by AJ Pearce
‘In the bag, sir,’ said Mr Collins with a spring in his step.
Lord Overton looked at me again and lowered his eyebrows.
‘Young lady, you are damn lucky. Damn lucky. Now go away and leave me alone.’ He paused and I was sure I saw him try not to smile. ‘And for God’s sake, don’t tell Henrietta I said Damn.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
You Never Gave Up
I began to thank Lord Overton profusely, but he had already turned his back and was making his way to a tray of crystal decanters. Mr Collins motioned at me to get out before the Chairman could change his mind and as Clarence heaved the postbag back outside and hot-footed it downstairs, Bunty and I followed carefully behind.
With the door closed behind us, I guided her to a large Chesterfield chair in the waiting area outside Lord Overton’s office. She looked drained and quite horribly frail.
Lord Overton’s assistant, Miss Jackson, glanced over from where she had returned to sentry duty at her desk. I assumed she was about to tell us to move on, but I was wrong.
‘That’s all right,’ she said, getting up. ‘You can have a sit down. We don’t want anyone passing out and making the place untidy.’ She smiled at Bunty. ‘I’ve just read your letter to Woman’s Friend. Don’t you go worrying. You’ve been very brave. Well done you.’
Bunty looked surprised but pleased.
‘Now,’ added Miss Jackson. ‘You can have five minutes here while I make tea for Lord Overton.’
‘I think his Lordship may have gone onto something harder than that,’ I suggested.
Miss Jackson looked at me. ‘Hmm. You did make an impression, didn’t you?’ she said, and then turned to Bunty again. ‘I shall bring you a cup too. Sit there and if you feel as bad as you look, put your head between your knees. No offence meant.’
And then she left Bunty and me on our own.
For a moment neither of us said anything. So much had happened and now, with today’s drama over, Bunty was clearly exhausted. I struggled to know where to begin.
‘You’ve definitely driven Lord Overton to drink,’ said Bunty, looking up at me with a small grin. Then she ran out of steam and stared at her shoes.
Encouraged by the fact that this was exactly the sort of thing the old Bunty would say, I tried to begin.
‘Thank you, for, um, coming today.’ I hesitated. ‘How did you know?’
‘I saw my letter,’ Bunty answered. ‘In Woman’s Friend. And your answer. I knew you must have written it, but I couldn’t believe it was in there. From what you’d said I was sure that Mrs Bird wouldn’t have allowed it. So I managed to get hold of Mr Collins and he told me everything. He said he was trying to help sort things out but it looked a bit steep.’ She paused. ‘I couldn’t help feeling it was all my fault. After all, if I hadn’t sent the letter, you wouldn’t have answered it in the magazine. I wrote it from where they sent me to a specialist, hoping you might guess it was me.’
She petered out as a wave of distress washed over her face and she tried again.
‘I know that was stupid,’ she said. ‘I should have just written to you. But I didn’t think I could. After all these weeks of not answering.’
Then she looked dreadfully sad. ‘I’m so sorry, Em. I should have spoken to you. I’ve been awful.’
I stared back in amazement.
‘You’ve been awful?’ I said, sitting down on a matching chair. ‘But, Bunts, it’s all my fault.’
I had practised in my head a million times what I would say if I had the chance, but now she was here, in Lord Overton’s office of all places, it was hard to find the right words. I was still scared as anything to actually talk about what had happened.
‘I messed everything up,’ I said finally. ‘Not about Woman’s Friend, although I know I was an idiot to write to the readers. But that doesn’t matter.’
I took a deep breath.
‘I messed it up with Bill,’ I said. ‘You were right. It’s my fault he died.’
Bunty began to say something, but I shook my head and she let me go on.
‘We had these stupid fights. It was none of my business and I should have backed off.’ I felt my voice crack. ‘I shouldn’t have been late to the . . .’ I didn’t want to even name the place. ‘To the Café de Paris. It was all my fault. I am so sorry, Bunty. Really I am.’
Bunty grabbed my hand and held on to it hard.
‘No, Em,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s.’ She bit her lip, concentrating on what she wanted to say. ‘I mean it. Bill told me about the rows. He said you’d tried to make things right but he hadn’t let you.’
She looked me straight in the eyes. ‘Emmy, it wasn’t because of you. You must never think that. If he hadn’t gone to look for you and I hadn’t gone to find the telephones to call you, we would have both gone back to our seats.’
Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away.
‘Em,’ she whispered. ‘All the people in that section died. They all died.’
She swallowed hard.
‘I blamed you, Em, and it wasn’t your fault. I was so angry about losing him. I think I just wanted to hurt someone. I’m the one that should say sorry. And actually, do you know the worst bit?’
I shook my head. Bunty’s eyes brimmed with tears.
‘It was the thought of losing you too. It was bad enough that he died. But without you, it was like there was no one left. I don’t know what I thought I was doing.’
‘I can’t imagine it,’ I said.
‘I haven’t coped very well,’ said Bunty. ‘And I meant what I said in that letter. I feel such a dud. Look at you, marching on. You wouldn’t give up.’
‘I would,’ I said quickly. ‘Crikey, if it had been me, I’d have been all over the shop. And anyway, look at the hash I’ve made of things here. I’ve been pretty bloody useless myself.’
Bunty wiped her eyes again and managed a smile. ‘Does everyone swear in journalism?’ she said.
I grinned back. ‘They do seem to. Not that I’m really in journalism. And I was very nearly not in it at all until just now. You turning up with Clarence and all that post saved the day. You and Mr Collins and his revenue talk.’
‘No,’ said Bunty. ‘Your letters did, Em. They saved me every day. I read every one you sent me. Even when I didn’t know how to write back, you never gave up. And however bad things got, however desperate things felt, I always knew a letter would come. You never gave up on me. So in the end I knew I would have to not give up too.’
I didn’t know what to say. There was a fairly decent chance I would burst into tears just as Miss Jackson was likely to come back. I tried to focus on today, rather than the past.
‘I still can’t believe you came to the office, Bunts,’ I said. ‘And barged in on Lord Overton. It was like something out of a film. Ever so heroic.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ said Bunty, looking surprised at herself. ‘I’m only supposed to be in London to see how I feel about going back to the flat. Granny’s a bit worried about that. She’s waiting for me there now. Actually,’ she continued, ‘I’m a bit worried about it too. Just, um, you know, seeing all the wedding things.’
‘Mother and I tidied up a bit,’ I said gently. ‘We were ever so careful.’
Bunty looked grateful but concerned. ‘Did you really? Thank you.’
‘It’s all still there, of course. For when you want to look at it all.’
Bunty bit her lip again. I ploughed on.
‘So,’ I ventured. ‘Are you planning to come back?’
Bunty nodded. ‘Unless you’ve found yourself a new flatmate?’ she managed.
‘Well, Clarence is too young,’ I said.
‘And Mr Collins too old,’ said Bunty on purpose, adding as I looked mortified, ‘what a shame he doesn’t have a younger brother.’
We both laughed.
‘You never mentioned Charles in your letters,’ Bunty continued. ‘Is everything all right?’
I nodded. ‘I hope so. I didn’t think you’d want to know.’
‘You idiot, of course I want to know,’ said Bunty. ‘I want to know everything that has been happening. I’ve missed you like anything, Em.’
From behind the heavy oak door to Lord Overton’s office a deep bellow of laughter broke out.
Bunty and I looked at each other.
‘That’s a good sign,’ whispered Bunty.
‘Fingers crossed,’ I said. ‘You will come back to London, won’t you, Bunts?’
She nodded. ‘If you don’t mind me clumping around after you with this,’ she said, looking at her stick and giving the floor a dull thump with the end.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘And anyway, you’ll be whizzing around soon.’
‘It’s going to take me for ever to get up to the flat,’ said Bunty. ‘I’ve asked Granny if she wouldn’t mind letting us use some of the other rooms. She’s not thrilled with me coming back in the first place, to be honest, but she said if we wanted to, it was all right.’
Bunty didn’t need to spell it out. I knew it wasn’t about managing the stairs. The flat held too many memories now.
‘We could get a lodger,’ I suggested brightly.
‘Can you imagine Granny’s face if we did?’ laughed Bunty. ‘She’d go mad.’
‘Someone she’d approve of,’ I suggested, laughing too. ‘A distressed gentleperson. Or someone from the WI.’
‘Or from work?’ joined in Bunty, looking properly interested. ‘The War Office has tons of people who need rooms.’
‘Top-secret people,’ I said. ‘Or even . . .’
‘SPIES!’ we shouted at the same time.
‘We could let out the basement as well,’ I added.
‘Oh yes,’ said Bunty, warming to a new plan. ‘That would be terrific. Mrs Harewood next door knows lots of Interesting Types. Displaced Europeans, Free French . . .’
‘All bound to be undercover,’ I interrupted, looking knowledgeable. ‘Our side, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Bunty. ‘Honestly, Em, I think this is a super idea. We could have all sorts of exciting people to stay.’ My best friend’s thin little face lit up. ‘Oh, Emmy,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased to be back.’
‘Me too,’ I said, grinning. ‘Come on, Bunts.’ I took her arm as she leant heavily on her stick to get up. ‘Let’s go home and start a new plan.’
Author’s Note
The idea for Dear Mrs Bird began when I came across a 1939 copy of a women’s magazine. It was a wonderful find – a glimpse into an era and world where I could read about everything from recipes for lamb’s brain stew to how to knit your own swimwear.
But the thing I loved the most was the Problem Page. Among the hundreds of letters I went on to read while researching the novel, there have been many that made me smile – such as asking what to do about freckles, or trouble with people who pushed into queues. Most of all, though, I was struck by the huge number of letters in which women faced unimaginably difficult situations in the very toughest of times.
The magazine readers were sometimes lonely, hadn’t seen their loved ones for years, or knew that now they never would. Others had turned to the wrong man, or ‘lost their heads’ and found themselves in trouble with no one to help. Some faced problems any of us might relate to, but of course in circumstances I hope we never will. Many wrote in for advice about decisions they knew would impact their lives for ever.
It was clear that wartime women’s magazines provided even more to their readers than making do, getting the most out of rations, or knitting and sewing – important and necessary though these all were.
The replies from the agony aunts surprised me, too. They weren’t just clichéd Keep Calm and Carry On responses. More often than not they were sympathetic, supportive, and suggesting practical help.
Slowly the magazines became a bridge into a world I wanted to write about, an inspiration for characters that wanted to speak, and the adventures they wanted to have.
Whenever I show some of my collection of magazines to people as we talk about Dear Mrs Bird, I love seeing how it is only ever a matter of seconds before they are drawn into the lives of women in wartime Britain. Digital age or not, magazines are something lots of us still know, read, and love – reading them seems to transport us back in time more easily. When I pick up a magazine that is now nearly eighty years old, I always wonder where it was first read: was the reader sitting in their kitchen like me? Or sneaking a look during her lunch break, or sitting on a bus engrossed in a story while it drove past bombed-out buildings? Perhaps she was even reading it out loud to friends in a shelter as a diversion during a raid? I’ll never know, of course, but in my head sometimes I raise my mug of tea to her and hope everything turned out all right.
Many of the readers’ letters in Dear Mrs Bird were inspired by the letters and advice, articles and features printed in those wartime magazines. I found them thought-provoking, moving, and inspirational, and my admiration for the women of that time never stops growing. Our mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and friends, some of whom I hope may even read and enjoy Emmy and Bunty’s story. It is a privilege to look into their world and remember what incredible women and girls they all were.
AJ Pearce
Thank You
I am so grateful to the best people ever, who have helped, supported and cheered Dear Mrs Bird on its way to becoming a book. Without you I’d still be sitting in an office looking out of the window and wondering if I could ever write a book of my own.
When writing the novel, I read widely – books and papers of course, and hundreds of magazines from the period. I would like to thank everyone who listened to my questions about living through the war, especially my parents, who had endless visits, phone calls and emails quizzing them about their childhood, and Mrs Brenda Evans, who graciously let me ambush her when she could have been enjoying family events. My special thanks to Mrs Joyce Powell, who with her daughter Jane James so kindly answered my questions about working for the Auxiliary Fire Service. Mrs Powell, you inspired the spirit of Emmy, Bunty and the girls on B Watch in the air-raid scenes. I hope I have done you and your friends justice – and that you will forgive any poetic licence I have taken. If there are any factual errors they are entirely my fault of course.
Thank you to Jo Unwin, my ace agent, who is kind and clever and fearless and funny, and the ultimate warrior for a worrier. You make this the most brilliant fun. To Saba Ahmed, Isabel Adomakoh Young and Milly Reilly, thank you for always making me feel like a proper writer.
To everyone at Picador and Pan Macmillan, thank you for being so supportive and enthusiastic about Dear Mrs Bird right from the start, especially Paul Baggaley, Anna Bond, Katie Tooke, Kish Widyaratna, Camilla Elworthy and Nicholas Blake. And of course, special hugest of thanks to Francesca Main for her thoughtfulness, kindness and sheer editorial amazing-ness. It really is an honour to work with you all.
To Deborah Schneider at Gelfman Schneider, who made the dream of having a publisher in the USA a reality, I am so grateful to you and everyone at Scribner especially Nan Graham, Emily Greenwald and Kara Watson, who puts up with manuscripts arriving stuffed full of eighty-year-old British-isms with such wonderful grace.
To Alexandra McNicoll, Alexander Cochran and Jake Smith-Bosanquet at C+W for sending Emmy and Bunty around the planet and risking international relationships daily by sending Mrs Bird with them. I still really hope you have a big map and lots of little wooden books being poked across it with a stick!
To all my brilliant friends, especially:
Katie Fforde, Jo Thomas, Penny Parkes, Judy Astley and Clare Mackintosh, thank you for your encouragement and belief from the start and for telling me to get on with it. Katie, you are my hero and always will be! Julie Cohen, for being the most patient, insightful and inspiring mentor: a writing Wing Commander of the highest, kindest order. And Shelley Harris for reading a first scrappy half-draft and having t
he generosity to make me believe that one day a real live agent might possibly want to read it.
Janice Withey and Inca, who walked hundreds of miles with me as I went on and on about the dream. You let me talk and never once told me to shut up – that deserves a marathon gold! Gail Cheetham for listening, and understanding what I care about the most. And Rachel and Chris Bird, who lived all of this pretty much from day one and were always there, whatever happened. Mrs Bird would be proud to share your name, although obviously thoroughly appalled at the thought of wine and snacks being handed over the fence.
And to Brin Greenman, Nicki Pettitt, Mary Ford, Sue Thearle and Ginetta George. There are a million things for which I owe you, but I absolutely treasure that you all just took it for granted I would be able to write a book. With you as friends I reckon it might just be possible to achieve almost anything.
Finally, to Mum, Dad, Toby and Lori. For everything. We may be small in number, but there isn’t a family in the world that is mightier in heart. Thank you.
AJ PEARCE grew up in Hampshire and studied at the University of Sussex. A chance discovery of a 1939 woman’s magazine became the inspiration for her ever-growing collection and her first novel, Dear Mrs Bird. She now lives and writes in the south of England.
First published 2018 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2018 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-5393-9
Copyright © Big Dog Little Dog Ltd. 2018
Cover Design: Katie Tooke.
Illustration: Emily Sutton.
Printing: Typoretum.
Author Photograph: Alex James
The right of AJ Pearce to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.