Salt Tower...
Timothy Squire is leading me inside the barracks. Up a broad flight of stairs I follow him to a flat. It is large – there even seems to be an upstairs. Is this his home?
I stare around, entranced. It is warm, swept – like a proper house. Made of stone, of course, though the air doesn’t seem so heavy and stale. A light switch sticks out from a circle of cut paper. Two glaring eyes above, a stub of a moustache below. Written around it are the words: Save fuel. Snap Off Hitler’s nose .
A voice calls from the back.
Timothy Squire is waiting in a small room with oak panelling on the walls. First I notice all the books – though not quite books . Thick and sturdy, they are nevertheless comics: Adventure , Wizard , Hotspur , Rover. Is this what he wants to show me – a comic book? Mum didn’t let me have comic books after my eighth birthday.
‘Here,’ he says, and begins rummaging around in a thin closet.
In the silence I glance back at the door. His parents. Will they be upset to see me here, unannounced? I should have told Uncle I was coming here.
With a happy sigh, Timothy Squire picks up something. He turns, all smiles. It has a beautiful silver polish, with a little fin on the end.
‘Bloody hell.’ I take a step back. ‘Timothy Squire... That’s a—’
‘Incendiary. Like you wanted to see.’
A clock ticks on a high shelf.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Moment I found it, I unscrewed the cap. It’s a dud. Polishes up nice, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, but – what I meant was – could you show me bombs and things outside of the Tower?’
He tucks the smooth shell away again under a mound of jumpers. I see, for a moment, other glittering objects. What else does he have in there? Shrapnel? Landmines?
‘’Course,’ he says to my continued silence. ‘What do you want to see?’
‘The docks,’ I blurt out. ‘And the incendiaries around there. Can we go tonight?’
Timothy Squire shrugs, then shakes his great head. ‘No. Not tonight. Tomorrow – tomorrow morning after Chapel.’
I frown. That’s when Churchill comes. What if Oakes tries to kill him? What can I do? Uncle doesn’t believe me – he won’t have a bad word said against his great friend Oakes.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ I agree.
I can’t worry about Oakes or Churchill, about the ravens or the kingdom. Tomorrow morning I will be on a ship, headed to my new home in Montreal with Flo.
Tomorrow I will be free at last .
Cold leaks up from the stone.
When is sleep more important than safety? I am now curled atop three blankets on the shelter floor, gas mask in my hands. Around me various parents and children are scattered across similar blankets. Uncle is here, on his usual bench, and Oakes and Yeoman Brodie in chairs. Oakes looks tired – old and tired and hardly like a spy. He is a Warder, and a firewatcher at St Paul’s.
Warders are everywhere, at every gate. Churchill will be safe. They will all be safe. If there is a spy, he will be caught.
A woman I don’t recognize, with a child in her arms, sits on the single bunk. Above them is a sign, written out in big letters.
ONCE A PERSON HAS GONE INTO A RECOGNIZED SHELTER THEY MUST REMAIN IN THAT SHELTER UNTIL THE ALL CLEAR SOUNDS . IN EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES THE MALE OF THE HOUSEHOLD MAY BE PERMITTED TO LEAVE THE SHELTER WITH THE APPROVAL OF THE WARDEN .
Usually the kids play ‘Air Raid’, which involves running up and down, shrieking, and knocking things over. Tonight, though, everyone is quiet, even the young child.
At home we had a Blitz drill. I would run and close the shutters and bolt the doors. Mum would hurry to fill the bath and the sinks with water. We assembled in the sitting room, opposite the fireplace. Even before the war Mum always drew the front drapes. We would run up for the mattress, and drag it bouncing down the stairs.
If bombing was close, we had to squeeze under the table. Any closer, and we gathered all the blankets and
Timothy Squire is leading me inside the barracks. Up a broad flight of stairs I follow him to a flat. It is large – there even seems to be an upstairs. Is this his home?
I stare around, entranced. It is warm, swept – like a proper house. Made of stone, of course, though the air doesn’t seem so heavy and stale. A light switch sticks out from a circle of cut paper. Two glaring eyes above, a stub of a moustache below. Written around it are the words: Save fuel. Snap Off Hitler’s nose .
A voice calls from the back.
Timothy Squire is waiting in a small room with oak panelling on the walls. First I notice all the books – though not quite books . Thick and sturdy, they are nevertheless comics: Adventure , Wizard , Hotspur , Rover. Is this what he wants to show me – a comic book? Mum didn’t let me have comic books after my eighth birthday.
‘Here,’ he says, and begins rummaging around in a thin closet.
In the silence I glance back at the door. His parents. Will they be upset to see me here, unannounced? I should have told Uncle I was coming here.
With a happy sigh, Timothy Squire picks up something. He turns, all smiles. It has a beautiful silver polish, with a little fin on the end.
‘Bloody hell.’ I take a step back. ‘Timothy Squire... That’s a—’
‘Incendiary. Like you wanted to see.’
A clock ticks on a high shelf.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Moment I found it, I unscrewed the cap. It’s a dud. Polishes up nice, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, but – what I meant was – could you show me bombs and things outside of the Tower?’
He tucks the smooth shell away again under a mound of jumpers. I see, for a moment, other glittering objects. What else does he have in there? Shrapnel? Landmines?
‘’Course,’ he says to my continued silence. ‘What do you want to see?’
‘The docks,’ I blurt out. ‘And the incendiaries around there. Can we go tonight?’
Timothy Squire shrugs, then shakes his great head. ‘No. Not tonight. Tomorrow – tomorrow morning after Chapel.’
I frown. That’s when Churchill comes. What if Oakes tries to kill him? What can I do? Uncle doesn’t believe me – he won’t have a bad word said against his great friend Oakes.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ I agree.
I can’t worry about Oakes or Churchill, about the ravens or the kingdom. Tomorrow morning I will be on a ship, headed to my new home in Montreal with Flo.
Tomorrow I will be free at last .
Cold leaks up from the stone.
When is sleep more important than safety? I am now curled atop three blankets on the shelter floor, gas mask in my hands. Around me various parents and children are scattered across similar blankets. Uncle is here, on his usual bench, and Oakes and Yeoman Brodie in chairs. Oakes looks tired – old and tired and hardly like a spy. He is a Warder, and a firewatcher at St Paul’s.
Warders are everywhere, at every gate. Churchill will be safe. They will all be safe. If there is a spy, he will be caught.
A woman I don’t recognize, with a child in her arms, sits on the single bunk. Above them is a sign, written out in big letters.
ONCE A PERSON HAS GONE INTO A RECOGNIZED SHELTER THEY MUST REMAIN IN THAT SHELTER UNTIL THE ALL CLEAR SOUNDS . IN EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES THE MALE OF THE HOUSEHOLD MAY BE PERMITTED TO LEAVE THE SHELTER WITH THE APPROVAL OF THE WARDEN .
Usually the kids play ‘Air Raid’, which involves running up and down, shrieking, and knocking things over. Tonight, though, everyone is quiet, even the young child.
At home we had a Blitz drill. I would run and close the shutters and bolt the doors. Mum would hurry to fill the bath and the sinks with water. We assembled in the sitting room, opposite the fireplace. Even before the war Mum always drew the front drapes. We would run up for the mattress, and drag it bouncing down the stairs.
If bombing was close, we had to squeeze under the table. Any closer, and we gathered all the blankets and
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