Free These Dark Wings by John Owen Theobald Page B

for it?
    And when I arrive in Canada, where will I go? Ask around until I find someone who knows Florence Swift from Maida Vale?
    The North Sea is dangerous. It killed Father.
    I offer the metal to Timothy Squire and, after a moment of fake protest, he pockets it.
    As we march down the narrow streets, past the small ruins of terraced houses and the great ruins of factories, the sound of the lapping river recedes. I clutch my bag tightly, my eyes turning back to the waiting ships.

    ‘So what bomb was it that got you?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well, you were bombed out, weren’t you? High explosive?’
    I shake my head. Can’t we talk about anything else?
    ‘You don’t know? Your own house, and you don’t know?’
    He seems truly shocked.
    ‘Maybe now,’ I say, refusing to look up, to look west. ‘Maybe now it is in ruins. When I came here, the house was fine.’
    ‘Then what are you doing here?’
    He is looking at me like I have wings or something.
    ‘My mum died,’ I say. My throat is hot. ‘On a bus. I don’t know what type of bloody bomb it was, all right? She died, and my father drowned when I was five. My house was fine, but I couldn’t go on living there alone, could I? My only family left is my uncle, so that’s what I’m doing here.’
    ‘Did you get the furniture out? Or was all your stuff spoiled?’
    ‘Why would Uncle take the furniture out? If the house is still standing when the war is over I shall want all the furniture exactly where it was.’
    It is late. No matter what arrangement the Warders have – and they seem to have an arrangement with everyone – the fish market looks closed. It smells open, though. Then a woman walks past – shiny face and tall hat – a bag in her hands. The scent of fish tickles my nose.
    I hang back, shivering, while Timothy Squire strides ahead. I wonder if I should try to change into my trousers, or at least put on my wool coat. What would Timothy Squire think? He would wonder why I am carrying all my clothes to the fish market.
    Before I can decide what to do, he has returned with a newspaper-wrapped fish. How do I not eat this myself?
    ‘We should get back,’ I say. ‘We’ll be late.’
    Timothy Squire smiles. ‘I know. This was your idea.’
    But our pace has quickened. The air is cold, with sand blowing around us from torn sandbags. I am aware of eyes watching us. The refugees from the docks?
    What time is it? None of the church clocks tell the right time any more. Entry to the Tower is banned after 7 p.m.
    ‘Well? What will we do? We won’t make it back in time.’
    He is still smiling, as if inspecting some newly discovered piece of shrapnel. I am sure someone is following us. Two kids, carrying food through the streets at night? By the docks.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘There’s a drainpipe.’
    A drainpipe? I hurry ahead at a jog, with Timothy Squire stubbornly walking behind me.
    We have to climb a drainpipe? In almost darkness? And over the wall? A far more dangerous route than the handholds on the side of the Develin Tower. What will Uncle say? Oh, and if someone sees us – in the dark – and thinks we are spies? Parachutists?
    I walk even faster, willing the Tower to appear. It will be worse if someone catches us before we get there. In the dim light I can make out four towers, rising like great teeth. There it is! I couldn’t have imagined being happy to see the great pile of stone. And thank God the guard is still visible at his post.
    He does not even look angry. He was waiting for us .
    Of course he was. He wouldn’t lock up with us still out there. Another truth rushes in, and my face feels hot.
    Timothy Squire was teasing me. There is no drainpipe.
    Mr Thorne nods and Timothy Squire, handing him a wrapped bundle, has the nerve to smile back.

5
    Wednesday, 16 October 1940
    Hitler swooped down on us again last night. Never before did I think of night as early, middle, and late. It used to be one blank stretch.
    Yesterday I awoke