Dear Mrs Bird Read online

  In a funk I plonked the letter down on the bed.

  A combination of a rotten day and a large glass of whisky had given me a bullish view of things. Why shouldn’t we try to help Confused? Or any other girl in her position that read Woman’s Friend? It wasn’t as if Mrs Bird cared. She probably wouldn’t even notice if an extra letter made its way in.

  So what if it did?

  No, that would be too huge a risk. Idiotically reckless. Like going behind enemy lines and sending reports from right under the adversary’s nose. Only the maddest, or very boldest of War Correspondents would do that.

  For the first time since Edmund’s telegram, I broke into a smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Rumour of Pineapple Chunks

  Being ditched by Edmund meant that my accidental move into ladies’ periodicals was now barely newsworthy as far as my family were concerned. When I told them that I was no longer engaged, my parents had suggested a trip home for the weekend, and the promise of a rare treacle pudding and the last tin of pineapple chunks was too good to turn down. Even better, my brother Jack had leave for the first time in ages so I would be able to see him too.

  I had spent the last week at work being an absolute paragon of virtue as far as Mrs Bird was concerned, diligently giving her a small handful of safe letters that even she couldn’t contest. Far more importantly, I had also secretly sent my own replies to three readers, poring over the answers as I drafted and then typed them up at home, and trying to keep my hand steady as I signed them Yours, Mrs. H. Bird.

  Signing Mrs Bird’s name was the hardest part and it wasn’t a course of action I took lightly. Had I been found out over In A Muddle I might have been able to feign innocence, but writing to more readers was a step into very dangerous territory. That said, it really wasn’t like facing German tanks or gunfire, or trying to keep London from burning down every night in the Blitz. When you looked at it like that, I wasn’t taking serious risks at all.

  So I signed the letters as Mrs Bird and posted every one.

  I still had Confused’s letter and had drafted a short reply that would easily fit into the weekly ‘Henrietta Bird Helps’ page, but I hadn’t had the gumption to actually hand it to Mrs Mahoney for typesetting. I had a slight inkling Mrs Bird didn’t bother to read the final printed copies because the ones Kathleen put in her in-tray always stayed there seemingly untouched, but I couldn’t be entirely sure. Further investigation was required.

  I didn’t mention any of this to Bunty. I hated keeping it from her but she was so concerned about me over Edmund that I felt sure she would think I was having some sort of brainstorm. And if I was honest, while I thought I would be able to convince her that sending the odd helpful reply wasn’t too rash, even I knew sneaking a letter into the magazine without Mrs Bird knowing was taking things way too far.

  A week after I became A Single Career Woman, Bunty and I set off home to Little Whitfield. Although I was slightly dreading my parents’ partisan apoplexy about Edmund, it was good to get away from London. The village had been lucky to avoid many raids, although a field had been blown up when a bomber had no doubt flown off course from one of the towns. All in all, the thought of two nights in a nice warm bed without the likelihood of having to sleepwalk down to the shelter, or stick my tin hat on at the fire station, sounded better than a week in Monte Carlo to me.

  Bunty and I caught a Saturday morning train from Waterloo, which was busy with troops heading to or from their billets and people visiting their families for the weekend. The train was packed with servicemen on their way down to Weymouth and Bunty saw it as an ideal opportunity to find a replacement for Edmund, whether I wanted one or not. Crammed into a packed compartment, we enjoyed the trip out to the Hampshire countryside in the company of some very nice officers who insisted on giving us their seats together with a bar of chocolate, two cigarettes even though we didn’t smoke, and several addresses to write to.

  With the early February snow falling steadily, we crunched our way along the short walk from Little Whitfield station to the house. It was a route Bunty and I had taken together hundreds of times. When both of her parents died before she was even at school, although she wasn’t a complete orphan as she had her granny, right from the start it was always Bunty, me, and Jack.

  Entirely aware of what my family were like, Bunty was now doing sterling work as Head of Morale in the face of an imminent avalanche of sympathy and possible wrath.

  ‘Your parents will be thrilled about Woman’s Friend,’ she said. ‘They’ll be pleased that you’re now far less likely to get hurt in the line of journalistic duty than if you were on The Chronicle, so things aren’t all that bad.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I don’t think they’ll worry about work. They’re all so livid about Edmund, we’ll spend most of the time trying to talk them out of having his guts for garters.’

  Bunty laughed. ‘That’s not such a bad idea.’ She kicked a lump of snow with her galoshes for emphasis.

  Just before Vicarage Hill we turned onto the common, pleased to see the Wildhay Oaks standing tall and stoic under the heavy covering of snow. Jack, Bunty, and I had spent our childhood running among these trees, chasing each other and going full pelt until you could shout home. If you were touching a tree, you were safe and couldn’t be caught. Before the war started, Jack and Edmund and William had run circuits around them, all three boys intent on being in peak fitness for when they joined up.

  Sometimes in London, when the air raids were really crashing about, I would close my eyes and picture the Wildhay Oaks, calm and dependable as ever. As long as they still stood, it felt as if we would all be all right.

  As we rounded the final corner onto Glebe Lane, Pennyfield House came into view. It was a dear little Georgian house, surrounded by weeping willows and with such symmetrical windows it looked as if a child had told an architect exactly how a house should be designed. I always loved that first glimpse of home. Today though, I was interrupted as a huge snowball hit me squarely on the head, knocking off my beret and leaving me spluttering like Father’s old motorcar.

  ‘Jack Lake,’ I bellowed, because it didn’t take an enormous brain to work out where it had come from. ‘Jack Lake, if you think you are . . .’

  My brother hurled another snowball which hit the target, straight in my face.

  ‘He’s by the side gate, Em,’ yelled Bunty, unperturbed by the assault and enthusiastically gathering ammunition, her suitcase abandoned. She had spent half her childhood under attack from my brother and knew what she was up against. ‘I’ll get him.’

  ‘Unlikely, Bunts, old man,’ shouted my brother as a missile whizzed past Bunty’s head.

  ‘Missed!’ I roared, scooping up snow. ‘Call yourself a fighter pilot? You throw like you’re in the Girl Guides.’

  Jack’s reply consisted of a barrage of activity, all of which scored a bullseye.

  ‘Ladies,’ he taunted in a very chipper voice. ‘I’m trying to give you a chance.’

  The snow was beginning to seep through my coat and my woollen gloves were sodden.

  ‘Swine,’ I shouted. ‘Small fry.’

  ‘How are we going to get in?’ whispered Bunty, who had taken at least one direct score to the face and now resembled a Belisha beacon. ‘He’s probably booby-trapped the back gate.’

  I stifled a snort. Of course he had. It was perfect. In the middle of Europe being battered by a deranged madman and Britain doing its best to keep the hope of a free world alive, the three of us were playing like children in the snow. For these moments it was as if nothing had changed from a time when everything was simple and Mother and Father could make anything horrid just go away.

  ‘Only one thing for it, Bunts,’ I whispered back. ‘Battering ram. Scarves up.’

  We wrapped our dripping scarves around our faces. Bunty squashed her hat down on her head and I wished mine wasn’t lying in the middle of the drive.

  It was a suicide mission of the highest order
, but we saw it through and ten yards later were doing our best to heave as much snow as we could into my brother’s face. Safely swathed in his RAF greatcoat and leather gloves, Jack had been completely unmarked by our efforts until this point, but was now laughing so much he swallowed a big lump of snow. He fought back valiantly, managing to hold us both at arm’s length so that we could only flail around like two baby birds caught by a very large dog.

  All three of us yelled and laughed and shouted at each other.

  ‘Children, really! You’ll catch your deaths.’

  Standing at the door to the house, my mother had barely raised her voice, but we all stopped brawling at once.

  Trim as ever, and a vision of calm in a pale blue ribbed cardigan and pleated skirt, Mother shook her head slightly but smiled.

  ‘You are all revolting. I have failed horribly. Jack, go and pick up your sister’s hat, Emmeline, stop teasing your brother, and Bunty, come here straight away so I can see how you are. Come on – quick march.’

  We let go of each other as ordered, picking up hats, cases, and bags dropped in the scuffle. As Bunty was warmly kissed by my mother, who declared her as pretty as ever, Jack placed my beret on my head at a jaunty angle and then hugged me tightly.

  ‘Good to see you, Sis,’ he said. ‘Sorry to hear your news. Man’s a bloody fool. You all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, touched by his concern.

  ‘Was it the vest? Mother said she couldn’t make out if he was supposed to wear it or use it as some sort of tarpaulin. Still, at least now you’re on your way to The Times.’

  He grinned at me, blue eyes shining and the tops of his ears bright red in the cold. He looked about ten.

  ‘You know, I’ll track Edmund down and punch his lights out if you want. Really.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s all right, thanks. Actually, it’s for the best, really.’

  ‘What, being an old maid?’ He seemed unconvinced. ‘Ah well, good for you. Don’t worry though, I can always put a word out to the chaps. Jocko Carlisle might be worth a go. No, not Jocko, he just got engaged. Or Chaser’s a good lad.’ He considered it for a moment. ‘Actually not Chaser . . . clue in the name.’ He raised his eyebrows but then brightened up. ‘Leave it with me, Em, I’ll give it some thought.’

  I nodded gamely. It was easier than trying to convince him I was just fine.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ I suggested. ‘There’s a strong rumour of pineapple chunks.’

  It was enough to distract Jack from marrying me off to half his squadron and together we went into the hallway. Mother was helping Bunty out of her coat and saying Isn’t It Marvellous Emmy Is Absolutely Fine in a voice she didn’t normally use.

  Bunty knew of course that this was code for You Will Tell Me The Truth, My Daughter Is Heartbroken Isn’t She?

  I coughed. Mother whirled around, threw Bunty’s coat over her arm, and then grasped my face in her hands and beamed.

  ‘Darling, don’t you look well!’ she cried.

  I knew of course that she actually meant If I Ever See Edmund Jones Again I Cannot Be Held Responsible For My Actions.

  ‘Thanks, Mummy, I am well.’

  ‘Yes, you are!’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And that’s good!’

  ‘It is!’

  Mother showed no sign of moving the conversation on. At this rate, we could be here until Easter.

  But then she pulled me towards her and gripped my arms as if she would never let me go.

  ‘Men are such fatheads, my darling,’ she whispered. Her voice was fierce, but then lightened. ‘Except for your father, of course. But the rest of them: fatheads.’

  I could barely breathe. If all my family were to keep doing this, I was odds on for cracking a rib.

  ‘And Jack too,’ I gasped, into her hair. ‘Jack’s all right. And Uncle Gregory we like, don’t we? So not all of them . . .’

  Mother squeezed me again.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ she said. ‘Quite right. Not all of them. Well done.’

  ‘Is your mother doing the Fatheads speech?’

  My father had come into the hallway.

  ‘Hello, Bunty, how are you?’ he said, kissing her hello. ‘Keeping the War Office going? Hope you’re checking Churchill’s grammar. Germans bound to be snooty on that sort of thing.’

  Bunty assured him that Mr Churchill’s grammar was tip-top, leaving out the fact that she had absolutely nothing to do with him and had never even seen him in the War Office building.

  ‘Walls have ears, Dr Lake,’ she added for gravitas, which went down terrifically well.

  ‘Your father would be proud,’ he said and Bunty looked happy as she always did when he mentioned her parents, neither of whom she could really remember.

  Then it was my turn.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ I said as he gave me a kiss and then frowned and looked at me over his glasses.

  ‘Never liked him,’ he said, which I knew perfectly well wasn’t true. ‘Absolute dunderhead. Your mother’s worried, of course, but I’ve told her to look on the bright side as at least now we won’t have idiots for grandchildren.’ He gave me a wink. ‘I think that perked her up.’

  ‘Thanks, Daddy,’ I said. It was the longest speech I had ever had from my father and he gave me another hearty squeeze on the arm and said Well Done Chicken even though I hadn’t done anything. I took off my coat and scarf, hanging them on the tall Victorian hall stand that used to belong to my grandparents, and followed him into the living room.

  I could hear him muttering under his breath.

  ‘Dreadful business,’ he said. ‘I’ll have his guts for bloody garters.’

  *

  Over a slap-up lunch of shepherd’s pie without very much of the shepherd element, followed by a choice of treacle pudding or pineapple chunks with a spoonful of carefully eked out custard, I was quizzed by my parents and teased by Jack about Woman’s Friend. By the time I had enthused about how lovely everyone was and how structurally robust the offices appeared, everyone agreed that I had secured gainful employment with a trailblazer for Women In The Workplace and more importantly for my mother, The Least Interesting Target For The Luftwaffe in the whole of London.

  ‘Woman’s Friend is helping people, which is marvellous,’ my mother said, as if I was giving out half crowns to the homeless. ‘And as we’re stuck with this silly business, at least you girls might as well get careers out of it.’

  My mother steadfastly referred to the war as This Silly Business, which made it sound like a mild fracas over a marmalade sponge. That aside, I was lucky to have parents who took the modern view. My father agreed.

  ‘Emmy,’ he said, ‘you are following in a long line of formidable women.’

  ‘How is Granny, Mother?’ asked Jack.

  My parents exchanged glances.

  ‘Barmy,’ said Jack, answering himself.

  ‘Crackers,’ I said, at the same time.

  ‘Children, really,’ said Mother, not meaning it.

  ‘What do you think, Bunty?’ asked my father. ‘It’s quite all right, do go ahead.’

  ‘Um. Is she still mad as a hatter, Dr Lake?’ asked Bunty who knew my grandmother well.

  Father roared with laughter. ‘I think that’s about the sum of it,’ he said. ‘God help the good people of Exeter. I’m sure they will be most relieved when there’s Peace and she goes home.’

  Mother looked around at us all. ‘Now, Jack and Bunty will clear the table and Emmy will come with me into the village as I need to return a book to the lending library.’ She checked her wristwatch. ‘They’re only open until two.’

  Bunty began studiously collecting up pudding bowls, mainly as I knew she didn’t want to catch my eye. She had bet me thruppence that Mother would want to have A Chat about Edmund.

  Mother bundled me out of the dining room and into my overcoat in much the same manner she had when I was three. Soon enough, we were arm in arm and heading through the snow and
off to the library, without, I noted, a book to return.

  She chatted cheerfully, updating me on local news and, I was sure, doing her best to lull me into a false sense of security.

  ‘Bother,’ she said, as we were crossing the road by the duck pond. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, which if you asked me, was hamming it up a bit. ‘I seem to have forgotten that library book. Ah well, shall we just have a nice walk?’

  The snow flurried around us as we made our way along the High Street and Mother pulled me in closer.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘I wanted to have A Quick Chat.’

  Bunty had won her bet. I wondered if we could hurry this up. It was furiously cold.

  ‘Mother, I’m fine. Really. I don’t mind about Edmund at all.’

  My mother looked unconcerned. ‘Yes, darling, I can tell that. And I’m very glad indeed. Such a silly boy. Now, tell me how is dear Bunty? I’ve had an invitation to visit Mrs Tavistock and I should like to give her a report.’

  When war broke out Bunty’s grandmother had moved out to her small country estate. Mrs Tavistock would not stop Bunty from staying in London, but she worried about her granddaughter continually.

  ‘Bunty is very well,’ I said, because she was.

  ‘That’s good. And how is her job?’

  ‘Busy,’ I said. ‘Very hush-hush.’

  ‘Of course,’ said my mother. ‘And William. How is he? Do you think they will get married?’

  ‘I should hope so,’ I said, carefully sidestepping a patch of black ice on the pavement.

  ‘They’re both jolly lucky he hasn’t been sent somewhere abroad,’ said Mother with feeling. Her friends’ sons were all, by and large, overseas.

  ‘I don’t think William would agree,’ I replied. ‘He’s still smarting that the army won’t have him because of his ears.’

  My mother pulled her scarf a little more snugly around her neck as we walked on towards the Fox and Thicket, on the east side of the green.

  ‘Being a fireman is such a dangerous job,’ she said, which was rather stating the obvious. I didn’t need reminding. I knew the kind of calls he was sent out on. I had an idea the conversation was heading for a You Are Taking Care Of Yourselves Aren’t You? speech. I tried to play things down.