ate Marmite sandwiches and ices.
‘What do you think of... him?’ I gesture vaguely as we leave the school. Leslie knows who I mean.
‘Timothy Squire? You’re the only one who can stand talking to him.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Because you’re new.’
That doesn’t answer my question, but for some reason I don’t want to ask again. Leslie has been completely lovely. She doesn’t even sound like she’s from the East End, not like Nell or Timothy Squire. She seems almost fond of me now. The ravens, however, Leslie has not grown fond of. Maybe it’s because of all the gas-mask drills.
‘You must hate it. Being around those awful birds,’ she says as we pass by the Green, a long day of memorizing the names of committees and agencies now behind us.
I shrug, but Leslie won’t leave it.
‘What? You like them?’
‘They’re not so bad.’
‘Just look at it.’ She comes to a stop, points. ‘If you died, it would eat off your face, just like that. Pluck out your eyes and swallow them.’
‘Raven Cora?’
My disbelief is matched only by hers.
‘Giving it a name doesn’t make it a girl, dummy. It’s still vermin. Why your uncle is allowed to keep them here is beyond me.’
I shrug again, too tired to argue, as Cora turns towards me, listening. Across the ramparts the setting sun stretches her shadow. Two black eyes shine no light back at me.
To others, they are a symbol of hope. And if I can help the ravens, keep them happy, keep them here, people will not lose hope.
If the Tower ravens leave, the kingdom will fall.
‘Why don’t you ever talk to Timothy Squire?’
Leslie answers in a mocking, sing-song voice. ‘Timothy Squire is a dirty old liar.’
She laughs, an old joke.
When Leslie and I part ways under the afternoon sky, I exhale loudly. A crashing headache is coming. Is he a liar? A loud croak wrests my attention back to the gathering ravens. They appear much more sinister as a group. Uncle would likely have some explanation for that.
‘I’ll be back to feed you lot in an hour.’
Uncle finishes the crossword before starting the fire with the paper – The Times , not the Evening Standard . Whatever passed between Uncle and Mum stops him from even reading her old newspaper. In my first week here, I thought he was worried that I might stumble upon her obituary, as the notices are now staggered to avoid specific information about bomb strikes – which night, on which street – that might help Hitler measure his accuracy. Still there is never a trace of the paper. The fire barely gets hotter.
‘Another tea?’ Uncle holds up the pot. ‘I think I may even have a chocolate or two if you fancy. A shop on Cartwright Street had some in today.’
He pours the weak tea. ‘And you’re enjoying school? Brodie tells me how you and Malcolm get along.’
I nod. Famously.
‘Miss Breedon speaks quite well of you – a perfect lamb, she says – and tells me you’re fitting in nicely.’
‘School is fine, thanks.’ A perfect lamb? ‘Uncle?’
‘Yes, dear?’
I don’t know what to say, or how to say it, with his kind eyes on me. But I must.
‘Uncle. Why... why did you never come to see us?’
‘You must not remember, dear,’ he says smoothly. ‘I visited you, in Warwick Avenue. We had tea in the kitchen with your mother, much like we are having now. I was still in Palestine then, though I came to London whenever I could. Your mum was always happy to see me.’
‘But she never did.’
Now there is something – a stiffening in his cheeks.
‘Well, adults can be very silly—’
‘Did you and Mum have a row?’
‘Anna, your mother was a dear lady.’
‘Then why did she hate you?’
Uncle has turned white, his face emptied of all colour. ‘Your mother didn’t hate a single thing in this world. There are just some things that are... impossible for some people to understand.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mother and I had a disagreement, Anna. It just made sense for
‘What do you think of... him?’ I gesture vaguely as we leave the school. Leslie knows who I mean.
‘Timothy Squire? You’re the only one who can stand talking to him.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Because you’re new.’
That doesn’t answer my question, but for some reason I don’t want to ask again. Leslie has been completely lovely. She doesn’t even sound like she’s from the East End, not like Nell or Timothy Squire. She seems almost fond of me now. The ravens, however, Leslie has not grown fond of. Maybe it’s because of all the gas-mask drills.
‘You must hate it. Being around those awful birds,’ she says as we pass by the Green, a long day of memorizing the names of committees and agencies now behind us.
I shrug, but Leslie won’t leave it.
‘What? You like them?’
‘They’re not so bad.’
‘Just look at it.’ She comes to a stop, points. ‘If you died, it would eat off your face, just like that. Pluck out your eyes and swallow them.’
‘Raven Cora?’
My disbelief is matched only by hers.
‘Giving it a name doesn’t make it a girl, dummy. It’s still vermin. Why your uncle is allowed to keep them here is beyond me.’
I shrug again, too tired to argue, as Cora turns towards me, listening. Across the ramparts the setting sun stretches her shadow. Two black eyes shine no light back at me.
To others, they are a symbol of hope. And if I can help the ravens, keep them happy, keep them here, people will not lose hope.
If the Tower ravens leave, the kingdom will fall.
‘Why don’t you ever talk to Timothy Squire?’
Leslie answers in a mocking, sing-song voice. ‘Timothy Squire is a dirty old liar.’
She laughs, an old joke.
When Leslie and I part ways under the afternoon sky, I exhale loudly. A crashing headache is coming. Is he a liar? A loud croak wrests my attention back to the gathering ravens. They appear much more sinister as a group. Uncle would likely have some explanation for that.
‘I’ll be back to feed you lot in an hour.’
Uncle finishes the crossword before starting the fire with the paper – The Times , not the Evening Standard . Whatever passed between Uncle and Mum stops him from even reading her old newspaper. In my first week here, I thought he was worried that I might stumble upon her obituary, as the notices are now staggered to avoid specific information about bomb strikes – which night, on which street – that might help Hitler measure his accuracy. Still there is never a trace of the paper. The fire barely gets hotter.
‘Another tea?’ Uncle holds up the pot. ‘I think I may even have a chocolate or two if you fancy. A shop on Cartwright Street had some in today.’
He pours the weak tea. ‘And you’re enjoying school? Brodie tells me how you and Malcolm get along.’
I nod. Famously.
‘Miss Breedon speaks quite well of you – a perfect lamb, she says – and tells me you’re fitting in nicely.’
‘School is fine, thanks.’ A perfect lamb? ‘Uncle?’
‘Yes, dear?’
I don’t know what to say, or how to say it, with his kind eyes on me. But I must.
‘Uncle. Why... why did you never come to see us?’
‘You must not remember, dear,’ he says smoothly. ‘I visited you, in Warwick Avenue. We had tea in the kitchen with your mother, much like we are having now. I was still in Palestine then, though I came to London whenever I could. Your mum was always happy to see me.’
‘But she never did.’
Now there is something – a stiffening in his cheeks.
‘Well, adults can be very silly—’
‘Did you and Mum have a row?’
‘Anna, your mother was a dear lady.’
‘Then why did she hate you?’
Uncle has turned white, his face emptied of all colour. ‘Your mother didn’t hate a single thing in this world. There are just some things that are... impossible for some people to understand.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mother and I had a disagreement, Anna. It just made sense for
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