Dear Mrs Bird

by AJ Pearce

  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.

  ‘Spines, Miss Lake,’ she said. ‘That’s what these women need. Nerviness will not win us the war. They should pull themselves together and crack on.’

  It was Mrs Bird at her worst, rejecting anything she saw as weak. She expected everyone to be limitlessly resilient, relentlessly tough. No wonder people felt dreadful if that’s what they were up against.

  As far as I was concerned, it was perfectly reasonable to be scared of someone dropping a bomb on you. No one in their right mind would become blasé about that. It didn’t mean you were weak, or didn’t want to soldier on.

  I chewed my bottom lip. Perhaps I was just biased.

  But no, I wasn’t. This reader – and all the others who had written to Mrs Bird – in fact any of us come to that – had decent reason to feel wobbly. I was absolutely sure that what they needed was some friendly support, not a lecture on spinelessness.

  I returned to the letter.

  I promise I am absolutely not giving up. I am going to go back to work as soon as they will let me and I can move a bit more. But I am worried as I know I will be nervy which is un-patriotic and wrong, and I feel such a coward for being so low.

  I lost my fiancé recently and since he was killed I don’t think I will ever want to love anyone again.

  I bent closer to the words.

  I don’t even want to speak to people, not even my best friends.

  Could this possibly be from Bunty?

  I miss him dreadfully, I can’t even tell you how much, but I know that there are lots of people far worse off than me and I should buck up. There are hundreds of girls of my age doing war work, looking after their families and pulling their weight, and I am ashamed to admit I get scared, especially when I hear the siren or planes.

  I expect by now you think me very weak, but I worry that awful things will happen again. In your magazine you write about what we must do for the war effort. What should I do when all I feel is useless and alone?

  Yours sincerely,

  Anxious

  I put the letter down on my desk, sat back in my chair, and looked around the office, as if the answer might be sitting there looking at me.

  Then I tutted in frustration and looked at the envelope. The postmark said Cheltenham. That was nowhere near Bunty and I knew for a fact she didn’t know anyone there.

  But still.

  It had been a wild moment when I’d thought it might have been from her. Silliness itself. If Bunty wanted to speak, she would have written to me, not Mrs Bird of all people. I let out a big sigh, feeling horribly flat.

  Poor Anxious. I read through her letter again and felt awful for this girl at her lowest ebb. What if Bunty was feeling like that as well? Just so very down and not even able to confide in your best friend?

  I should write to Bunty about it. I should write to her about this other girl. Perhaps it would help her, or even turn things around?

  Dear Bunty

  There was this girl who wrote in to Mrs. Bird, who was frightened and feeling dreadful and couldn’t face anyone and was embarrassed that she was scared.

  And it made me think of you . . .

  Oh yes, that was exactly the sort of letter you’d want to receive after being squashed half to bits, and losing your fiancé because of the woman who was now writing to tell you how wretched and ashamed you must be.

  I shook off thoughts of my friend. It didn’t actually matter that it wasn’t from Bunty, it was still enormously sad. A reader who had lost almost everything, but was desperate to get back up and do more, to respond to the call to pitch in.

  I realised I didn’t just feel sorry for this girl. I felt proud of her. Enormously proud that she was brave enough to admit she was scared.

  After all, could any of us truly say we had not felt like this once in a while? Secretly? Just to ourselves so that we wouldn’t let anyone else down?

  I remembered watching William and the boys trying to get the children out of that bombed-out house. I had stood on the pavement scared out of my wits, feeling useless, terrified that one or all of them would get crushed to death. I had been scared as I ran towards Coventry Street, dreading what I might find as the bombs fell on the Café de Paris. And how many times had I jumped when the phone rang too early in the morning, or very late at night, in case it was bad news?

  But I never told anyone, because that’s not what one did. The papers and radio and even magazines like ours went on about pluck and bravery and spirit. They talked about battles fought, advances made. They talked about everyone stepping up to the mark, keeping homes going, keeping things the same for when the men came home because that’s what they were fighting for. Making sure you still looked nice, what hair to have, how you mustn’t let yourself go because that would show Hitler he would never get us down. And on top of keeping the home front going after six months of bombing, we expected our readers to keep a pretty blouse and the last of the rouge ready for special dates and romance when their men came home on leave.

  How often did we say well done to our readers? How often did anyone ever tell women they were doing a good job? That they didn’t have to be made of steel all the time? That it was all right to feel a bit down?

  I knew how Anxious was feeling, I knew she needed a friend.

  It had been weeks since I last wrote to a reader, sticking like glue to my promise not to get into trouble or let Bunty down. No more letters, no sneaking things into the magazine. Just ignoring them, no matter how much I thought I could have helped.

  But this was different. This one I had to write back to and try to help. I opened the top drawer of my desk, pulled out a fresh piece of paper, and fed it into my typewriter.

  Dear Anxious

  Thank you very much for your letter. I am so sorry to hear you have had such a time of it. We all hope you will get well very soon and we send our most sincere condolences for the loss of your fiancé.

  Without thinking about it, I clicked into the big sister style I had always tried to use for readers’ letters. I tried to sound like the sort of person you could trust, who understood and was your friend when things were awful.

  Now then. You may find this a surprise, but I want to say Well Done You for writing your letter to me. I am going to be very clear with you here and you must listen and take my advice. You are not a coward, you are not letting anyone down and in fact, you should be very proud of yourself for doing your best when things are at their worst.

  You have been injured, and lost someone you loved very much. Don’t for a moment think that feeling low or scared is cowardly or wrong. I am sure our other readers will not mind me saying that many of us understand exactly how you feel.

  We are all doing our absolute best to ensure that we win this war, and because of girls like you, win it we shall. Feeling low when some
thing awful has happened shows that you are a normal and very decent person. Anyone in their right mind would feel down if they’d lost someone they love.

  That right mind is exactly what we are fighting for and why a certain madman will never win.

  I paused for a moment. I knew I was right, and I wanted Anxious to know too. I typed more quickly, the typewriter clattering away, the keys nearly jamming as I went as fast as I could.

  All over the civilised world, women like you are caring deeply about their loved ones and pushing on with things in very difficult times, just as you are trying to do. If Hitler had his way, no one would ever care about anyone, or anything other than him and his appalling ideas.

  Well my dear, you must know that that is fascism and Hitler is a fool.

  The day we stop caring or showing we are human is the day we might just as well give in. So don’t you worry about feeling watery at present. You may not realise it, but you have probably been trying just a little too hard to be brave. Don’t be shy to chat to your friends about it. It isn’t unpatriotic to share a worry with a close pal and perhaps you’ll find you may be able to help each other along.

  I hesitated before trying to write the last part of my letter. Was there anything I could say that might help?

  Finally, I’m afraid there isn’t an easy answer about ever loving again. Give yourself time. You’ll never have to forget your lost love and you don’t have to find a new one right away. I wish I could wave a magic wand for you – sadly I can’t. But, always know that you are not alone.

  Everyone here at Woman’s Friend knows that you and so many of our readers are making the most tremendous effort and being quite extraordinarily brave

  We are inordinately proud to stand with you all.

  And then I stopped. Usually I would sign off with ‘Yours sincerely, Mrs. H. Bird’, and to move smartly on writing out the envelope, but then I remembered, this one had no return address.

  I released the clamp and pulled the paper out of the typewriter, placing it on my desk before leaning on my elbows and putting my fingers into my hair.

  Mrs Bird would never consider answering this letter in the magazine. Even if I threw caution to the wind and tried to sneak it into ‘Henrietta Helps’, it was far too long to squeeze in with the other letters and hope no one would notice. It would take up most of the Problem Page on its own. There was nothing for it but to throw both the letter and my reply into the waste-paper bin.

  A sharp gust of wind blew through the open window, making the papers flutter on my desk. I slapped my hand on top of them protectively.

  It just wouldn’t do. I didn’t want this letter to be lost. This girl deserved better than being ignored. Our readers deserved better. Bunty deserved better.

  I got up from my desk and went over to shut the window. Then I paced to the other end of the room and back again. Any minute now Mrs Bird would be in, shouting orders before exiting the office on one of her Good Works and leaving the rest of us to push on. We really were missing Kathleen. There had been more hoo-hahs since she went on sick leave than I had seen in all my other weeks at Woman’s Friend.

  Who, after all, had time to check ‘Henrietta Helps’? With Kathleen away, who would even spot if the Problem Page looked a bit different than usual? Who would notice if it consisted of just one letter and just one reply?

  It was a crazy idea.

  As my heart thundered like mad in my chest, I put the letter along with my reply, into a large buff envelope and hand wrote Mrs Mahoney – HENRIETTA HELPS SPECIAL – TO BE TYPESET on the front.

  A familiar voice boomed out from somewhere in the corridor.

  ‘MISS LAKE? IS ANYBODY THERE?’

  As ever, it sounded like someone was using a foghorn at a séance.

  ‘Coming, Mrs Bird,’ I called, getting up and bracing myself for more shouts.

  ‘NO NEED TO SHOUT,’ she replied.

  Putting the envelope for Mrs Mahoney into the out-tray on my desk and telling myself that everything would be fine, I hurried off to answer her call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  My Name Is Eileen Tredmore

  The buff envelope went to Mrs Mahoney and the typesetters. If I had second thoughts about it, which in the dead of night, every night I did, it was too late. The letter from Anxious and my reply were going to be in the magazine. And they were going to take up almost the entire half-page of ‘Henrietta Helps’. I had never done anything as risky as this.

  I tried to put it out of my mind and concentrate on other things. And soon it was a case of Break Out The Flags for us all when a week later, Kathleen returned. I was on my way to her office with stationery supplies when her smiley face poked through the main doors to the Woman’s Friend office. She waved enthusiastically with both hands in a jazzy way while whispering a Hello. Her throat was still sore but she was here.

  ‘Oh, Kath, it’s so wonderful to see you,’ I said, giving her a big hug. I was thrilled to have my friend back, and it wasn’t because she would take on the full weight of Mrs Bird. The office had been a far drearier place without her.

  ‘Mrs Bird has been like a bear with a sore head while you’ve been away,’ I said. ‘And she’s been saying nice things about you.’

  I’d meant this as a compliment but Kathleen looked alarmed.

  ‘No, that’s good,’ I said quickly. ‘She says you know what’s what, which is more than can be said for the rest of us.’

  ‘Crikey,’ rasped Kathleen. We both knew that was about as good as it got.

  ‘She’ll be pleased you’re back,’ I said, knowing full well Mrs Bird would rather launch herself under a bus than admit it.

  Kathleen looked delighted, which was the main thing. She jolly well deserved it too. It was lovely to have her back in the office, and my spirits were higher than they had been in weeks.

  Standing in the corridor, despite the fact she wasn’t supposed to be making a sound, Kath and I fell into easy conversation. I’d been sent out on another Mrs Bird Mission the day before which had involved going to Fortnum & Mason to look for butter that came in a tin. It was a far cry from my early dreams of being a War Correspondent and I turned it into a funny story so that Kath would think everything was absolutely fine.

  I was just acting out a spectacular part of the anecdote where I played the role of two sales assistants, a man with a parakeet, and myself, when Mr Collins arrived, relatively on time for once, and Kath insisted I start the whole story again. I hammed it up even more and for the first time in ages the corridor was filled with the noise of laughter. Waving a stapler in the air for effect, I got to the punchline of the story.

  ‘And he said, “I don’t think so, do you, Gladys?”’ I finished with a flourish, and my colleagues laughed even more.

  It was at that moment Mrs Bird arrived.

  As soon as I saw her, I knew that something was very wrong.

  For once, Mrs Bird was silent. She had glided into the corridor, almost as if she was on wheels, with no bustling or loud announcements. Her face was set, not just unsmiling which I was used to, but with a look of absolute venom.

  Kathleen and Mr Collins had their backs to her, but as my smile had disappeared, they both looked round and quickly moved to the side of the corridor in case she wanted to pass through. Mrs Bird ignored them. She didn’t take her eyes off me.

  Mr Collins glanced first at her and then at me.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bird,’ he said, entirely properly.

  Mrs Bird did not answer.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bird,’ echoed Kathleen and I together.

  Mrs Bird continued to stare. I had never seen anyone look so icy. None of us moved. Then, still without looking away, Mrs Bird reached into her enormous black bag and pulled out a piece of paper.

  ‘This,’ she said in an ominous voice, ‘is a letter.’

  If I had ever found her shouting on the scary side, it was nothing compared to this. Her face was white and she looked as if she might explode. />
  ‘This is a letter that was sent to me,’ she said, through her teeth. ‘Which, in the absence of staff support, I opened myself yesterday. Miss Lake, would you like to know what it says?’

  I managed to nod.

  Still glaring at me, Mrs Bird handed the piece of paper to Mr Collins.

  ‘Mr Collins. If you would be so kind.’

  Mr Collins took it from her without speaking. I hoped, rather than expected, that he might make a comment, say something to lighten the mood, which sometimes he was able to do. Now however, he just did as he was told.

  ‘Dear Mrs Bird,’ he began. ‘My name is Mrs Eileen Tredmore. I believe you are in personal contact with my daughter who you will know as Mrs Mieczsław Wardynski.’

  Mr Collins looked up at Mrs Bird and then over to me. I must have gone even whiter than Mrs Bird. So much blood had rushed out of my face that I had to catch my breath to make sure I didn’t pass out. As soon as I heard the name, I knew I had finally been caught.

  ‘Do read on, Mr Collins,’ said Mrs Bird.

  Mr Collins cleared his throat tentatively and continued.

  ‘Mrs Wardynski is my daughter. Her name is Dolly Tredmore and she is seventeen years old. Until last month she lived with my husband and me at our home in Uxbridge, Middlesex.’

  I swallowed. My throat felt desert dry. Seventeen was terribly young to get married, even during a war. I hadn’t thought that Dolly might have been quite so young. She must have needed her parents’ permission to marry. I had been worried about Mother, she had written. But you helped me be brave . . .

  I had assumed she had been able to talk her parents around.

  ‘You should know,’ read Mr Collins, ‘that some weeks ago my daughter eloped to Scotland with a twenty-one-year-old man she thinks she is in love with. Against our wishes, without our consent and – as I have recently found out – based on your advice.’