everyone if we... stayed out of each other’s lives.’
‘Because of my father?’
‘Your father had already died, Anna. Your mum didn’t want my help – didn’t need my help.’
‘But... you are my uncle.’ I don’t mean for it to sound like a question and I can see that it wounds him. ‘What happened—’
‘Don’t worry about all that, dear. Plenty of time for the business of adults. You are twelve years old.’
‘Thirteen,’ I say quietly.
He gives me a confused look.
‘It was my birthday, the thirteenth of October, the day of the prime minister’s visit.’
He gives a sad smile. ‘I am sorry, my dear. I had noticed... something. You do seem older. Wiser.’
He closes his eyes for a moment. Then he stands and limps over to the stack of cold firewood, adding a single log.
‘Enjoy your tea, dear. I will see you after lessons.’
Uncle moves slowly, hiding the fire’s glow, as he leaves the room.
Saturday, 19 October 1940
The first thing I noticed when I was brought here is how misty it is. From the river, Uncle said. It seemed yet another barrier, a castle bordered with fog. Again it is misty – and smoke-stung eyes make it hard to be sure – but I would see if Timothy Squire was on the Green.
Again he has not come.
Everything else is ready. When Yeoman Cecil offered to buy and prepare the meat, I assured him that Uncle had left the task to me.
‘He showed me again and again, sir, how to chop the meat just so .’
Hopefully the guard at the gate will be as easy to convince. Touch wood and don’t look round.
First, of course, Timothy Squire will have to show up. ‘Two ticks,’ he said. I have been waiting for nearly half an hour, and the afternoon sun offers little warmth. If he does not arrive soon, someone will see me standing by the West Gate and tell Uncle, or Oakes. The girls, luckily, will be in the study.
Nothing happens. From the tavern, I can hear the BBC playing ‘Tipperary’. Earlier it was Beethoven, which I preferred. For some reason I’m reminded of Mrs Morgan next door, pottering around the small garden, saying ‘when I had my figure’.
Once again I think of the chest of drawers at home, stuffed with shirts I almost never wore. My blue dress with the Peter Pan collar. And my riding coat, hanging in the wardrobe.
I gaze up at the barracks. Is Timothy Squire asleep in there? It seems queer to me, even after being here so long, that most of the towers and turrets are plain houses on the inside.
Finally, Timothy Squire appears on the Parade Grounds.
‘Magpie.’
We walk to the Gatehouse, the guard watching us approach. Not Mr Thorne today. The guard will listen to me. I am the junior Ravenmaster, a Tower resident. Oakes does not dictate my coming and going. I take a long breath, steady my nerves.
The guard simply waves us through. I do not turn to see Timothy Squire’s grin. Everyone knows everyone here.
As ever, people stream across Tower Bridge to the City. Not as many as usual, though. And quite a few are smoke-blackened firemen. At the foot of every lamp post are sandbags, some torn and burst. Bombs fell close last night.
Horses and carts rumble by on the way to the market. You can smell the apples from the end of the bridge.
‘So, why the birds anyway?’
Timothy Squire doesn’t like it when I go quiet for too long. Like he does at school.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s so interesting about some birds? Dad says they used to have all kinds of brilliant animals here – elephants and polar bears. Even had a Lion Tower. Filled it with lions. Now we only have the birds.’
‘You know the stories,’ I say, glancing at the winding street to my left. Weston Street? I wish I had my bicycle; I could speed down the hills, keeping my eyes skinned for missing paving stones. ‘You’ve lived your whole life here.’
‘It’s Yeoman Reed who tells all the stories. Nobody else really knows them.’
‘The ravens of the Tower?’ I say in disbelief.
‘Because of my father?’
‘Your father had already died, Anna. Your mum didn’t want my help – didn’t need my help.’
‘But... you are my uncle.’ I don’t mean for it to sound like a question and I can see that it wounds him. ‘What happened—’
‘Don’t worry about all that, dear. Plenty of time for the business of adults. You are twelve years old.’
‘Thirteen,’ I say quietly.
He gives me a confused look.
‘It was my birthday, the thirteenth of October, the day of the prime minister’s visit.’
He gives a sad smile. ‘I am sorry, my dear. I had noticed... something. You do seem older. Wiser.’
He closes his eyes for a moment. Then he stands and limps over to the stack of cold firewood, adding a single log.
‘Enjoy your tea, dear. I will see you after lessons.’
Uncle moves slowly, hiding the fire’s glow, as he leaves the room.
Saturday, 19 October 1940
The first thing I noticed when I was brought here is how misty it is. From the river, Uncle said. It seemed yet another barrier, a castle bordered with fog. Again it is misty – and smoke-stung eyes make it hard to be sure – but I would see if Timothy Squire was on the Green.
Again he has not come.
Everything else is ready. When Yeoman Cecil offered to buy and prepare the meat, I assured him that Uncle had left the task to me.
‘He showed me again and again, sir, how to chop the meat just so .’
Hopefully the guard at the gate will be as easy to convince. Touch wood and don’t look round.
First, of course, Timothy Squire will have to show up. ‘Two ticks,’ he said. I have been waiting for nearly half an hour, and the afternoon sun offers little warmth. If he does not arrive soon, someone will see me standing by the West Gate and tell Uncle, or Oakes. The girls, luckily, will be in the study.
Nothing happens. From the tavern, I can hear the BBC playing ‘Tipperary’. Earlier it was Beethoven, which I preferred. For some reason I’m reminded of Mrs Morgan next door, pottering around the small garden, saying ‘when I had my figure’.
Once again I think of the chest of drawers at home, stuffed with shirts I almost never wore. My blue dress with the Peter Pan collar. And my riding coat, hanging in the wardrobe.
I gaze up at the barracks. Is Timothy Squire asleep in there? It seems queer to me, even after being here so long, that most of the towers and turrets are plain houses on the inside.
Finally, Timothy Squire appears on the Parade Grounds.
‘Magpie.’
We walk to the Gatehouse, the guard watching us approach. Not Mr Thorne today. The guard will listen to me. I am the junior Ravenmaster, a Tower resident. Oakes does not dictate my coming and going. I take a long breath, steady my nerves.
The guard simply waves us through. I do not turn to see Timothy Squire’s grin. Everyone knows everyone here.
As ever, people stream across Tower Bridge to the City. Not as many as usual, though. And quite a few are smoke-blackened firemen. At the foot of every lamp post are sandbags, some torn and burst. Bombs fell close last night.
Horses and carts rumble by on the way to the market. You can smell the apples from the end of the bridge.
‘So, why the birds anyway?’
Timothy Squire doesn’t like it when I go quiet for too long. Like he does at school.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s so interesting about some birds? Dad says they used to have all kinds of brilliant animals here – elephants and polar bears. Even had a Lion Tower. Filled it with lions. Now we only have the birds.’
‘You know the stories,’ I say, glancing at the winding street to my left. Weston Street? I wish I had my bicycle; I could speed down the hills, keeping my eyes skinned for missing paving stones. ‘You’ve lived your whole life here.’
‘It’s Yeoman Reed who tells all the stories. Nobody else really knows them.’
‘The ravens of the Tower?’ I say in disbelief.
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