Dear Mrs. Bird: A Novel

by AJ Pearce

‘Good point,’ he said. ‘They’re frightfully slow on admissions sometimes. Ah now, I remember that article,’ he added, peering more closely at a yellowing snippet pinned to the wall, and appearing for all the world as if he was infinitely more interested in this than getting me to stay on. ‘Young chap wrote it. Wasn’t too bad.’

  I wondered if the Government knew what an asset Mr Collins would be in terms of getting what he wanted out of people. They should let him loose on some spies.

  I crumbled. ‘Um, Mrs Bird said you might need some more help? I’m sorry if I didn’t sound keen.’

  ‘Under the circumstances I think you’re being a trooper,’ said Mr Collins, finally looking me in the eye again. ‘Now, tell me how Bunty is doing and then I’ll explain to you what it is that I need.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  With Much Love, Emmy

  Mr Collins suddenly had an inordinate amount of work that required my help. It seemed unlikely that he might be in cahoots with Mrs Bird and on a secret mission to keep me busy, but either way, it certainly did. As well as typing up his work, he wanted me to give him ideas for stories people my age might like. One day he really surprised me.

  ‘Can you write me five hundred words on working for the Fire Brigade?’ he said. ‘It might be of interest to our readers and an inside view could be quite good.’

  I stared at him, goggle-eyed that something written by me might actually be printed in Woman’s Friend, and then gave it a go. He said it wasn’t bad for a first try and would I help him on a funny piece on The Ideal Secretary? After that, he started asking me to do bits of research for him, or write letters to organisations for information. He asked for article ideas that young women of my age might like and I came up with lists of suggestions. It was interesting and kept my mind busy. It even made me feel a little bit closer to being a journalist. Not that I was holding on to that dream any more. But I enjoyed doing it and was grateful to him all the same.

  I worked more hours at the magazine, staying long after I was supposed to go home, and I took on as many shifts at the station as they would allow. I went back to the flat to sleep and eat and write to Bunty – and Charles too a little, but other than that I kept going. If I sat down, I would think about what had happened.

  I did anything I could to fill my time, but the one big thing I didn’t do any more was write to the readers. It didn’t matter how much they needed help or how much Mrs Bird might ignore them, I didn’t write back.

  Finally, I was doing what Bunty had told me to do.

  It seemed a hundred years since she’d told me to stop, but even though I had felt bad about it, I’d still carried on. I couldn’t bear to do that now.

  It was horrible having to snub the readers, but I stuck to it. Mrs Bird’s moral code was still as impenetrable as ever and she either ignored the letters or sent replies that would frighten the life out of most people, let alone if you had written in because you felt a bit low.

  I very nearly buckled and wrote back to one girl who I knew Mrs Bird would make very short work of. But I didn’t send it. When I got to the signature, I stopped and tore it up. There would be no more writing to strangers and no more lying.

  Instead, I wrote and wrote to Bunty – every day – hoping some of my letters might be read. It was like living, but on paper, and not in the real world. I liked it better. You could rub things out or start all over again if you said the wrong thing. But Bunty didn’t reply.

  So I just kept writing. Sometimes about big things, like the memorial service they held for William, because even though I sat in church feeling as if I was the last person in the world that should be there, I thought that one day Bunty might want to hear just how beautiful it was.

  Often though, I wrote about nothing very important, just small things that she might like, and always when someone asked after her or sent their very best wishes. That was most of the time actually. Everyone wanted to know how she was. Everyone wanted her well.

  Wednesday 19th March 1941

  Dearest Bunty

  We have all been thinking of you today.

  Mother phoned to tell me that this morning, Reverend Wiffle held a special service for you and Bill.

  Mother did the flowers in the church. She picked your favourite daffodils from the garden. She said both they and the service were lovely. They will still be there on Friday for Bill.

  With much love,

  Emmy x

  Saturday 22nd March 1941

  Dearest Bunty

  I know if you read this it will be dreadfully hard and I am so sorry if it is too much. I thought that perhaps one day you will want to know about the memorial service, so here it is in case.

  Oh, Bunts, you would have been the proudest girl in the world yesterday. There were nearly three hundred people at the church. Bill’s father came from Cardiff, of course, and the first thing he did was to ask after you.

  Absolutely everyone from the village was there. Lots of Bill’s old teachers – Mr Lewis read the lesson and managed it very well.

  As many of the boys as could, came down from Carlton Street and just as many came from the local brigades too. Captain Davies did the most beautiful Eulogy. He said Bill was one of the very best of men, the absolute best. Afterwards he gave me the cards he had written it down on. I have put them with this letter for you.

  Roy and Fred brought a book with them. It is full of messages for you and things people wanted to say about Bill. I’m putting it in this parcel as well and your granny is going to bring it all to you to make sure nothing is lost in the post.

  We sang I Vow To Thee My Country and then the Brigade Choir sang Oh Jesus I Have Promised as you had asked. Father said that when they sang, ‘I shall not fear the battle, if thou art by my side,’ he thought the roof of the church would come off. They sang it with all their hearts.

  I think I’ll stop for now.

  Thinking of you both.

  With much love.

  Emmy x

  Saturday 29th March 1941

  Dearest Bunty

  Your granny said that you are feeling a little better. I can’t tell you how pleased we all are.

  Thelma said she meant to send you peppermint creams as their Stanley used all this month’s sugar on making some for you. But after he’d tasted one he became worried the rest might get squashed in the post. So to avoid disappointment he’s hanging on to them until you are better. He is also worried that if someone doesn’t eat them, they may very well go off.

  I thought that might make you smile.

  With much love

  Emmy x

  Tuesday 8th April 1941

  Dearest Bunty

  How are you feeling? I’m not sure if you’re reading these letters, but I say to myself that you are and it makes it seem as if I am chatting with you.

  Kathleen asked after you today. I told her you are doing tremendously well. She asked me to send you this shawl. She’s been off with her tonsils again and knitted it while she was in bed. It’s for when they let you out into the open air. She hopes you like it.

  With much love

  Emmy x

  PS: I asked Father and he says it’s all right, you can’t catch tonsillitis from wool.

  Monday 14th April 1941

  Dearest Bunty

  Your granny said you are leaving the hospital? I am so thrilled, really so very pleased.

  It will be lovely for you to be back in the countryside and everyone will be terrifically glad to see you. London will be strange without you. I know we haven’t seen each other, but it has been nice to think you are near.

  Mr Collins asked how are you? I said absolutely tremendously well.

  Safe journey,

  With much love

  Emmy x

  PS: I am planning to come home the weekend after next for Mother’s birthday, just in case you need anything brought down from the flat.

  I continued to write every day. Bunty didn’t reply.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR<
br />
  Dear Mrs. Bird, Please Might You Help?

  I tried to put things into the letters to Bunty that she might find interesting, or sometimes that might even make her smile while I gave little mention to what I was doing. Anything jolly would have looked as if I was having fun while she was on the ropes. Anything dreary would look as if I was moaning.

  None of it was satisfactory, but I tried my best.

  I wrote to Charles too – letters about nothing very much that tried to be entertaining. I talked about mundane, everyday things which he said he liked as it was Normal Life. He had been terribly sorry to hear about William, of course, and ever so worried about us all. I had begun to receive regular letters from him which should have been lovely, but I felt like a fraud for giving him updates about how marvellously well Bunty was doing, when I hadn’t seen her for weeks.

  Nearly a month after the bomb, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Even though I knew it was likely he would want to pack me in once he knew, I wrote to tell him the truth.

  Dearest Charles

  Thank you so much for your latest letters – two came together yesterday which was lovely.

  I’m sorry I haven’t written this week. I have been putting it off as there is something very serious I must tell you about the Café de Paris. I should have told you weeks ago, after it happened, but I have been a coward.

  You see, just before that night, William and I rowed – a horrible argument where I was very stupid and accused him of taking too many risks at work. It’s all too rotten to go into, but I said some entirely unfair things and never managed to apologise properly. When I visited Bunty in hospital she told me that Bill was terribly concerned about it and when I was late for the dance, he went to look for me to patch things up. And that’s when he was killed. There’s more to it than that, but the fact is, it’s my fault.

  Bunty is terribly upset and I don’t blame her. When I tell you she is doing well, it’s really just what I have heard from her granny.

  Charles, I’ve been a wretched friend to her and have no excuse. I am so sorry to write with such a horrible tale, but I can’t lie to you any more. If you don’t want to write to me again, of course I will entirely understand.

  You will take the most enormous care of yourself, won’t you?

  Your own

  Emmy xx

  PS: I haven’t told anyone at work about this, but if you feel you should tell your brother, I will understand of course.

  I posted it with the heaviest heart and didn’t expect to hear back. When his next letter arrived I could hardly bring myself to open it.

  My Darling Emmy,

  I am writing in haste as we are moving camp again tonight, but I had to write back to you straight away. I have just read your letter (no.14) and I wish more than anything I was there with you. I should like to put my arms around you and tell you that I think you have been terrifically brave about what happened at the Café de Paris. I am also going to be rather hard on you now and make you promise me something: you must not blame yourself. Not for one moment. Are you listening my darling?

  We may not have known each other very long, but I feel I know you would never do anything to hurt William or Bunty. I know you care for them both very much. I hope it is not out of turn for me to say that I thought William a very decent and fine man and I am sure as such he would understand that you only meant well.

  It must be terrible for you to be so worried about Bunty. She will come round in time I am sure.

  Keep going Darling – write to me when you can – your letters do cheer me up – but tell me if you are sad or worried and I won’t mind, I promise.

  Yours with love

  Charles xxx

  PS: I won’t mention this to Guy. x

  He had never written With Love before. I read the letter dozens of times. It was such a relief and he had been nicer than I could possibly have hoped. It was a tiny shaft of light and kept me going on the worst of days, even if I didn’t think he was right about Bunty coming round in the end.

  I still kept writing to her though. Every time I posted a letter it was always with my fingers crossed that she would write back but it didn’t do any good. Mrs Tavistock kept Mother and Father updated and in turn, they would call me with any news. There was always Lots Of Progress, but always tempered with But Bunty Is Awfully Tired and The Doctors Say She Really Must Rest. Even Father didn’t have any news now because Mrs Tavistock had hired a private nurse to look after her and some fancy doctor who was apparently Terrifically Good.

  I missed my best friend like anything. And I missed my friend William too. Even though everyone at the fire station put on their best and bravest faces, we all knew he had left a huge hole. I still struggled to accept we wouldn’t see him again.

  After Bunty was moved out of London to the country, the chance of seeing her was less likely than ever, but I had to admit a part of me was glad she would be further from harm’s way. Having failed so far, Hitler decided to have a really good crack at finishing us off and as the weather cheered up, so did the Luftwaffe. The raids, although intermittent, had become heavier again. It was almost worse than when it was every night. You never quite knew if it would be us in London or the turn of Bristol or Sunderland or Cardiff. There wasn’t much relief to be had when you knew that someone, somewhere was having the worst of it. It wouldn’t get Hitler anywhere of course, but even Joan, who enjoyed near gladiatorial resilience, gloomily asked if That Evil Bugger was ever going to stop having a go?

  Extra shifts at the fire station and longer hours at Woman’s Friend had certainly kept me busy and I was grateful for it too. I hated being on my own but didn’t have the heart to go out with the girls, although they kept trying and sometimes made me join in.

  It was nearly two months since the Café de Paris and despite the cheer of an early May sun, sometimes it felt as if I had become a sort of automaton, forging on with everything with an amount of vim which wasn’t genuine. Still, I knew that sort of defeatism wasn’t the right spirit, and on a bright morning where spring appeared to be telling summer to get a move on and turn up for work, I marched through the foyer on my way up to Woman’s Friend, waving a hello to the receptionist.

  I got into the lift, wondering if I could have a quick nap during the ride up three floors. Two journalists from The Evening Chronicle were discussing a big story they thought would break, but without mentioning any names. A few months ago I would have eavesdropped like mad, hoping to get a hint of an exclusive. Now I closed my eyes and willed the lift to get stuck so I could sit on the floor and nod off.

  ‘Morning, Kath,’ I called as I pushed open the doors into the long dark corridor of Woman’s Friend and poked my head round Kathleen’s door on my way down to the larger office I had now almost permanently made home. She was usually as keen as me to have a chat, but today, her chair was empty and there was no coat on the stand.

  Instead, Mrs Bird loomed out of her office with a thunderous face and the news that Kathleen’s mother had telephoned to say she had a rotten bout of tonsillitis and would have to have them taken out War On Or Not. It was a display of dazzling weakness as far as Mrs Bird was concerned.

  ‘Should have been done as a child,’ she said. ‘Miss Lake, you will have to muck in. Mr Collins will have to manage without you.’

  With that, I was installed back in Kath’s room and given a heap of typing to do before being sent on an errand to north London which involved some sharp words and a parcel smelling strongly of farms.

  Within the day I had a new-found respect for Kathleen. For someone who wasn’t in the office very much, Mrs Bird generated an enormous amount of work. It wasn’t what you could call relaxing. Copy-checking all the patterns, which took Kathleen about ten minutes, took me hours. Kath always knew where everything was, had the magazine contributors’ phone numbers and addresses in her head, and without making the slightest fuss, always managed to find a way to sort everything. I was sent on no end of missions too, invariably to d
eliver Important Parcels to Mrs Bird’s Good Works or to queue up for Vital Supplies that she couldn’t manage without.

  By the end of that week, it was safe to say our small team couldn’t wait to have Kathleen back. I tried hard but often failed to understand Mrs Bird’s shouted, coded instructions, Mr Collins had to step up and start doing most of his own admin, and Mr Newton from Advertising had to come in more often. Mrs Bird permanently complained that everything was a bother. No one had the heart to disagree.

  It also meant I’d had very little time to sift through the readers’ letters, so the following Monday I arrived early to catch up on the post. It was quite a chipper little pile of correspondence, starting with a letter to Mr Collins’ film column, asking for a signed photograph, which cheered me up. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Mr Collins’ face when he saw that. It might give him some sort of attack.

  I carried on, opening an envelope addressed to ‘Henrietta Helps’. The letter was from a reader who at forty-five was struggling with A Difficult Chin. It was exactly the sort of letter Mrs Bird enjoyed, although I felt sorry for Difficult Chin who was likely to be told off for appalling amounts of vanity At Her Age.

  The next one was rather odd, however. Typed rather than handwritten and with no stamp or return address, it was written to Mrs Bird, and signed Anxious.

  I turned to the beginning and started to read.

  Dear Mrs. Bird

  Please might you be able to help?

  I feel ashamed to write to you but I don’t know what else to do. You see I am letting everyone down. Earlier this year I was caught up in an air raid and was injured, and now I think I have lost my nerve. Whenever I hear guns or even loud noises, I jump out of my skin. I don’t like going outside or leaving the house and I am worried that I will never be my old self again.

  I stopped for a moment. I had read letters like this one before. Readers who had been through an absolute time of it, really dreadful, but who now felt embarrassed as they thought they were no longer pulling their weight.

  They shouldn’t have to feel this way, of course. No one should be expected to just buck up after being through something awful. I realised that more than ever now. Even before the bomb at the Café de Paris I had felt tremendously sorry for the women who wrote in about feeling scared, or suddenly finding themselves afraid of bangs and crashes or even just the dark when they never had been before. I had written to several trying to be kindly, and had petitioned Mrs Bird to answer one in the magazine, but she had given no quarter.