Dear Mrs Bird Page 11

  ‘Gosh,’ said Bunty with a level of awe which suggested he was organizing a day out to the moon.

  I turned to look at her. She was staring fixedly at the screen where Max Miller was cheering up a canteen full of nuns. He must have been on first-rate comedy form because Bunty was grinning about as broadly as was possible for a face.

  ‘Honestly,’ she said under her breath. ‘Who would have thought?’

  *

  Halfway through the film, the cinema manager came onto the stage and announced there was an air raid. While a year ago everyone would have grabbed their gas masks and rushed off to the nearest shelter, as always happened these days, nobody moved, and several people in the balcony shouted, Get On With It and Bring Back Tyrone Power. The cinema manager got two wolf-whistles and a small round of applause. Bunty and I were happy to stay as it was in the middle of a particularly gripping bit of the plot. By the end of the film the all-clear hadn’t gone.

  Bunty announced she was off to the lavatory again.

  ‘Goodbye, Charles,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I do hope we shall see you again. Emmy, say goodbye to Charles and when he has gone, wait for me here,’ she ended rather bossily which wasn’t like her. Then she disappeared behind a large woman in a fur coat.

  Although they always played the films at louder than usual volume, even The Mark of Zorro had not entirely blotted out the crump crump sound from the bombers above. Now we were out of the auditorium and right at the front of the building, it was far louder. Charles and I shouted at each other over the din.

  ‘You’re not really thinking of catching a bus home, are you?’ yelled Charles.

  ‘Oh we always do, it’s fine,’ I shouted back, just as there was a horrible whistling noise. Everyone in the foyer stood still for a second until a huge crash shook the building. ‘That was a thumper,’ I added unnecessarily.

  ‘Now then,’ said Charles over the din. ‘I don’t want to appear a stickler for safety, and I don’t care if you two usually get out deckchairs and watch the city go up in smoke, but tonight, if I can find one, we will be getting a taxi.’

  He was still smiling, and still unerringly polite. I opened my mouth to argue, but thought better of it and shut it again like a goldfish. Kind eyes and quiet charm aside, Charles struck me as a man who knew what he was about.

  There was another whistle, lower-pitched so further away this time, but still followed by a shuddering crunch as a nearby building took a hit. Although the glass frontage of the cinema was fully boarded up and we were quite safe, Charles had moved to stand between me and a possible blast.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ignoring the noise. ‘Do you think you should check if Bunty is all right?’

  She had been gone ages again.

  ‘Good idea,’ I said as Charles took my arm and we weaved our way through the people queuing at the ticket booth. ‘She’d rather die than be blown up in a lavatory.’

  Charles looked at me sideways. We both burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I’m not usually this stupid.’

  ‘You’re the least stupid person I’ve met,’ answered Charles. ‘Look, there she is.’

  Bunty was loitering behind the refreshment stand, acting as if hiding when it was time to go home was perfectly sane.

  ‘We’re getting a taxi,’ I said as we about turned and headed back. ‘Or Charles says he will have some sort of fit.’

  ‘I will,’ said Charles. ‘Now you two wait here and I’ll go and find one.’

  Taking a small military torch out of an enormous coat pocket, Charles marched confidently across the marble floor and out through the blackout curtains by the exit.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Bunty. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’

  There was another ominous rumble from outside.

  ‘Bunty,’ I said, now we were alone. ‘Is it a dicky tummy?’

  Bunty looked bewildered.

  ‘You keep going to the lavatory,’ I whispered. ‘For ages.’

  ‘Oh that,’ she said, grinning. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

  I looked at her blankly.

  ‘I’m leaving you two alone, you idiot,’ she groaned. ‘He likes you.’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ I said. ‘That’s absolute rot.’

  ‘No it isn’t. And anyway, you like him. I can tell. I was trying to get him to ask you out before he left.’

  ‘Bunty . . .’

  ‘Now then.’ She gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘When we get to Granny’s I’m going to run like anything for the front door feeling terribly ill. You’ll have to rush after me, but before you do, say how awfully sorry you are to leave it like this.’

  I rolled my eyes at her.

  ‘He’ll say he absolutely must see you again and you can look lovely and say you must go as I could be seriously ill – that will make you look caring – but that if he liked, you could give him your telephone number.’

  ‘Oh, Bunts,’ I said. ‘No one says I Must See You Again in real life. You’ve been spending too much time watching films.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ agreed Bunty. ‘It’s given me heaps of ideas. This is so exciting. I’ve very nearly forgotten Poor Harold, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve very nearly forgotten we’re friends,’ I said severely.

  ‘Charles!’ shouted Bunty, as if stranded on a rock in rough seas.

  She hooked her arm into mine and dragged me towards the main doors where Charles had appeared, looking cold around the ears. Bunty shamelessly grabbed his arm.

  ‘Thank you so much, you have saved the day,’ she said gratefully. ‘You see, I’m not feeling terribly well.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Bad Night at the Station

  The next evening, I strode down Rowland Street, warm in my AFS greatcoat and swinging the string bag that held tonight’s sandwiches. It was the second clear night in a row and the moon was being quite traitorous and showing off all the best bits of London to bomb. With other things on my mind, I marched to the fire station in a thoughtful fashion.

  I was in the middle of a bout of what artistic people called Mixed Emotions. Saturday had been the loveliest day. I had gone along with Bunty catapulting herself out of the taxi, and for his part, Charles just said Goodness and what a lovely evening it had been and might we do it again, apart from Bunty being ill? I said Bunty loved the cinema but then Charles said that although he liked Bunty very much and he hoped she would soon be quite well, if it was all right with us both, might he and I go out on our own?

  So I gave Charles my telephone number and then we said goodbye and shook hands for longer than strictly required and it all went ever so well.

  Bunty was thrilled about it of course, but it had been a temporary reprieve as the next day she had given me a stiff talking-to about the letter-writing at work. She thought I was utterly mad to be doing it and even if I was just trying to help, the possibility of losing my job should make me think again.

  It was no surprise then that as well as feeling a little giddy about Charles, I was also nervy. Tomorrow the new issue of Woman’s Friend would be delivered to the office, complete with the letter I had sneaked into ‘Henrietta Helps’.

  Even though I had been writing to as many readers as I thought I could help, I was painfully aware that putting a letter into the magazine had been a different move altogether. I told myself not to think about it. I’d have lots more to worry about tonight if there was a raid.

  Carlton Street fire station was only three streets from Bunty’s granny’s and I could get there with my eyes closed, which was just as well. Now and then things got a bit close and with the streets lit by the huge orange glow of London’s fires from the German incendiaries, I would run flat out to get home. I wasn’t being panicky, but I reasoned even Mr Churchill would think getting a move on was a sensible idea. When the ack-ack guns were on top form though, I would stay at the station until the all-clear went. There was no point going out if it was raining shrapnel and it was absolutely deafening
as well.

  Walking around a big crater in the pavement I crossed the street and called a hello to Mr Bone, who was locking the door of his boarded-up newsagent’s. He had his warden’s overalls on and as he turned towards me, he blew on his fingers to keep warm.

  ‘Evening, Mr Bone,’ I said. ‘No gloves? You’ll get frostbite.’

  ‘Evening, Emmy. That daft paper boy’s got them. How’s that young brother of yours? Still bashing the enemy?’

  ‘Trying to, Mr Bone,’ I said, playing things down.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Mr Bone kindly and I asked after his wife. Their only son Herbert had been a rear gunner in the RAF. He had been shot down over the Channel and never been found. I tried not to think of the day they heard. Mr Bone stacking newspapers so you couldn’t see his face, and Mrs Bone standing by the till in the shop as she always did, only with tears pouring silently down her cheeks and a look in her eyes that said absolutely everything was lost. Bert was their only child.

  ‘Don’t come home until the all-clear, will you?’ said Mr Bone, looking concerned.

  I promised him I wouldn’t and he told me he knew I had my fingers crossed behind my back, which was true.

  I waved goodbye, turned the corner and walked on to Bellamy Street, just past a big hole where the bicycle shop had been. You could now see through to the street behind it, but I always said a Hello in my head to a handwritten sign propped up on some rubble that said GONE ON HOLIDAY – BACK IN A BIT! Its owner Mr Dennis used to live above the shop with his family, but luckily when it was bombed they’d been visiting his sister in Southsea. Mr Dennis came back to see if anything could be salvaged, which it couldn’t, but he put on a very brave face.

  ‘I always said I should get away more,’ he’d said, and everyone who’d turned out to see him cheered. Then he’d shaken everyone’s hand and as a couple of his friends took him off to the pub before he caught a train back to Southsea, Mr Dennis said, ‘We’ll be back in a bit. If Hitler asks, tell him I’ve gone on holiday.’

  The next day a local wag had put up the sign. It raised a smile, but most of all it made everyone think of the Dennis family. We knew they’d be back.

  William would be on duty tonight at the station, as he very nearly always was. He had just been promoted to Sub-Officer on B Watch, which was very much deserved and we were all thrilled to bits for him. He worked harder than anyone and was enormously brave too, although sometimes I had to admit that scared me. I was all for bravery, it was part of his job. But I was also all for Bunty still having the chap she adored at the end of it all.

  I hurried on. Thelma and Joan would already be at the station – they were the B Watch full-timers – and then there was young Mary and me, the volunteers. We’d all sit in a row at our desks and chat and pretend everything was completely normal until the siren went and the phones would start ringing with people calling to tell us that their house had been bombed or an incendiary had gone off and set fire to half the street. Then it would get busy. Mary and I volunteered for three nights a week although often it turned into four or five.

  But it was nothing compared to William and the boys. If it was quiet in West London, you could bet your last penny that the docks would be crying out for relief crews. I’d see him at the start of my shift, but it was rare he was back by the time I left at six the next morning and if he was, he’d often be soaked through, exhausted, and his mind still in another world. When I got home, I would always make a bit of a racket on purpose so Bunty would know I was back, then she’d pop out of her room and offer to put the kettle on. It meant I could tell her everything was all right without either of us making a fuss about it. Whatever had happened, I always told her William looked entirely well.

  Now, in good time for my shift, I opened the station side door and walked in past two of B Watch who were mending a trailer pump that a wall had collapsed on last week.

  ‘Morning, boys,’ I called, even though it was the afternoon.

  ‘Evening, Angel,’ one of them yelled from under the pump. ‘Thanks for popping in. We’re dying of thirst here.’

  ‘Kettle on first thing, Fred,’ I told his feet as I unravelled my scarf. ‘You too, Roy?’

  ‘That’ll do it. Good girl.’ Roy sounded puffed out. ‘CLOCKWISE, Fred. I’ll get flattened if you turn it that way.’

  I squeezed past the wonky piece of machinery and climbed the steep stairs to the call room where the girls were already in and chatting. Thelma was pulling at the waistband of her uniform skirt and showing the gap.

  ‘See – that’s no cheese for you. If they start rationing sweets I might give all this up and become a model.’ She cracked a big smile.

  ‘Hello, girls. You look smashing, Thel,’ I said. I knew Thelma didn’t eat a thing so she could give more of her rations to her children. ‘Anything exciting happening?’ I took off my coat and cap.

  ‘Adolf’s been waiting for you,’ said Joan. ‘Any minute now I reckon.’

  ‘Well then, we’d better have some tea and a gossip while we can,’ said Thelma. ‘How was your walk yesterday, Emmy? Did you meet anyone while you were out?’

  Ever since Edmund had finished with me, the girls had been relentless in their campaign to find a replacement. I didn’t mind – it gave us something frivolous to talk about. On nights when there wasn’t a raid, we were allowed to sleep in the volunteer room so we’d sit on our bunk beds and drink cocoa and talk nonsense. And on the nights when the raids were bad, if we had any breaks we’d talk nonsense even more to take our minds off it. Finding me a husband was perfect on that front.

  ‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘A very tall man called Harold.’

  All three of them looked innocent and said, ‘I say,’ and, ‘Smashing,’ at the same time. I was quite sure they’d all been in on the plan.

  ‘But he’s not the chap for me,’ I said, dashing their hopes. I had decided not to mention Charles. We had only just met and I didn’t want half of B Watch going bung-ho.

  ‘Was he horrible?’ said Joan, who thought that men were for the most part a waste of time. Mainly her own husband when it came down to it. She patted me on the shoulder. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘And you’re still quite young,’ said Mary, who was nineteen and thought I was ancient.

  ‘Someone will want you,’ assured Thelma.

  ‘Oi, where’s our tea?’ yelled a voice from downstairs.

  Joan dropped her voice to a sensitive tone.

  ‘Don’t lose hope, Emmy,’ she said, looking grave.

  I was a spinster, not an invalid, but as ever, this had passed everyone by.

  Joan and Mary hurried off to sort out the teas and Thelma and I began the usual routine of getting ready for the shift. William put his head around the door to say hello, wearing a look of determination that said he’d rather be with his crew. Then he disappeared.

  Thelma was a keen magazine reader and had taken to buying Woman’s Friend. She thought I was just being modest when I said my job wasn’t remotely glamorous.

  ‘Last week’s “What’s In The Hot Pot?”,’ Thelma mused. ‘The lamb’s brain stew. I can’t get the smell out.’ We both laughed. ‘Still,’ she added, ‘it filled up the kiddies. How are you getting on with the problems? Anything good?’

  She grinned, used to me saying I couldn’t tell her, but my stomach gave a lurch and it wasn’t about the stew. I hadn’t told Thelma about writing the letters of course, even though she would be a handy person for advice. Thelma was nearly thirty and had three children. She was bags more qualified to help people than I was.

  ‘I’m not supposed to say,’ I said. ‘But . . .’

  Thelma’s eyes widened. She pulled out the chair and sat down next to me.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing dreadful.’ I kept my voice lighthearted, but actually I was thinking about a reader whose letter I hadn’t had the heart to throw out.

  Dear Mrs. Bird

  I am eighteen and my parents are awfully strict. We live very near a military c
amp and the men are always very friendly.

  I have become friends with one who is the same age as me. We are just friends but my parents say I mustn’t have anything to do with soldiers and they will forbid me to leave the house on my own. I have been going to the pictures with this boy but they don’t know it. All my friends go out with boys, and I don’t want to lose him. Please tell me what I should do?

  Fed Up, Hull

  I knew Mrs Bird would give Fed Up very short shrift, but I felt sorry for her. I wasn’t sure what to advise, though. Eighteen was definitely old enough to be seeing someone in my view, but I certainly wouldn’t encourage going against her parents’ wishes. I was stuck as to what to suggest.

  I could hear Joan and Mary chatting and laughing in the volunteers’ room as they made the tea. The boys were still downstairs and Captain Davies was locked in his office. I leant forward and lowered my voice.

  ‘Thel, what would you say if someone was eighteen and wanted to go out with a soldier? What if it was your Margaret?’

  Thelma’s daughter was only nine but anyway, I gave her the lowdown without referring to Fed Up.

  Thelma narrowed her eyes.

  ‘I’d want to shut her in her room until there’s Peace,’ she said, smiling. ‘Bless her. I first met Arthur when he was in his navy uniform. Turned my head in a second. If her parents lock her up she’ll only be out the window.’ She mulled it over, enjoying the challenge. ‘She should get her mum to invite one or two of the boys around for tea – all supervised and that. It’s doing your bit.’ Thelma paused. ‘And then I’d put the fear of God in him too.’

  We both laughed, but I was taking a mental note. Thelma’s advice sounded practical but not overly severe.

  ‘So,’ said Thelma. ‘Would I do for “Henrietta Helps”?’

  If only she knew. She would be tons better than Mrs Bird. I wouldn’t even have to think about sneaking letters into Woman’s Friend if Thelma was in charge.

  The anxious feeling started churning in my stomach again.

  ‘Right then,’ said Thelma. ‘Where are the others with that tea? Hold on . . .’