not quite enough to keep out the cold, which gnaws at my face and hands. Still I am smiling. Oakes, wearing blue overalls and a steel helmet, goes off to his night shift at the cathedral. Because of what happened in Coventry, people are volunteering to spend one night each week in St Paul’s, equipped with water and sandbags. I am almost sad to see him go.
If I was wrong about him, could I be wrong about Timothy Squire, too?

I am ready for bed, my stomach heavy and full, and I feel almost ready to laugh.

The little book of poems of course I no longer have. Father gave it to me for Christmas, when I was five. I don’t remember that day – any more than I remember Father. Closing my old diary, I open the new one given to me by Timothy Squire, and briskly smooth the page. Without thinking, I begin to write:

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once i saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

There is more, but I can’t think of it now. It is far too cold to believe in daffodils. With a little shock, I realize I am crying.

Maybe the siren will sound. When I peek through the curtain, up at the night sky, the stars are out again. Some bright, others dim, all scattered across the darkness. We are like that. Flo. Mabel. Mum. Father. Scattered like the stars.

Friday, 27 December 1940

Snow falls softly at mid-afternoon. It is a light snow and none of it has settled since Christmas. No footprints.

‘All right, Anna?’ says Timothy Squire uncertainly.

‘Hello.’

‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ I say, walking on.

‘Anna.’

Timothy Squire has caught up to me. ‘Anna, I was just wondering... if, you know, you’d be up for a game? In the study, I mean.’

For a moment, under the drifting snow, I stand motionless. I shrug.

He laughs. ‘I wasn’t sure. You seemed so mad at me.’

‘“Mad”?’

‘Yeah.’ He turns red. ‘I mean, I know looting is wrong, but... you got
so
mad.’

‘You don’t understand anything.’

We are silent. I shiver, frowning into the distance. The wind has shifted.

‘So,’ he says after a moment, ‘do you want to play?’

Again I shrug.

Over a shared Thermos of tea, Timothy Squire and I play Monopoly. He rubs his hair, makes lots of ‘ooohs’ and ‘ahhhs’, and says he got sent to gaol when I can see the card says
Second place in a beauty contest
.

He is lucky not to be in a real gaol
.

The door opens and Leslie walks in, stopping when she sees us.

‘Leslie,’ I say, as Timothy Squire has disappeared into his usual silence around other people. Then I remember all the mean songs. ‘Do you want to play?’

She looks down at the board with a twist of her lips. I realize that she is fighting off a smile. And not a nasty one.

‘Nah, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.’

As she turns to go she abandons the fight, flashing a huge grin. My face is hot.

Timothy Squire hands me the dice, his expression nervous. He is different. Everything is different. In the early dusk the room seems dark, as though it has no walls, and just goes on and on forever. I roll – a ten – and I move the silver dog round the board.

He is quiet until his turn. ‘I’m sorry, by the way. About whatever I said. People say all sorts of rubbish.’

‘It’s my turn,’ I say, reaching for the dice.

‘Do you want any help with the ravens?’ Timothy Squire asks, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.

‘“Help”?’

He quickly looks down at the board again. ‘I mean... Can I come along? I’ll help if I can.’

‘Maybe,’ I say after a moment’s pause. I swallow a nasty comment about looting – and an apology about MacDonald. ‘Let’s finish the game first.’

Timothy Squire, nodding agreeably, carries on grousing about Headmaster Brownbill. I roll the dice again, smiling.

Saturday, 28 December 1940

The Christmas Truce is over. Free of the cloud banks, the moon is bright and huge. A full moon used to be called a Hunter’s Moon, or Farmer’s Moon – now it’s a Bomber’s Moon. The Germans have come early.

Already the Victoria and Albert Docks are burning. Hundreds of bombs fall all around, before the siren has even wailed. I must get to the shelter. But all I can think of are the faces, the panic, the uncertainty. No. I am not going underground.

I run instead to the tavern. People are there, Warders and curators, gathered round the wireless. Something in their faces forces me to stop, listen. It is the BBC broadcast.

Tonight the bombers of the German Reich hit London where it hurts the most, in her heart. St Paul’s Cathedral, built by Sir Christopher Wren, her great dome towering over the capital of the Empire, is burning to the ground as I talk to you now.

Soon I am on the battlements, climbing, climbing. I can see it, wreathed in filthy, grey smoke.

Oakes. Everywhere he goes becomes a target.
Why didn’t I tell Uncle about the German?
Oh, God, now it is too late.

Another thought, just as hopeless. Where is Uncle now?

I do not move. I watch and watch, for minutes, for hours, my eyes blinking but the sight remaining. Everything burns, a massive, seamless wall of fire. And there, right in the middle of it all, the Thames,
the river
, roaring with flames.