Dear Mrs Bird

by AJ Pearce

  ‘Let me come,’ I said. I didn’t want to sit around being useless. I wanted to be there for Bunty. ‘I’m fine. Really,’ I added. It was a lie but that wasn’t the point.

  My father shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Not this time, Cherub. You and Roy have both done enough. You need to rest. And that’s me being a doctor.’

  He gave us both a serious look as I tried to argue, adding, ‘Emmy, really, I’ve more chance of seeing them if I’m there as Bunty’s GP.’

  I knew he was right. I slumped back into the sofa and admitted defeat.

  This was happening every day, to people all over London, all over the country, all over Europe. Everywhere people were getting the most dreadful news. We were no different from anyone else. It was our friends’ turn. It was our turn. It didn’t make things feel any better at all.

  Poor, poor Bill. And, oh God, poor Bunty. Everything she had dreamed of, everything they had been planning and looking forward to. The living room didn’t look any different from this time yesterday. There were unopened cards and presents, and the photographs in their silver frames; pictures of William and Bunty on a summer’s day on the common, one of him so proud in his uniform when he’d first joined the Service. Bunty loved that picture. A little blue box on the coffee table which held the cufflinks she had bought to give him as a wedding present. And now everything was gone.

  Then, just as I thought I couldn’t feel any more awful, I remembered my silly, pointless, pathetic rows with Bill.

  I should have tried harder to tell him I was sorry. I should have found a way to say it sooner. I should have been at the Café de Paris on time.

  I vaguely heard my mother saying, ‘Do go, Alfred, we’ll be absolutely fine.’ And then squeezing my hand and saying, ‘Won’t we, darling? We’ll be all right.’

  I nodded. But nothing would be all right. I couldn’t tell her, just as I had no idea how I could tell Bunty.

  That I had fallen out with Bill, and let Bunty down? That an old, dear friend had died loathing me? I couldn’t tell anyone. It was a horrible secret I would just have to keep.

  *

  I was desperate to see Bunty, but only family were allowed and we didn’t count. Instead, Mother and I put our faith in the fact that Mrs Tavistock was of a generation and class that would hardly put up with being told what they could or couldn’t do. If she felt us seeing Bunty would help in any way, then it was more than likely that was what we would do.

  In the meantime, throughout the whole of Sunday, I sat in the flat, going over and over again in my head, what I would say and how I would say it. However badly Bunty was injured, I knew she would battle on. But I wasn’t half so sure about how she would take the news about Bill.

  How would anyone cope with that, let alone so close to her wedding? I didn’t know how I could help her, but whatever she needed from me, I would do it.

  On Monday morning, before returning to his practice as he had patients to see, my father phoned Mr Collins at the office. Mr Collins said I should have as much time away as I needed until Father was sure I was quite well. I was to leave Mrs Bird to him and not even think about Woman’s Friend. He sent his best wishes, Father said.

  After that, Mother and I spent another interminable day waiting for news from the hospital. Finally, in the late afternoon, Mrs Tavistock rang to say Bunty was conscious and that I could see her for a minute or two if I wished. Mother and I were in our coats and out of the house within seconds.

  It wasn’t Visiting Hour, so we knew strings had been pulled. At Charing Cross, the Duty Sister looked ferocious, but as Mrs Tavistock was familiar with at least one of the Board of Trustees, she was having to turn a very reluctant blind eye.

  Mrs Tavistock met us in the hospital corridor. Slightly built, but straight-backed and still with the elegance that had made her a notable beauty fifty years before, despite clear best efforts, she looked worried and drawn.

  ‘Emmeline dear,’ she said, clasping my hands and giving me a warm smile. ‘I hope you have slept.’ She turned to my mother. ‘Elizabeth, how terribly kind of you to come. Now. Marigold . . . Bunty . . . is awake. The doctors have done what they can for the present and the very good news is that they are confident they have managed to save her leg.’

  I tried not to look shocked. Father hadn’t said anything about losing legs.

  Mrs Tavistock gave me a sad, kind smile.

  ‘Emmeline, I am afraid Bunty is rather under the weather and if you would prefer not to see her quite yet, I am sure she would very much understand.’

  I shook my head quickly and Mrs Tavistock went on.

  ‘You should know that Bunty hasn’t spoken since I gave her the news about William.’

  Mrs Tavistock lifted her chin up the tiniest amount, as if to back up the enormous effort going on inside.

  ‘They believe she is in shock but I hope she might speak with you as you girls are so close. I didn’t tell her you were coming, just in case you felt you would rather not.’

  Her voice was brave, but she still sounded bereft.

  ‘I would very much like to see her please, Mrs Tavistock,’ I said. I didn’t care what state Bunty was in. ‘Might I go in now?’

  With a nod of acknowledgement from the Duty Sister, who was still gritting her teeth as Bunty’s granny broke every rule in the hospital’s book, I was shown the way.

  I had only been on a hospital ward once before, when my brother Jack had his appendix out the year before the war started. The long room we entered now was much the same, only the windows were all blacked out and the beds were closer together so they could get more people in. When I stole a glance at some of the beds, people didn’t have appendicitis or jaundice or the odd broken arm. They had multiple wounds, blackened faces, entire bodies swathed in miles of pristine bandages.

  They didn’t show this in the newspapers.

  Sister briskly walked us on.

  ‘Your friend is going to be fine,’ she said. ‘Bright smile, talk about chins up and do not discuss the event. Here we are, on the right. You can sit on that chair. I will be back in five minutes.’

  She raised her voice as if Bunty was deaf. ‘Miss Tavistock. You have a visitor. Five minutes,’ she said again to me and strode off.

  Bunty’s bed was at the very end of the ward by the wall. I took the hugest of deep breaths and tried to do a bright smile as instructed. It did not feel a time for anything like a bright smile.

  ‘Bunty?’ I said softly.

  She was lying almost flat, her right leg hoisted up on some sort of pulley, and bandaged from hip to foot. Her left arm was held together with splints and more bandages and where she wasn’t bound up, everything else was livid bruises and cuts. Nearly two days after the bomb, her face was almost unrecognisable. One of her eyes was a huge puffed oyster shell, swollen as far as the yellow and purple bruised skin could stretch, as if she had been knocked out by a prize-fighter. I fought the urge to gape. I may not have been able to plaster on a pretend smile, but I wouldn’t let Bunty see I was shocked.

  I sat down rather quickly on the iron chair next to her bed. I should have liked to hug her, tell her that all of us would help make things better, but of course I couldn’t. You can’t hug someone who looks as if every inch of them hurts. I wanted to hold her hand, but it was hidden in the bandages. I reached forward and clutched at the crisp sheet instead, twisting it and spoiling the perfect effect.

  Bunty had not responded to my hello and there was no sign that she had even heard me. The eye that hadn’t been battered beyond use remained fixed on the ceiling above.

  ‘Bunty,’ I said again, as gently as I could, as if the slightest noise might cause further injury – jar something and make it worse. ‘It’s me. Emmy.’

  Her chest rose and fell as she breathed and I saw her blink. I was sure she knew I was there.

  ‘Oh, Bunts,’ I said, feeling at sea but desperate to say the right thing. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

 
; Nothing.

  ‘We’re all here. Everyone’s here and we’re going to help you get better. We’ll help you and your granny, and Father is going to speak with the doctors to make sure we know exactly what we need to do so that you can be up and about terribly soon and . . .’

  It was unbearable. If she could hear me, how would she respond? Perhaps she was trying to say something only she couldn’t work out how.

  ‘Um, anyway darling, the doctors are very confident they’ve mended your leg and I know it must hurt horribly but I promise one day you will feel better.’ I paused. What did I know about anything?

  ‘Oh Bunty,’ I whispered, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack. ‘I’m so sorry about Bill.’

  Bunty blinked, but still didn’t say anything. With her face so beaten, it was impossible to make out any expression. I opened my mouth to go on, but before I could get the words out, Bunty spoke.

  ‘He told me.’

  She spoke with difficulty, but it was a start. I leant in towards her and pulled the metal chair forward to get closer.

  ‘Bunty, love,’ I said, reaching for the tips of her fingers, desperate for her to know she wasn’t on her own, and ready to say anything that might help.

  ‘Don’t.’

  I withdrew my hand to the side of the bed.

  ‘He told me,’ whispered Bunty again. Her voice was flat, without emotion. She still didn’t look at me.

  ‘What is it?’ I said, trying to encourage her to speak. ‘Don’t rush, I know it’s hard.’

  ‘You going on at him. Shouting.’

  It caught me unawares. In the enormity of William’s death, our arguments made even less sense than before. I scrambled to put things right.

  ‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘Yes. We did have a silly disagreement.’ I stopped. I hadn’t meant it to sound unimportant. ‘I just wanted him to take care,’ I finished lamely.

  ‘It wasn’t silly to him,’ said Bunty. ‘You’d no right. You think you can sort people out, but you can’t. You interfered.’

  The bitterness in her voice stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘Bunty, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was worried about him. I was thinking about you.’

  As the words came out, I realised how stupid that sounded.

  ‘No you weren’t.’ Despite being so fragile, Bunty sounded angry now. ‘I’m supposed to be your best friend. You don’t think of other people, you just do what you want.’

  ‘Oh, Bunts,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

  Bunty’s voice was weak but she didn’t stop.

  ‘You never mean to. But you push in and make things worse. You did it with Kitty. You told her to fight for her baby and it didn’t work and she felt even sadder. You even thought you could give advice to strangers at the magazine, but you can’t. You shouldn’t have interfered,’ she said again.

  I was gripping my hands together so hard, my knuckles looked as if they would pop out of my skin. A feeling of panic rose in my throat. Bunty sounded as if she hated me.

  ‘I didn’t want you to know Bill had been in danger,’ I said. ‘I told him I was sorry, and we talked and I wanted to say sorry again, but I didn’t get the chance. I was going to as soon as I got to the Café de Paris.’

  It was a poor catalogue of excuses. I loathed myself more with each word.

  ‘You weren’t there,’ said Bunty and finally her voice wavered the tiniest bit. ‘He was worried.’

  ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ I said, searching for the right thing to say. ‘They had no staff at the station. I didn’t think I should leave.’

  ‘He was worried about you,’ she said. ‘He said he wanted to find you in case you were still cross.’

  ‘But I wasn’t cross,’ I said, appalled, and scared of what she would say next. ‘I wasn’t cross.’

  Bunty slowly turned her head and finally looked at me. Her poor broken face was utterly wretched.

  ‘Bill didn’t want it to spoil things. He said he would find you and sort it all out.’

  She looked exhausted, but carried on.

  ‘That’s when he died. He was looking for you.’

  I thought the world had collapsed on Saturday night. That things were dark and awful and at their very worst. It turned out I had been wrong.

  I sat back in my chair as the tears came.

  I didn’t know what to say that could make it better, apart from how sorry I was, sorrier than anything, ever. I would say it a thousand times until Bunty knew. But she didn’t want to hear it. As I began to speak, she cut across me, her voice flat again, but chillingly clear.

  ‘Don’t.’

  The brisk step of Sister sounded behind me.

  ‘I’ll come back,’ I said. ‘Another time, when you feel better, and we’ll talk.’

  Bunty looked at me, with all the sadness in the world.

  ‘You mustn’t come again. I don’t want to see you.’

  Then she turned her head away.

  Sister started saying something brisk about leaving and I rose slowly from the chair.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered as a huge tear rolled down the side of Bunty’s swollen, unrecognisable face.

  The nurse told me to hurry up.

  Bunty said nothing else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Trust Me, Write

  I wanted more than anything to ignore Bunty’s instructions and visit her again. I had to explain what had happened with Bill and hope she would understand. The sight of my friend in hospital, in pain and bereft, would not leave me. Worst of all was replaying over and over again what Bunty had said: that Bill had been looking for me when he was killed.

  You could dress it up any way you liked, but it was quite clear. It was my fault he was dead.

  Mrs Tavistock and my mother were waiting for me outside the ward and assumed I was white as a sheet at the shock of seeing how poorly Bunty was. I told Mrs Tavistock that she didn’t want to talk, which was true, but of course not the whole story. Then I said if it was all right with them both I would prefer to get some air and make my own way home. Mother began to disagree and Mrs Tavistock held my hands and told me I was such a good girl for trying to help and not to worry and that everything would be right as rain soon.

  I could hardly stand it.

  Leaving them behind, I ran as fast as I could out of the hospital, flying down the stairs and ignoring the tuts and calls of Steady Up and I Say as I rushed through the reception and out into the blackout.

  Mrs Tavistock was very kind, but she didn’t know her granddaughter the way I did. Bunty did not want to see me. I would keep trying, but I knew she meant it. It was only a matter of time before I would hear from her granny, saying that Bunty wasn’t up to receiving visitors for the present.

  There was a little cafe next to the hospital which was open for staff working late shifts. Unsteady on my feet, I called in for a strong cup of tea before facing the bus home. The cafe was warm and smelt of reconstituted meat and carbolic soap but it was cosy all the same.

  ‘Young lady, are you feeling unwell?’ said the friendly man behind the counter. He was in his fifties with a notable moustache and a strong accent. ‘You look green along the gills. I’m Czechoslovakian,’ he added, obviously used to the assumption that anyone sounding foreign was most probably an enemy sympathiser.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask any questions because I was keeping my end up by a thread. If he was any more kind to me I would cave in. ‘Might I have a cup of tea, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘Sit down. I find you secret sugar. Ssshh!’ He winked and pointed to a small table in the corner. I nodded and tried to say thank you but it came out as a sort of hiccup and he flapped a tea towel at me in a fatherly way. I wondered how many people stumbled out of the hospital and into his cafe every day, their lives turned upside down.

  He hummed to himself as he brewed the strongest cup of tea I had seen since war broke out and then delivered it with a fig roll
resting in the saucer and the clear instruction to ‘Eat, drink – on the house. Stay until red cheeks.’

  I stirred my tea and studied the encouraging posters pasted to the walls. One recommended growing potatoes, while another suggested investing in Savings Bonds. Both implied a guaranteed success in becoming a vital part of the war effort. A third pictured lots of women in uniforms of the different services. ‘Doing A Grand Job!’ it announced.

  I kept stirring the tea. I was doing anything but a grand job. My kind Czechoslovakian friend was singing in a soft baritone that in another time and world would have its place in a choir. Instead, here he was, looking after a complete stranger for free while having to tell people his nationality in the same breath as hello in case they thought he was a threat.

  The world had become ugly and mad.

  Struggling to keep my chin up, I sipped my drink, immediately becoming almost dizzy from the unaccustomed sweetness. I couldn’t begin to think what to do next.

  Bunty and I would always, always chat through a row, rare though they were. We were lifelong best friends and had sworn we always would be. Only now, as far as Bunty was concerned, it was my fault that her fiancé was dead.

  It was all too big, too awful.

  On a table in the corner opposite me, someone had left the day’s newspapers and a couple of well-thumbed magazines. Woman’s Friend did not appear to be one of them, but it made me think of the rotten irony of trying to give advice to the readers while making an absolute hash of my own life. Mrs Bird would make mincemeat of me if I sent her a letter about this.

  I bent down and opened my bag, pulling out the notebook I carried everywhere. I was forever scribbling down ideas for how to answer a knotty problem someone had sent in. Now I wanted to sort out what I had to tell Bunty, how I would put things to her when I had another chance. Perhaps I could write it all down properly and send it in a letter. Then she could decide when to read it.