Dear Mrs Bird Page 5

  All through school, Bunty and I had been in our own little gang. Bunty and me and Olive and Kitty. The four of us did everything together: joined the same school clubs, belonged to the same teams, got crushes on the same film stars, showed off around the same boys. Nothing special, just all the normal things everyone did.

  But when we were sixteen and the four of us had just passed our School Cert., Kitty started seeing a chap who was older than us. He was called Doug and he was twenty. Kitty said he was very mature and thought we were all rather childish, which was probably true. But anyway, while we were all falling in love with Gary Cooper and Errol Flynn, Kitty went and fell in love with Doug. She said he loved her, too. Then she got pregnant. And when Doug found out he just disappeared into thin air.

  I chewed my lip and stared at In A Muddle’s letter. Kathleen was right, I was young. But it didn’t mean I had spent my entire life in a cave.

  Kitty had been sent to stay in Edinburgh with an aunt she’d never met. We weren’t allowed to visit her, so she was all on her own. She was desperate to somehow keep her baby, but four days after he was born, someone took him away. I had made Bunty come to Kitty’s parents with me to beg them to rethink. But they were embarrassed and furious, and said no.

  Kitty named her little boy Peter. He would be nearly six now.

  I put my elbows on the desk and leant my chin on my hands, forgetting I was in a new job and should be trying to make a good impression.

  ‘Are you all right, Emmeline?’ Kathleen’s face was friendly again. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of things.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘It’s all just a bit new.’

  Kathleen looked sympathetic. ‘Is that another Unacceptable?’ she asked, seeing In A Muddle’s stamped addressed envelope. ‘Do you want me to put the stamp in the box?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, thinking on my toes. ‘It’s from “Worried About A Cat”. I think Mrs Bird will like this one.’

  Kathleen hesitated for a moment and then smiled. ‘Well done. Pets always go down a storm.’ She paused again. ‘Emmy, I know it seems harsh to ignore some of them, but Mrs Bird says if people get themselves into a silly pickle, they’ve only themselves to blame.’

  I didn’t think In A Muddle was the one who should get the blame. She believed somebody loved her, that’s all. The only difference between her and me was that I knew my own mind, and Edmund wasn’t a smooth operator like Doug had been. If no one helped In A Muddle, she might end up like Kitty.

  ‘Of course, Kathleen,’ I said. ‘I’ll cut it up with the rest.’

  Kathleen smiled warmly and returned to her typing. I waited for a moment, pretending to tidy the papers spread across my desk.

  Then I put In A Muddle’s letter into my drawer.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dear In A Muddle

  Over the next weeks I threw myself into the swing of things and tried to make the best of it. Bunty had been terrifically supportive when I told her about The Evening Chronicle actually being Woman’s Friend and said she thought it sounded wonderful all the same. Thelma and Joan and young Mary at the fire station were smashing as well and said it could lead to Great Things, which gave me a boost. I’d written to Edmund, turning it into a madcap story and a bit of a wheeze, and hoped he would see the funny side of it, but he hadn’t replied. Actually, other than a short Christmas note which had arrived in mid-January, I hadn’t heard anything from him in ages and was beginning to worry that he’d been in some sort of scrape. I didn’t want to appear a fusspot so only mentioned it once, when I was out having baked prune roll with Bunty and William, but I could tell they had been thinking the same thing. Bunty said rather too quickly that the army always let you know if something awful had happened so No News Is Good News and then Bill took up the baton and said Don’t You Worry Emmy, Edmund Is Made Of Very Stern Stuff. Then they gave each other a look when they thought I couldn’t see.

  I took them at their word, however, and decided to keep my end up and say I wasn’t worried at all. It was the least I could do as poor Bunty was always having to put on a brave face about William’s job as a fireman, which we both knew was as dangerous as anything. When his funny ears (the bits inside – from the outside you couldn’t tell) meant the army wouldn’t take him, Bill had joined the Fire Brigade instead. It had been pretty rotten for him when Edmund and my brother Jack joined up and left, but he had made a real go of it. I wasn’t going to start flapping about Edmund when Bunty could look out of her window almost every night and see the bombs and fires and awful things that her boy was having to deal with.

  At the magazine, Mrs Bird’s standard approach was to be rather cross about almost everything, and in particular, the readers, most of whom were a sad disappointment to her. I looked forward to the post when a handful of problems would trickle in, and my optimism remained firm for interesting yet acceptable material, but it was hardly a stampede. There were only so many times the publication could suggest joining a Youth Club for morale.

  In A Muddle’s letter was still in my desk drawer. I desperately wanted to help her, but Kathleen had been very clear about the rules and I knew there was no chance that Mrs Bird would consider it. I even thought of writing back myself, as a friend might, but that was out of the question. For a start, In A Muddle would wonder who on earth I was, and anyway, what if Mrs Bird ever found out? Woman’s Friend may not have been my dream job at a newspaper, but it was at least in the same building as The Evening Chronicle. One day an opportunity to join the paper could arise and a good reference from Mrs Bird might make all the difference. Kathleen said Lord Overton was a personal friend, so you never knew.

  I still wished I could do something though. In A Muddle wasn’t the only reader having a difficult time and Mrs Bird’s list of Unacceptable Topics ruled almost all of them out for help.

  Dear Mrs. Bird

  I am twenty-one and very much in love with a boy who is the same age. I know that he loves me too and he has asked me to marry him before he is sent overseas, but I am unsure if I should. You see he has told me he has been very close with another girl and even though this was some time before we met, is it right to forgive him for being intimate with somebody else?

  Please can you tell me what to do?

  Thank you very much,

  D. Watson (Miss)

  Miss Watson sounded a decent sort and so did her chap. It did not seem such a terrible crime to me, after all it was well in the past and he had told her the truth when he could easily have kept quiet. I had tried my luck and given it to Mrs Bird, but she would not have it. The letter had come back to me in four pieces and with a large NO and a circle around ‘INTIMATE’ in furious red ink.

  Dear Mrs. Bird

  I have been married for five years to a man I thought loved me. Now he tells me he has fallen for a girl he met while he was away in the Services. He says he won’t leave me, but I know they go away together for weekends and now I have found out she is pregnant. I can’t bear the thought of living with him. What should I do?

  Could you print my letter please? I daren’t ask you to write back to my house in case he sees it.

  Yours,

  Unhappy Wife

  It was the saddest letter. I couldn’t begin to think how she might be advised, but as Unhappy Wife had done absolutely nothing wrong, surely even Mrs Bird would feel sympathetic? I put it in with two very bland letters and crossed my fingers, but it didn’t stand a chance. As well as a huge red line through the entire letter, Mrs Bird had written NO so firmly that a blot of ink had burst onto the paper. Then she had written AFFAIRS and underlined it three times.

  It was hard not to feel frustrated. From what I had seen in my short time at Woman’s Friend, Unhappy Wife was hardly alone. I wasn’t naive enough to think that there hadn’t always been problems like this, but it didn’t take a brainbox to see that the war had made things even harder. I didn’t know the answer to lots of the problems, but I did know that a kind response was better than
nothing. I hated having to throw the letters away.

  Kathleen started giving me lots of Mr Collins’ work to do. She much preferred typing up the patterns and Mrs Bird’s beauty advice, which was unsurprisingly vigorous and based almost exclusively on not wearing make-up and applying something alarming you mixed into a paste. Mr Collins wrote the features and fiction and I had to admit that even if it wasn’t the same as typing up how the RAF were walloping Axis bombers close to Tobruk, it did make a nice change from the legal documents of my last job.

  Mrs Bird spent more time out of the office than in as she was in charge of an enormous number of Good Works. Whenever she left for her meetings, we would hear a mighty roar from the corridor as she announced both her destination and estimated time of return. It took some getting used to, as a hearty bellow of ‘Tube Station Bunk Beds – a quarter past three,’ did rather give you a start.

  One morning, a few weeks into my new job, there was a mild bang from the corridor and a sound of trundling.

  ‘That’ll be Clarence,’ said Kathleen, as a high-pitched voice squeaked out, ‘Second Post,’ and then a very deep voice added, ‘Delivery, Miss Knighton.’

  ‘Come in, Clarence,’ called Kathleen.

  ‘All right then,’ said the voice, which sounding panicked shot back up to soprano.

  Clarence was Launceston’s most dedicated and easily embarrassed post boy. Fifteen years old and already a good five foot ten with unpredictable skin that was a torment, he did his rounds several times a day. He balanced a keen interest in the war with the tragedy of almost total paralysis brought about by an uncontrollable crush on Kathleen.

  As Clarence was rendered speechless if she even glanced at him, he directed everything he should like to say to her at me.

  ‘Morning, Miss Lake,’ he said, covering three octaves. ‘Miss Knighton,’ he added, which came out very nearly high enough to start a conversation with a bat.

  ‘Good morning, Clarence,’ I said.

  ‘Hello, Clarence,’ said Kathleen.

  Clarence looked as if he wished he was dead.

  ‘Parcel for you, Miss Lake,’ he said, and turning his back on Kathleen so he could cope, added, ‘We’ve got them on the run in Abyssinia,’ as if the two were connected.

  ‘They can’t beat our boys,’ I said, knowing it would make Clarence beam.

  ‘Better crack on, Clarence,’ said Kath, gently. ‘Or you’ll have Mrs Bird about you.’

  Clarence glanced in her direction, but was struck dumb by the result and with an awkward wave hurried off.

  I set to the day’s correspondence at once and was rewarded when the first letter asked for Mrs Bird’s advice on War Savings stamps. That was nice and safe so I was off to a good start. The second was from a lady who was a recent martyr to a thyroid goitre. It did not make for a relaxed read even though I wasn’t the squeamish type. I double-checked it against The List, and decided that if we could cut out some of the more medical elements, it might just about do.

  Of course, the letter after that was about a lady who wanted to get a divorce, which I reluctantly cut up and put in the bin. It was all down to the final postcard, which was written in bold hand and wasted no time.

  Dear Mrs. Bird

  Do you know of an exercise for ankles? Things are acceptable presently as I have fur boots for the day and only attend events if in evening dress, but the summer is a torture I can hardly bear. Please might you advise?

  Yours

  Unfortunate Legs

  I felt for Unfortunate Legs as life seemed challenging enough at present, without limiting enjoyment to a long frock, but she had certainly got me out of a fix. There would be enough letters for that issue’s problem page.

  Putting them all into a buff cardboard file for Mrs Bird, I squeezed past Kathleen’s desk and into the corridor, which as usual was deserted. It always had a faint smell of boiled cabbage and soap. It was a dispiriting mix which I put down to poor pipes.

  Mrs Bird was out at a Cats’ Evacuation meeting so I put the file on her desk and then called in on the Art Department to tell Mrs Mahoney that so far I was on time for this week’s deadline. She was explaining to Mr Brand how to make an Easy Sausage Savoury and I happily joined in. I liked them both and thought it was a pity we didn’t all share the journalists’ old office as it would have been tons more jolly than being cooped up in our dingy little rooms.

  Mrs Mahoney asked me to give Mr Collins a chivvy on his film-review column so I reluctantly left the conversation and knocked on his door. I was still wary of his mercurial ways but today, rather than sitting on his own looking deep and brooding, it appeared he was in a jovial mood.

  ‘Miss Lake, is that you?’ he said without looking up from his desk. ‘Come in then.’

  He was working in a half-gloom surrounded by chaos which, as I had quickly learnt, was his way. I was already used to his handwritten scripts, messy and crumpled, and occasionally torn in two and then taped back together. On one manuscript he had scribbled out an entire half-page and started again. Despite his cynical air, I rather thought he cared about what he wrote and didn’t just dash off any old things.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘How are things going? You’ve already outlasted the two previous Juniors. Is Henrietta behaving herself?’

  Mr Collins was the only person who ever referred to Mrs Bird by her first name.

  ‘Everyone’s lovely,’ I said, being diplomatic. ‘I’m learning lots about readers’ Problems.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Kathleen informs me it’s a challenge to fill up the page.’

  I nodded. I wondered if he knew about all the people whose letters were ignored.

  ‘There are enough letters,’ I said. ‘But Mrs Bird won’t answer most of them. Some people are in a real pickle, but she says they’re just Unpleasantnesses.’

  ‘She would,’ said Mr Collins. ‘I have to say, it’s all Greek to me. That’s why I stick to fiction. Making things up is somewhat easier than sorting out real life.’

  I glanced over at the bookshelves. The brandy bottle was still there.

  ‘I feel sorry for people,’ I said sadly, thinking of In A Muddle. ‘It seems such a shame not to help them all.’

  Mr Collins sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It didn’t look as if he had shaved. Then he leant forward again.

  ‘Don’t be downhearted, Emmeline. Henrietta was doing this advice business when I was virtually still a boy and I’m afraid you won’t change her. To be fair to our beloved Acting Editress, she leaves me to get on with the stories and features because she knows that’s what I do, and I try to make a decent job of it. Believe it or not, I do actually hope people like them.’

  He said it almost to himself. I nodded and started to say how much I enjoyed his work, but he interrupted me with a wave of his hand.

  ‘It’s not exactly literature,’ he said. ‘And goodness knows, the competition is beating us hollow and the poor old magazine is slipping away. But the few of us left are doing what we can. Look at Mr Brand’s illustrations. Beautiful stuff, really. Emmeline, stop worrying about Henrietta. Just do what you can, as well as you can. I promise you one day it will be worthwhile.’

  He scratched the back of his neck and then stretched out his arms as if he might yawn. ‘Good Lord, I’m in danger of boring us both. Lecture over. Find out what you’re good at, Miss Lake, and then get even better. That’s the key.’

  He looked down at the disarray on his desk, which I took as a sign he wanted to get back to work, so I gave him the message from Mrs Mahoney and headed back to my office. Oddly, I felt a tiny bit perked up – encouraged even.

  Find out what you’re good at, Miss Lake, and then get even better.

  It was an odd thing to be inspired by a brandy-drinking cynic of indeterminate middle age who sometimes seemed even less happy to be at Woman’s Friend than me, but I was. Mr Collins was right about the stories – he never let the Woman’s Friend readers down. Their heroes were br
ave, their heroines plucky, and there was always a happy ending. It was a far sight more than Mrs Bird did with the problems.

  Kathleen had left a note on my desk saying she was out on an errand, so I sat on my own chewing the end of a pencil and thinking.

  I didn’t really know what I was good at, not yet. I only knew that I had wanted to become a War Correspondent to tell people important news and somehow make a difference. Now here I was, stuck at Woman’s Friend ignoring even the small number of people whose lives Mrs Bird had the power to change.

  Do what you can, as well as you can.

  And then I decided. With my heart speeding up, and wondering just how quickly I could type, I fed a new piece of paper into my typewriter and then took out In A Muddle’s letter from the drawer. Readers like Unhappy Wife had problems I couldn’t begin to understand, but I knew what to say to In A Muddle. I’d seen my friend Kitty in the same situation and when it had gone awfully wrong for her, I hadn’t done nearly enough to help.

  I read through In A Muddle’s letter again, biting my lip and trying to think like the sort of experienced person one would turn to in a crisis. A version of Mrs Bird if she was friendly and actually cared. I would be for the absolute high jump if I was ever found out, but I had to at least try. I started to type, using a style similar to Mrs Bird’s no-nonsense way, but far less savage. It was easier than I thought – I told In A Muddle that cinema trips and presents or not, she absolutely didn’t have to ‘repay’ her young man in any kind of a way. She should stick to her guns and if he went off her, then it was his loss.

  I almost felt Mrs Bird would approve.

  But at the end of the letter I stopped. How on earth should I sign it?

  I heard the door in the corridor bang open. It would be Kathleen back from her errand. I couldn’t risk her seeing what I had done. I ripped the paper out of the typewriter and grabbing my fountain pen, hastily wrote:

  The very best of luck,