every month – with the fur, of course, the fur is good for them. And plenty of table scraps.’
The idea of table scraps makes my stomach rumble. Their meal prepared, Uncle pulls on his black leather gloves. While he always wears gloves, today he has something else in his hands, something different.
‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself.
He laughs, not trying to hide the large gleaming scissors.
‘Don’t worry, my dear. Every three months we do this.’
We climb into the weak light and up the stone steps to the Tower Green. Other birds, small, bright birds, sing as we pass. I study the trees, but Mabel is not perched in the low branches. She has not returned to say goodbye.
No one else is up and about. At this hour, the Tower is only open to the gate guards and the milkman. There is no sign of Oakes or the strange man.
‘Here,’ Uncle says as we arrive, opening the cage of Raven Edgar. ‘Watch.’
I take quick breaths, the air still heavy with soot from last night’s raid.
Uncle picks up the raven – not without some difficulty, Edgar is a bad-tempered bird at the best of times – and he flutters like a chicken and swoops round the cage until Uncle is forced to grip him by the beak.
Maybe Edgar knows what is coming. His eyes are sharp and wide open. Ravens look at you, recognize you, in a way that cats and dogs never could. The eyes are not black, I realize. They have dark brown irises. Human eyes.
I am not too squeamish to watch Uncle cut some feathers. The birds are happy here. Special . Uncle holds the black bird in his right hand – Mum was left-handed too – and calmly snips at the end of the wing. Small black tufts float to the grass. The raven bites at his gloves, but with no real force. Uncle grins.
‘Just like a haircut.’
I smile back, absently pulling my copper ponytail. Edgar marches away, his dignity seemingly intact.
I close the cage door and again hoist the bucket. We move on down the roost.
It is hard to look at Raven Grip now. It always reminds me of Mabel – which is mad because they all look exactly the same . Little black goblin creatures, teetering back and forth. I remember Uncle’s other words, spoken days ago now. ‘Ravens mate for life. Paired ravens mimic each other.’ Will Grip disappear too, go off in search of Mabel?
I will him to do so. Go, be free.
‘Not too much trouble, was that dear?’
‘Not at all, Uncle.’
Now I am grinning. Feeding is over and it is time for Chapel. I am done with the birds. And I am meeting Timothy Squire.
The Chaplain, standing proudly in front of the grey Chapel, beams at the Tower residents. Even the NAAFI girls from the canteen are here. Clouds hang heavy and the air is white with mist. Sunday weather. But this is not a regular Sunday.
A bugle sounds and the Warders’ parade marches into view. Today the uniforms are red and gold, with white ruffs at their necks and short black hats – like travelling into Mr Fenwick’s history textbook. Medals and ribbons are worn across the chest, and they all seem to carry large spears over their shoulders. Sir Claud Jacob himself, the Constable of the Tower, is here. We watch the Warders turn and march, and then follow them inside the Chapel.
I sit in my usual wooden pew, listening to the whispering and shuffling. My stomach growls after the measly cereal and no egg (not even a brown and spotted one). Many other uniforms are here too – the Scots Guard, the Grenadiers, the Women’s Royal Airforce in their blue wool. Everyone has come: Miss Breedon, in a flowery dress; Sparks, sitting quietly by himself near the pillar; Yeoman Brodie, his funny red uniform pressing against his wide chest. Even Leslie, with a tall, horsey-looking mum.
Timothy Squire, though, I do not see.
A boy that I think for a second might be him turns his face slightly – it is not. Timothy Squire’s father, I have discovered from cautious questioning of Uncle, is the curator at the Armouries Museum – a
The idea of table scraps makes my stomach rumble. Their meal prepared, Uncle pulls on his black leather gloves. While he always wears gloves, today he has something else in his hands, something different.
‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself.
He laughs, not trying to hide the large gleaming scissors.
‘Don’t worry, my dear. Every three months we do this.’
We climb into the weak light and up the stone steps to the Tower Green. Other birds, small, bright birds, sing as we pass. I study the trees, but Mabel is not perched in the low branches. She has not returned to say goodbye.
No one else is up and about. At this hour, the Tower is only open to the gate guards and the milkman. There is no sign of Oakes or the strange man.
‘Here,’ Uncle says as we arrive, opening the cage of Raven Edgar. ‘Watch.’
I take quick breaths, the air still heavy with soot from last night’s raid.
Uncle picks up the raven – not without some difficulty, Edgar is a bad-tempered bird at the best of times – and he flutters like a chicken and swoops round the cage until Uncle is forced to grip him by the beak.
Maybe Edgar knows what is coming. His eyes are sharp and wide open. Ravens look at you, recognize you, in a way that cats and dogs never could. The eyes are not black, I realize. They have dark brown irises. Human eyes.
I am not too squeamish to watch Uncle cut some feathers. The birds are happy here. Special . Uncle holds the black bird in his right hand – Mum was left-handed too – and calmly snips at the end of the wing. Small black tufts float to the grass. The raven bites at his gloves, but with no real force. Uncle grins.
‘Just like a haircut.’
I smile back, absently pulling my copper ponytail. Edgar marches away, his dignity seemingly intact.
I close the cage door and again hoist the bucket. We move on down the roost.
It is hard to look at Raven Grip now. It always reminds me of Mabel – which is mad because they all look exactly the same . Little black goblin creatures, teetering back and forth. I remember Uncle’s other words, spoken days ago now. ‘Ravens mate for life. Paired ravens mimic each other.’ Will Grip disappear too, go off in search of Mabel?
I will him to do so. Go, be free.
‘Not too much trouble, was that dear?’
‘Not at all, Uncle.’
Now I am grinning. Feeding is over and it is time for Chapel. I am done with the birds. And I am meeting Timothy Squire.
The Chaplain, standing proudly in front of the grey Chapel, beams at the Tower residents. Even the NAAFI girls from the canteen are here. Clouds hang heavy and the air is white with mist. Sunday weather. But this is not a regular Sunday.
A bugle sounds and the Warders’ parade marches into view. Today the uniforms are red and gold, with white ruffs at their necks and short black hats – like travelling into Mr Fenwick’s history textbook. Medals and ribbons are worn across the chest, and they all seem to carry large spears over their shoulders. Sir Claud Jacob himself, the Constable of the Tower, is here. We watch the Warders turn and march, and then follow them inside the Chapel.
I sit in my usual wooden pew, listening to the whispering and shuffling. My stomach growls after the measly cereal and no egg (not even a brown and spotted one). Many other uniforms are here too – the Scots Guard, the Grenadiers, the Women’s Royal Airforce in their blue wool. Everyone has come: Miss Breedon, in a flowery dress; Sparks, sitting quietly by himself near the pillar; Yeoman Brodie, his funny red uniform pressing against his wide chest. Even Leslie, with a tall, horsey-looking mum.
Timothy Squire, though, I do not see.
A boy that I think for a second might be him turns his face slightly – it is not. Timothy Squire’s father, I have discovered from cautious questioning of Uncle, is the curator at the Armouries Museum – a
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