Dear Mrs. Bird: A Novel

by AJ Pearce

You will work each day from nine o’clock to one o’clock. This includes a tea break of ten minutes, but no break for luncheon.

  Your salary shall be nineteen shillings per week and you will receive seven days of paid leave as holiday each year.

  You should report to me, Mrs. Bird, at nine o’clock sharp on the day your employment commences.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs. H. Bird

  Acting Editress

  Acting Editress! I had no idea Mrs Bird was the Acting Editress and that the position meant working for someone so important. And a lady at that. I was hugely impressed. Even if most of their young men had been called up, it was still very forward thinking of The Chronicle to have a woman in charge.

  This time I was more excited than nervous when I arrived at Launceston House. I would have raced up the stairs two at a time if I could in my work shoes, but sensibly took the lift as far as it went and attempted to arrive with decorum and in full puff.

  I knew that as a Junior I was starting at the bottom, but I didn’t mind in the least. I pictured myself becoming chums with Lively Types, discussing the news of the day in between admirable amounts of hard work, typing like billy-o, or taking down impossibly fast dictation. Perhaps – given time – suggesting an idea for a news feature, or, should someone very unfortunately be taken ill, stepping up to the mark and filling in for them at the scene of a terrible crime or during a raid in the middle of the night.

  I arrived at the fifth floor, gung-ho but ready for them to send me straight back down to the bigger, brighter floors in the building where Mrs Bird’s office must be. I didn’t mind if I had to sit in a broom cupboard, but the Acting Editress was bound to have a very important office, or perhaps even a suite.

  Pushing through the double doors, I was greeted by an empty corridor. I had expected the offices to be busy on a Monday morning, after all there was no shortage of news to report. I tried not to think that I would probably have to type up some pretty grim copy as part of my job. It was the least I could do really. I was cheered to see that Miss Knighton appeared to be in as her office door was ajar and I could hear her typewriter – she was awfully fast.

  I risked interrupting something vital and tapped on the door.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, peeking into the tiny space. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you but I’m the new Junior. Could you tell me which floor Mrs Bird is on, please?’

  Miss Knighton, a freckly girl of about my age with pretty green eyes and unfortunate hair, looked at me blankly.

  ‘Floor?’

  ‘Yes, which floor is her office on, please?’

  ‘Well,’ she paused, as if it was a trick question. ‘This one.’

  Miss Knighton struck me as quite young to be An Eccentric, but I said Righto as I was new and you don’t make friends if you’re standoffish.

  ‘Just across the corridor,’ she continued. ‘The door without a name. It fell off last week and no one’s been up to fix it.’ Miss Knighton’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if this was the most terrible crime.

  The sudden noise of a door opening violently made her nearly jump out of her chair and then start typing even faster than before. Taking this as a hint, I shot out of the little room and straight into the door-opener herself.

  ‘Oh gosh,’ I said, stepping back again and looking up at the looming figure. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I should say,’ the woman said. ‘That was my foot.’

  I looked down at a perfectly polished stout shoe with my foot print on it and tried not to wince. I had recognised her straight away. She was the notable lady I had bumped into outside the office building on the day of my interview. Decked out in the same feathered hat, she wore the sort of expression that Mr Churchill sported in newsreels when Hitler had really mucked him around.

  She appeared to recognise me too, which gave even less grounds for optimism. I looked at her shoe again and considered a bout of hysteria.

  ‘I really am dreadfully sorry,’ I said. ‘My name is Emmeline Lake. I’m here to see Mrs Bird.’

  Throwing caution to the wind, I smiled in an encouraging way. There was a strong likelihood I was coming across as a simpleton.

  ‘I am Mrs Bird,’ the woman announced.

  ‘How do you do,’ I said in a small voice, trying to exhibit surprise, excitement and terrific respect all at the same time.

  Mrs Bird stared at me as if I had arrived from the moon. She was a striking woman in her late sixties, with an oblong head, formidably square jaw, and dark grey waved hair. She had the look of a later-life Queen Victoria, only even crosser. It was hard not to feel scared.

  ‘Miss Lake, do you always introduce yourself by hurtling into people? Wait there,’ she added, before I could come up with an answer. ‘I am too hot in this coat.’

  With impressive mobility for a woman of large stature and certain age, she turned on her heels and marched into the office opposite, smartly shutting the door behind her.

  I stood in the freezing corridor, my heart thumping.

  After a very long moment, a shout of, ‘You can come in,’ thundered through the door in the manner of someone who sees loudhailers as an indication of weakness.

  I took a deep breath, imagining a room with a vast mahogany desk and a manly sideboard full of silver salvers and crystal decanters for toasting the journalists when someone got a big scoop.

  But I had pictured it entirely wrong. The room was the same size as Mr Collins’ office, although with a window and without the anarchic mess. Rather than presiding from an enormous leather chair at the head of a magnificent desk, Mrs Bird was sitting behind an ordinary wooden affair.

  The window, which took up half of the back wall, was wide open, despite the fact it was January, and blasts of freezing air were gusting in. This did not appear to bother Mrs Bird in the least. She had already removed her coat and hat and they were now overwhelming a coat stand in the corner of the room.

  Other than a large steel filing cabinet, and two secretaries’ shorthand chairs, the room was wildly austere, with little evidence of a woman at the helm of a busy newspaper. The desk was almost entirely bare, apart from an untouched ink blotter edged with green leather, a telephone, and a large framed photograph of Mrs Bird in front of an ornamental lake. Dressed informally in a thick woollen getup and leather gloves, she was surrounded by a large group of gun dogs, all of whom were gazing up at her with quite fanatical devotion.

  ‘Aha,’ said Mrs Bird. ‘You’ve spotted The Chaps. Brains like pudding, of course.’

  It was clear from Mrs Bird’s face that she would kill with her bare hands anyone who so much as thought of touching them. ‘Complete idiots,’ she added. Her chest inflated with pride.

  ‘Are they all yours, Mrs Bird?’ I asked, keen to make up some ground.

  ‘They are,’ she said. ‘Some advice, Miss Lake.’ She leant forward, which was alarming. ‘Dogs are like children. Noisy, trainable, but dim and likely to smell disagreeable on the arrival of guests.’ She frowned. ‘I have eight.’

  I glanced back at the photograph.

  ‘Dogs,’ Mrs Bird snapped for clarification. ‘In terms of children, four is ample. More than that and one veers into the working classes or Catholicism.’

  I nodded, unsure of the appropriate response. But Mrs Bird had moved on.

  ‘Of course if we were in Germany, The Chaps would all be dead. Twenty-one inches to the shoulder. Any taller and unless they’re an Alsatian: killed.’ She banged her fist on the desk.

  ‘How awful,’ I said, thinking of Brian, my Aunty Tiny’s Great Dane who we all loved. I wondered if he would mind learning to crouch.

  ‘That’s Nazis for you,’ said Mrs Bird, darkly.

  I nodded again. The Führer had no idea what he was up against here.

  ‘Now.’ Mrs Bird cleared her throat. ‘This chitchat won’t do. Miss Lake. I understand you have experience in periodicals?’

  Calling the Little Whitfield Gazette ‘periodicals’ would be a bit st
eep.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘But I’ve wanted to work for a newspaper for ages. I hope to become a War Correspondent one day.’

  My cards were on the table. I felt rather bold.

  ‘War?’ boomed Mrs Bird as if it had come out of the blue despite the whole of London permanently bracing up to the sound of enemy guns. ‘We don’t want to bang on about that. You do know you’ll just be typing letters, don’t you?’

  I looked blank.

  ‘Mr Collins did tell you about the role?’ Mrs Bird frowned and tapped her right index finger on the desk in an irritated fashion.

  I hesitated. Now I thought about it, he hadn’t.

  ‘Typing letters,’ I said, thinking out loud rather than answering the question.

  ‘That’s right. And of course any other typing I may need you to do.’

  ‘Typing,’ I said again.

  Mrs Bird looked at me as though I was an idiot, which I had a horrible feeling might be about right.

  ‘Just that. Not, um, helping the reporters?’

  Another icy gust of wind blew in.

  ‘Reporters? Don’t be ridiculous,’ barked Mrs Bird. ‘You’re a Junior Typist, Miss Lake. I fail to see the confusion.’

  I tried to think on my toes. Something was wrong. I had nothing against typing, in fact I had expected to be doing a lot of it.

  I took a deep breath. I wasn’t going to let Mr Collins down on day one. He was the man I had to thank for getting me here.

  I pulled myself together. If the job was a little less exciting than I’d hoped, that was all right. I was still at The London Evening Chronicle. I was still entering the world of journalism. It might take a bit longer than anticipated, but I would just have to work harder.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Bird,’ I said, trying to be spirited. ‘No. Yes. Absolutely.’

  I didn’t feel very spirited at all.

  Mrs Bird kept tapping her finger. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘We’ll see how you get on. Miss Knighton will show you the ropes. You must sign the Confidentiality Agreement today, and no loitering about reading the letters. Not a word outside this office and at the first sign of Unpleasantness it’s into the waste-paper bin. Is that clear?’

  ‘Righto,’ I said forcefully, though I hadn’t the foggiest clue. I perked up at Unpleasantness and Confidentiality, though. That sounded exciting. They might not like banging on about the war here but clearly they dealt with some pretty stiff news.

  ‘Good. Whenever you aren’t working for me, you will help Mr Collins. Miss Knighton will know when you can be spared.’ Mrs Bird adopted a stern look. ‘You will find I am very busy. This is not my only commitment.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, with reverence. ‘Thank you.’

  She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I am late. Good morning, Miss Lake.’

  I very nearly dropped into a curtsey but remembered in time that Mrs Bird was not my Headmistress and retreated to the corridor.

  Things had taken a bit of a turn. But even so.

  Confidentiality Agreement. Not a word outside this office. We’ll see how you get on.

  It was still the most exciting day ever.

  *

  ‘My name’s Kathleen,’ said Miss Knighton shyly as I stood in her tiny office. ‘I hope we’ll be friends.’

  Kathleen was cheery and keen, though she spoke in nearly a whisper and it was hard to imagine her coping with the thundering Mrs Bird. Her curly red hair boinged around as she spoke, sticking out at all angles and giving the impression that her hand had been stuck in a socket.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope so too. Please call me Emmy. Your cardigan is lovely.’

  ‘I made it at the weekend,’ she said, beaming, and then glanced nervously at the door. ‘Has Mrs Bird gone out? Only, she doesn’t like chatting.’ She pulled a worried face. ‘I always fill in when people don’t stay, so I can show you the ropes. That’s your desk there.’

  Kathleen’s battered oak desk faced the door and mine was tucked right behind it. Wedged beside each desk so you had to squeeze into your seat was a tall wooden cabinet with filing drawers. Kathleen had a pot plant on top of hers, which partially obscured my view of a pinboard on which there was a monthly calendar with a ring around every Thursday, several pictures of woollies from magazines, and a list of names with telephone extension numbers. Each desk had three wooden in-trays in a stack, and a typewriter. Mine was huge, old, and green, with Corona printed on the front in gold. It only had three rows of keys and looked as if it would take a battering ram to get it to type. I was quite sure it was into its second war so I reckoned it must be robust. I sat down and got out my pencils.

  ‘Kathleen, what sort of articles does Mrs Bird write?’ I asked.

  Kathleen looked confused.

  ‘What sort of articles?’ she repeated. ‘It’s Mrs Bird,’ she added, as if I had been behind the door when brains were given out.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘She mentioned not saying a word outside the office.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Is her work terrifically Hush-Hush?’

  You could tell that Kathleen was used to people asking questions about sensitive information. Her expression remained resolutely blank.

  ‘What?’

  The girl was a professional. The cloak of secrecy did not fall.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, warming to my new job like anything, ‘I understand we probably shouldn’t say. Walls have ears, even here.’

  Kathleen frowned and scrunched up her nose. She had the look of someone who had been given a particularly hard sum to work out in her head. I was all for secrecy, but did hope we wouldn’t have to keep this up permanently as it was quite hard to make any progress with the conversation.

  ‘Crikey,’ she said at last. ‘I can see why they gave you the job. You’re very good on confidentiality.’

  I felt my face go a little warm at the compliment.

  ‘Well,’ I said heroically. ‘I try.’

  ‘You’ll still need to sign the Agreement, of course.’ She rooted around in a drawer. ‘Here you are.’

  Quick as a flash I took my new pen from my bag and signed my name. Then I began to read what it said on the sheet.

  I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [enter name] hereby agree that as an employee of Launceston Press Ltd., all correspondence from readers of Woman’s Friend shall be treated in the strictest confidence. I agree that I will not repeat the contents of letters to any persons other than permanent members of the Woman’s Friend staff . . .

  This was unfortunate. Kathleen had given me the wrong agreement.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry, but this appears to be something about a Woman’s Friend?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave me a wide, encouraging smile. ‘Don’t worry, it’s really just that you mustn’t go around telling people what the readers write in about. Mrs Bird is very strict on this.’ She paused. ‘Some of it is awfully personal as you can imagine.’

  I smiled back, but I couldn’t imagine at all.

  Kathleen took my silence for concern. ‘Don’t worry, Emmy,’ she said. ‘Mrs Bird won’t answer anything Racy so you won’t find yourself in a difficult spot.’

  I glanced at a bookshelf to Kathleen’s right. It was stacked with periodicals. It dawned on me that one of us might have the wrong end of the stick.

  ‘Kathleen,’ I said. ‘What exactly does Mrs Bird do?’

  She laughed and grabbed a colour magazine from a shelf piled high with them.

  ‘Surely you’ve heard of “Henrietta Bird Helps”? She was famous at Woman’s Friend before you and I were even born.’ She leant over and handed it to me. ‘Page before last.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, still blank. ‘What has “Henrietta Bird Helps” got to do with The Evening Chronicle?’

  Kathleen laughed again, but then stopped suddenly and took an intake of breath.

  ‘Oh no. You didn’t think this was a job for The Chronicle? Oh my goodness, you did!�
��

  ‘But this IS The Evening Chronicle,’ I said, now more in hope than certainty.

  ‘No it’s not. They’re downstairs. In the swanky bit. We’re both owned by Launceston Press, but they never speak to us. We’re the wretched poor cousin.’ She appeared remarkably upbeat about it. ‘Oh grief. I typed up the advertisement for Mrs Bird. It didn’t actually say, did it?’

  I turned to the front of the magazine. Proud as punch there it was, in horrid old-fashioned letters:

  WOMAN’S FRIEND

  For the Modern Lady

  Crochet your own dressing table doily.

  Adorable pattern inside!

  Underneath the headline was an ornate drawing of something lacy. The rest of the cover was given to a photograph of a woman holding a terrifically large baby and some writing in a circle that said, ‘Nurse McClay says: “Open That Window And Give Baby Some Air!”’

  It was a keen approach for January, but I wasn’t an expert. I tried to take everything in.

  ‘Mrs Bird was Woman’s Friend’s Most Loved Advice Writer for over twenty years,’ explained Kathleen helpfully. ‘She retired in 1932 but Lord Overton personally asked her to come back when our editor was called up last year.’

  Lord Overton. Launceston Press’s owner. The Evening Chronicle’s owner. Personally asked Mrs Bird.

  I stared at the gigantic baby.

  ‘Emmy,’ continued Kathleen in a voice you use for people who aren’t the full ticket, ‘Woman’s Friend is a weekly women’s magazine. Your job is typing up the letters for the Problem Page.’

  I nodded but couldn’t speak. Kathleen waited as it sank in.

  Finally I gave what I hoped was a plucky Everything Is Absolutely Tip Top smile.

  But things weren’t even remotely tip top. My morale went into a terminal decline.

  As Kathleen offered to show me around, I tried to think straight. This couldn’t be further from the first rung of a journalistic career. A million miles from running around after reporters or putting phone calls through to the White House.

  I had taken entirely the wrong job.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mrs Bird Will Help