Dear Mrs. Bird: A Novel

by AJ Pearce

  I had the day off work and even though it would have taken less than an hour to walk, I had caught two buses so that I wouldn’t get all windblown and turn up looking a scruff. Having arrived horribly early, I stood outside Launceston House, feeling nervous as I stared up at the huge art deco building in front of me.

  That I might work here? It was a dizzying thought.

  As I tipped my head back, holding on to Bunty’s hat with one hand and clutching my handbag in the other, I was already slightly unbalanced when a very cross voice boomed, ‘Quick sticks there, no one likes a slow coach.’

  A substantial lady had come out of the building and was heading towards me in what looked like a man’s fedora hat. A short pheasant’s feather on the brim gave it a country air unusual for town, while another part of the dead bird had joined forces with a piece of rabbit to make a smart brooch on the lapel of her coat. She reminded me of my Aunty Tiny, who had gone on her first grouse shoot at three and been blasting things out of a hedgerow ever since.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just . . .’

  The lady grimaced and swept past in a cloud of carbolic soap.

  ‘. . . looking.’

  As I watched her head purposefully across the road, I had the oddest feeling of being at school. Any minute now a bell would ring for PE.

  I shook the feeling off. I was here for a job working on Serious News about Vitally Important Things so I should jolly well buck up and go in. Taking a deep breath, I looked at my watch for the hundredth time, then walked up the wide marble steps and through the revolving door.

  Inside, the entrance hall was very grand and almost as cold as outside in the street. The walls were covered with huge portraits of grim-faced men, as two hundred years of publishers looked with oil-painted disdain at a young woman in a borrowed hat dreaming of becoming a Correspondent. Any second now one of them would tut.

  Hoping I didn’t slip on the polished floor, I walked over to the tall walnut reception desk.

  ‘Good morning. Emmeline Lake, here to see Mrs Bird, please. It’s for an interview.’

  The young woman on the desk gave me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Fifth floor, Miss Lake. Take the lift to the third, go left down the corridor, up the stairs for two flights and along to the double doors when you get there. Just go straight through. There won’t be anyone to let you in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said smiling back. I hoped everyone here was this nice.

  ‘Fifth floor,’ she said again. ‘Jolly good luck.’

  Bolstered by her helpfulness and almost forgetting the disconcerting lady on the steps, I joined two middle-aged gentlemen in large coats who were waiting for the lift and arguing about the Prime Minister’s radio broadcast last night. One of them was getting hot under the collar about Allied activity in Africa and kept waving his hands around until the ash flew off the end of his cigarette, narrowly missing his friend. The other one didn’t seem to be listening to him but was still making loud exclamations of ‘Pah!’

  I eavesdropped as the brass arrow above the door stayed at the fourth floor and the men continued to argue.

  ‘It’s a ridiculous move. They haven’t a chance. And anyway, Selassie doesn’t know what he’s doing.’

  ‘Total rot. You’re blowing hot air.’

  ‘Pah! Five shillings says you’re wrong.’

  ‘I’d be embarrassed to take it off you.’

  I hadn’t realised I was staring until the one with the cigarette glanced in my direction.

  ‘So what do you think then, sweetheart? Is Eritrea a goner? Should we even bother while we’re about it?’

  Goodness. I was being asked for a political opinion and I hadn’t even got to the interview yet.

  ‘Well,’ I said, feeling prepared. ‘I’m not entirely sure but if Mr Churchill thinks it’s a good idea, I’d say going at them from the Sudan is the best bet.’

  The man nearly swallowed his cigarette. His friend hesitated for second and then let out a guffaw.

  ‘That told you, Henry! They’re not all as dim as they look.’

  The other one sneered. ‘Anyone can repeat a line they’ve heard on the wireless.’

  ‘Actually I read about it in The Times,’ I offered, which was true. Neither responded, but started to argue again as the lift finally arrived.

  I followed them in and politely asked the attendant for the third floor. Then I lifted up my chin and felt uppity from under my hat. Becoming a Lady War Correspondent would hardly be a walk in the park, but I wasn’t surprised. My mother always said that a lot of men think that having bosoms means you’re a nitwit. She said the cleverest thing is to let them assume you’re an idiot, so you can crack on and prove them all wrong.

  I loved my mother, not least as every time she said something like bosom in front of people, Father rolled his eyes and pretended to clutch his heart for effect.

  The thought of my parents cheered me as I got out at the third floor and headed up the stairs. At the top, I stopped for a second to powder my nose and poke a stray bit of hair behind my ear, and tried not to feel self-conscious in front of a large framed picture of a rather stern gentleman with white hair and somewhat forceful eyebrows. I recognised him at once. It was Lord Overton, millionaire philanthropist and owner of Launceston Press. He and his wife were always in the news for their charitable work and I hugely admired them both.

  For a moment my nerve nearly failed. I hesitated at the double swing doors that led to Mrs Bird and my interview.

  Deep breath, shoulders back.

  I pushed open the doors and walked into a thin, dark corridor. It was a far cry from the imposing entrance hall downstairs. As warned, there was no receptionist. Ahead of me was a line of doors, all but two of them shut, and apart from the muffled sound of typing, barely a sound from anywhere. If I’d expected a bustling newsroom full of chaps like the two in the lift, I was mistaken. Perhaps everyone was out reporting.

  Clutching my handbag in front of me, I noticed a half-open door a little way down on the right-hand side and wondered whether a measured call of ‘Hello there’ would be too forward a way to start things off.

  I dismissed the idea and decided to knock on one of the doors. If I were to get this job I might have to telephone America and ask to be put through to the White House. This was no place for faint hearts.

  The office on my right had Miss Knighton written in a careful hand on a card taped to the door. On the wall next to it was a framed fashion print of a woman walking a poodle and looking immeasurably gay about it. I couldn’t see what that had to do with Significant World Events, but each to their own. There was a similar print on the wall opposite, only in this one the woman was in a summer frock and laughing like anything at a kitten.

  I frowned. I was keen on animals but didn’t see what a major newspaper was doing putting up pictures of them during these challenging times. Surely a portrait of the King or someone out of the War Cabinet would be a more fitting use for the wall?

  Perhaps it meant the people here were cheerful types. But cheerful or not, it was most awfully quiet.

  ‘MISS KNIGHTON . . .’

  A man bellowed from behind the other half-open door.

  ‘MISS KNIGHTON! Oh for God’s sake . . . MISS KNIGHTON. Where the hell is she? I might as well talk to the deaf. DON’T WORRY, I’LL DO IT MYSELF . . .’

  There were rumbles and then a crash.

  ‘Oh for God’s . . . Idiot.’

  ‘Hello?’ I called, heading in the direction of the noise. ‘Are you all right? Might I help?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right. Kathleen, is that you? Hang on.’

  There was more scuffling and then a slim gentleman in his mid-forties stumbled into the corridor. He was dressed nicely in tweed trousers and matching waistcoat but had got himself in rather a state. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his brown hair was in need of a cut, and his hands were covered in black ink.

  He was surely a journalist. It was very excit
ing, even if he did look quite murderous.

  The journalist, who didn’t introduce himself but glared at me for not being Miss Knighton, pushed the hair out of his eyes and smeared ink all over his forehead. For form’s sake I pretended not to notice.

  ‘HOW DO YOU DO,’ I said in a loud voice, as when nervous I have a tendency to shout. ‘I’m Emmeline Lake. I have an interview with Mrs Bird.’

  ‘Oh God.’ He looked at me with some alarm. ‘Already?’

  I smiled in what I hoped was a keen but intelligent manner. At least he seemed to know about me coming.

  ‘It’s at two o’clock,’ I said, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Right then. Well, I’m afraid she’s not here. Of course, she’s never here, which is a plus. Small mercies and all that. Probably organising some poor charity or another into submission, but there you have it.’

  He stopped. My face had dropped into my boots.

  ‘Right,’ I said, trying to remain positive.

  ‘So you’re here for the interview, Miss . . .’

  ‘Lake. Yes. But I can wait if that helps?’ I looked around for somewhere to sit but the corridor was empty.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got me instead. But my hands are covered in this bloody ink . . .’

  I decided not to mention it was all over his face too, in case it prompted even more of a swear, but instead, scrabbled in my bag and offered him my handkerchief.

  My mother had embroidered a flower and my initials on it for Christmas.

  ‘Thank you. Disaster averted.’ He started to obliterate her handiwork. ‘Good. Well, come in then.’

  I followed him into his office, noting the worn name on the door.

  MR COLLINS

  FEATURES AND EDITOR AT LARGE

  ‘Watch out. It’s gone everywhere,’ said Mr Collins, and I made my way into the messiest room I had ever seen.

  He squeezed himself behind a desk piled high with books and papers, together with an overflowing ashtray and the unhappily upturned inkpot. The whole scene was given a dramatic edge by the only light in the room, an industrial Anglepoise lamp that looked as if it had been requisitioned from a condemned medical-supplies factory.

  I spotted a pale blue blotter on the floor by the desk and bent to pick it up, then handed it to him, as if it were my credentials.

  ‘Ah, good. Yes.’ He dabbed at the spilt ink, looking dispirited.

  After a few seconds, during which I glanced around and wondered if it was general practice for journalists to use a half-empty bottle of brandy as a bookend, he sighed heavily, gave up on the mess and stared at me.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this over with. Now, Miss Emmeline Lake, here promptly at two o’clock to be interviewed by Mrs Bird and owner of a small but currently appreciated handkerchief . . .’

  For all his floundering, the Features and Editor At Large had not missed a thing.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What on God’s earth possessed you to apply for a job working here?’

  This was not how I thought the interview would start.

  ‘Well,’ I said, remembering how Bunty and I had practised at home. ‘I am very hardworking and I can type sixty-five words per minute and take shorthand at one hundred and twenty-five words . . .’

  Mr Collins stifled a yawn which put me off my stride but I pressed on.

  ‘My references say I am very capable and . . .’

  He closed his eyes for a moment. I tried to add some more weight.

  ‘I’ve worked in a solicitors’ office for the past two and a half years, so . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to the point.’

  I braced myself, ready to be quizzed on the most effective members of the Government.

  ‘Are you easily scared?’

  He was cutting right to the chase. I tried not to look over-excited as I pictured myself charging around London in an air raid interviewing people.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, underplaying what I hoped would be my immeasurable bravery if required.

  ‘Hmm. We’ll see. Good at taking dictation?’

  Or shadowing a Top Correspondent, jotting down his every word as we tracked down Information of National Importance.

  ‘Absolutely. One hundred and twenty . . .’

  ‘Five words a minute, yes, you said.’

  Mr Collins appeared distinctly underwhelmed. I reasoned that perhaps I should also find interviewing Juniors very dull if I was a Features and Editor At Large working against the clock to meet brutal deadlines. No wonder his office was a mess. It couldn’t be easy keeping it under control, especially with Miss Knighton so unreliable. He was probably exhausted.

  My mind wandered. Perhaps this would be my job? Helping Mr Collins meet his deadlines. Taking dictation from People In The Know as he ruthlessly grilled them to get the very best news. Reminding him that he had an off-the-record meeting with a Parliamentary Secretary at three.

  ‘Which essentially means, are you any good with cantankerous old women . . . in fact utter old boots?’

  I realised I had accidentally stopped listening.

  I couldn’t quite see what utter old boots had to do with The Evening Chronicle. I thought of my grandmother, who Father said hadn’t smiled since before the last war.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said with confidence. ‘I’m very good with utter old, um . . . them.’

  Mr Collins raised an eyebrow and nearly smiled but clearly thought better of it as he felt inside his waistcoat pocket and fished out a cigarette case.

  ‘Right,’ he said, leaning on his elbow as he lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and grimaced. ‘Now look here, Miss Lake. You seem pleasant enough.’

  I tried not to look thrilled.

  ‘Are you sure about this? The previous Junior lasted a week. And the one before that didn’t make it to tea. Mind you, that was partly my fault.’ He paused. ‘I am told that on occasion I shout,’ he added for clarification.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I lied, thinking of the foghorn calls for Miss Knighton. ‘And anyway, sticks and stones.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Might break my bones,’ I ventured. ‘But words will never hurt me.’

  Mr Collins looked at me again, and I had the feeling he was thinking something he wouldn’t tell me. Finally, he pursed his lips and nodded.

  ‘I think you might do,’ he said. ‘I think you might actually do. When can you start?’

  If I had heard him correctly, this was the best day of my life. I didn’t mind for a moment that he hadn’t asked me about any of the topics I had been revising for days, and all the insightful questions I had planned to ask flew out of my brain as soon as he said the word ‘start’.

  ‘Gosh,’ I said, failing to make the sort of sophisticated impression I had been aiming for. I tried again.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed. I can hand in my notice straight away, if that is all right?’

  Now I saw a tiny hint of a smile. ‘I dare say it is,’ he said. ‘Though you might not thank me once you’re here, you know.’

  I absolutely bet I will, I thought, but didn’t say so as being very nearly a member of staff at a famous newspaper was all that mattered. Mr Collins seemed an ironic type and I felt sure his warnings were just part of his ways.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Collins,’ I said as we shook hands. ‘I promise I won’t let you down.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Yours Sincerely, Mrs. H. Bird

  With the benefit of hindsight, my failure to ask Mr Collins a single question about the job was something of a mistake.

  But what with the Is That You Miss Knighton business and the Good With Old Boots questions, and the whole thrill of being in a publisher’s office in the first place, it had quite slipped my mind. Which is why, when I arrived three weeks later to start work, feeling slightly nervy in a new brown check suit I had re-made from one of my mother’s old
ones, and with my favourite fountain pen, three new pencils and a spare hankie in my bag, some confusion arose.

  I had left my job at Strawman’s with their good wishes and instructions not to forget them, and gone home to Little Whitfield for Christmas with my parents. With my new job to look forward to and the shops managing to put up a good display despite everything, it had been merry, even though my brother Jack had not been able to get leave. Because it was Christmas we all pretended we weren’t sad about that, or worried about him either, even though we were, then and Bunty and her granny had visited on Boxing Day, which gave everybody a boost. I still hadn’t heard from Edmund, but wasn’t dispirited as sometimes one didn’t hear anything for weeks and then four letters might arrive all at the same time. I was quite sure I would receive a message soon – probably with a drawing of a Christmas tree or a snow scene as Edmund very much liked to draw. I had written to him about my new job of course, and even if he had pooh-poohed my dream of becoming a War Correspondent in the past, I was sure he would be pleased for me. I tried not to worry that he might want me to give up working when we were married, but as we hadn’t actually set a date for the wedding yet, I pushed the thought to the back of my mind.

  Back in London, the start of January had been bitterly cold. We could have done without it, but the girls at the fire station reckoned that after the dreadful pounding the Luftwaffe had given the city after Christmas, the weather was now putting them off. Thelma was sure it was A Very Good Sign and Joan was convinced that if a bit of a cold snap was all it took to dampen their spirits, things would be over before very long.

  Whatever happened, nothing could stop me feeling on top of the world as I arrived at Launceston Press clutching quite the most wonderful letter in the world.

  Launceston Press Ltd.,

  Launceston House,

  London EC4.

  Monday 16th December 1940

  Dear Miss Lake

  Further to your interview with Mr Collins, I confirm your appointment as part-time Junior commencing Monday 6th January 1941.