by AJ Pearce
Kathleen’s whirlwind tour of the Woman’s Friend editorial offices kept up a pace as I followed her down the thin, dreary corridor, thinking frantically. What kind of an idiot left a perfectly decent position at a solicitors’ office to type silly letters for a ladies’ magazine? Especially one which, from what my new colleague was saying, appeared to be on its last legs.
‘Back when Woman’s Friend sold masses of copies, we used to have lots more journalists and everyone sat in here, only we don’t now, so it’s empty,’ Kathleen said as we walked past Mr Collins’ office, which she said was locked. She opened the next door on our right. ‘The typists had the room on the other side of the corridor. But it’s just me and you now.’
I looked into the journalists’ long, narrow room, which had two rows of vacant desks. The nearest one to the door had cardboard boxes stacked on it which was a definite fire hazard, but all the others were vacant, with no hint of typewriters, inkwells, or paper trays. Lines of pinboards ran along the walls, some still with articles ripped out of magazines, hinting at what had once been a hive of activity. Some of the papers were beginning to curl at the edges and the room smelt musty, a funny combination of tobacco, and cheese and pickle sandwiches.
‘How long is it since anyone worked in here?’ I asked.
Kathleen crossed her arms and gazed into thin air, thinking. ‘Ages.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Woman’s Friend hasn’t really kept up with the times. It’s a bit old-fashioned, I suppose. Although I always read it,’ she added.
I nodded, feeling even gloomier than before, as Kathleen chatted on.
‘Pretty much everyone has joined up and they’ve never been replaced. Mr Collins writes all the fiction and he’s ever so good. They get people to send the other things in as it saves money. Anyway, come and meet everyone.’
She marched off down the corridor as I glanced at my watch. At twenty past nine Mr Collins was nowhere to be seen. I felt as if I was in a museum after it had closed for the night.
‘Across the corridor is the advertising team. Which is just Mr Newton.’ Kathleen lowered her voice as she continued to the next door. ‘He isn’t in today. He hasn’t much to do as there aren’t that many advertisers. And this is the Art Department. They do the illustrations and pictures of frocks.’ She knocked on the next door and went in without waiting for a reply.
‘Morning, Mr Brand. How are you? This is Miss Lake, our new Junior.’
I followed her into the office which, like all the others, was a rather gloomy affair, but at least looked as if something was going on. An elderly man with thick tortoiseshell glasses and heavily brilliantined hair was drawing a dashing scene of a man in naval uniform holding up a woman who looked rather faint.
‘How do you do?’ said Mr Brand. ‘We laughed only yesterday.’
It was an unusual hello, but he was obviously a creative type.
‘How do you do,’ I replied. ‘I’m so sorry . . . you laughed only . . . ?’
‘Yesterday. It’s next week’s lead story. I’m working on it at the moment.’
‘I see,’ I said, trying to look In The Know. ‘It’s lovely.’
Mr Brand beamed.
‘And this is Mrs Mahoney,’ Kathleen said as a plump, middle-aged woman with a comforting face waved at me from behind a stack of huge sheets of paper.
‘Hello, Miss Lake,’ she said. ‘I’m Production. I’m very nice but please don’t miss your deadlines.’ She gave me an encouraging smile as I said Hello and then Kathleen led me out of their office.
Apart from the terrifying Mrs Bird, everyone had seemed very friendly. I tried to buck up, but the truth was horribly disheartening. While the rest of the country was standing up to Hitler and putting every possible effort into the war, I’d be typing up readers’ problems and frivolous made-up stories. It couldn’t be less like working at a newspaper. I wished I hadn’t written to Edmund about it. He would think me such a fool. So would Bunty. And the girls at the fire station, especially Horrible Vera on A Watch. She’d have a field day. It served me right for thinking I was on my way to a dramatically exciting career.
Back in our little office Kathleen started to explain the intercom system and I tried hard to look agog. My short experience of Mrs Bird’s vocal strength suggested the need for an intercom was minimal.
‘First thing,’ said Kathleen, ‘is to open the post and put the letters on Mrs Bird’s desk. But only the acceptable ones. Absolutely nothing off-colour.’ Her expression became deadly serious.
I looked at the issue I had left open on my desk. Alongside a photograph of a determined Mrs Bird taken around 1915 in which she appeared about to punch someone, a short piece of copy explained all.
Mrs. Henrietta Bird Will Help
There’s nothing that can’t be sorted with common sense and a strong will.
Mrs. Bird is here to answer your worries. For a postal reply in confidence, send a stamped addressed envelope but please note that Mrs. Bird’s postbag is a full one, so there may be a temporary delay.
I thought of Bunty typing up correspondence in the War Office. This didn’t exactly cut the mustard in comparison.
‘I shall be jolly busy, I’m sure,’ I said, brightly. ‘How big is Mrs Bird’s postbag exactly?’
Kathleen shrugged. ‘Not very.’
‘But it says full postbag?’
‘Oh, we put that because all the other magazines do. We don’t get that many letters.’
‘Right,’ I said, looking at the magazine where someone called ‘Self-Conscious’ had written in about a struggle with fat arms. Mrs Bird’s advice was brisk.
Pretend they are the blades of an aeroplane propeller and wave them around your head with some vigour.
I felt hopelessly glum. Britain was twenty-one miles away from a Europe in tatters and Woman’s Friend gave its few remaining readers advice about fat arms. I’d thought I’d be typing up news about Mussolini by now.
‘The main thing,’ said Kathleen, still very serious, ‘is that Mrs Bird won’t answer any letters that involve Unpleasantness. She is absolutely clear on this.’ Kathleen stopped and glanced at the door. ‘Mrs Bird says our generation has Badly Let Things Slip.’ She paused before adding, ‘Mrs Bird is keen to pull them back up. Whatever you do, as soon as you see anything that’s on the Unacceptable Topics List, you must throw it away.’
She opened a drawer in her desk and rummaged around while I looked at a letter from a young reader wrestling with poor gums. Mrs Bird had replied that it was the girl’s own fault for eating sweets and she should just have to press on. It was not a sympathetic reply.
‘So if people send in an unacceptable problem, their letter gets cut up, and if they’ve sent in a stamp for a reply, we give it to one of Mrs Bird’s Good Works. That means her charities.’ Kathleen pointed to a large cardboard box with POSTAGE STAMPS written on it and then delved back into the drawer again.
I read the next letter, which was from a lady who had taken on three evacuees and while they were very dear kiddies she was concerned that her own children had now started to swear. Unsurprisingly Mrs Bird was not keen on Vulgarities and her answer was very much to the point.
I wondered what she should make of me.
Dear Mrs. Bird
I have accidentally taken an unfortunate job, due to not listening during my interview.
I now appear to be working on a sinking ship, typing letters for a lady who can shout through solid walls.
Have I been a terrible idiot? Please tell me what I should do.
Yours
Not Usually This Gormless
I pictured the reply.
Dear Gormless
This is entirely your own fault. I suggest you stop moaning and crack on.
Yours
Henrietta Bird
‘Eureka,’ said Kathleen and handed me a sheet of paper entitled MRS. BIRD’S UNACCEPTABLE TOPICS. Someone had stamped HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL across the top in red ink.
Topics That Will Not Be Published or Respo
nded To By Mrs. Bird
(NB: list is not exclusive and will be added to when required)
Marital relations
Pre-marital relations
Extra-marital relations
Physical relations
Sexual relations in general (all issues, mentions, suggestion or results of)
Illegal activities
Political activities and opinions
Religious activities and opinions (excl. queries regarding church groups and services)
The war (excl. queries regarding rationing, voluntary services, clubs and practicalities) Cookery.
‘Cookery?’
Unless I had missed something threatening in Home Economics at school, it seemed a dull bedfellow alongside extra-marital relations and illegal activities.
‘Forward to Mrs Croft,’ said Kathleen. ‘She writes “What’s In The Hot Pot?”. It’s mostly about rationing. Here you are.’ She handed me a small pile of letters. ‘Careful as you go. You might find some of them shocking.’ Kathleen bit her lip. ‘Usually they try to recruit an older, married lady to type these. You look even younger than me.’
‘I’m nearly twenty-three,’ I said, hoping it sounded mature.
Kathleen grinned and told me to ask her about anything if I wasn’t quite sure.
I turned back to the sheet with unladylike enthusiasm. I was not the sort that runs with a fast crowd, but having a list of Racy Elements to avoid did sound rather good fun.
Words and Phrases That Will Not Be Published or Responded To By Mrs. Bird
For further references see Girlhood To Wife: Practical Advice by A Doctor (1921)
A–C
Affair
Amorous
Ardent
Bed
Bedroom
Bed jacket
Berlin . . .
The list went on for pages.
Based on Mrs Bird’s idea of degeneracy, Sodom and Gomorrah would not lose much sleep. Naturally, before you were married, Going Too Far was off the menu. Getting Carried Away was strictly not on and if you Got Into Trouble, it was nobody’s fault but your own.
In fact, if you veered towards relationships in even the most innocent way, you would have to simmer right down again because Mrs Bird (‘Here to answer your worries’) was highly unlikely to write back.
My wings feeling somewhat clipped, I knuckled down and started opening the letters.
Some were carefully handwritten in ink, with a proper name at the bottom, while others were in pencil and unsigned or with a made-up name such as ‘Worried Fiancée’ or ‘A Sailor’s Girl’. Others had included a stamped addressed envelope, clearly hoping for a direct reply. Almost all of them were from women and girls, apart from one or two from men who had written in about their wives.
I opened a letter from a lady called Florence whose calcium tablets hadn’t helped her chilblains even a bit. ‘Walking is now such a trial,’ she reported. I felt confident this wouldn’t be off-limits for Mrs Bird and perked up a bit. Then an optimistic lady called Mrs Ditton helped out with, ‘My daughter has passed her first aid test, do you think she could take up Army nursing as a career?’
I hoped it would count as a service to the war effort and put the letter with Florence’s in my Acceptable file.
But as I opened more, it became harder to find anything else to add. One reader had fallen in love with a chap who was divorced, which according to Mrs Bird’s list was an absolute no-go, while another liked a young man but had been told that ‘he shows affection in an embarrassing way.’ I didn’t need to check the list to know they would be on the Unpleasantness pile. I found some scissors in my desk, diligently cut the letters into pieces, and put them in the bin.
For others, it wasn’t so clear. Even if they were on Mrs Bird’s List Of Unacceptable Topics, some of them didn’t seem unreasonable at all.
Dear Mrs. Bird,
I am fifteen and my friends say they let boys give them a goodnight kiss. Am I right to refuse? And is kissing any different before and after people get married? I am worried that if I let boys kiss me, it will make me look cheap.
Yours
Shy Teen-ager
At fifteen it seemed a perfectly decent question to me. I turned to the J–L section on Mrs Bird’s list. Kiss, Kisses, and Kissing were all a definite not-on. I reluctantly added Shy Teen-ager to the No letters to be cut up and put in the bin. It was hardly a topic of outrage and I felt rotten that she wouldn’t be helped.
As more letters failed to meet the standards of Mrs Bird’s list, I started to read them to Kathleen in the hope she might be of some help.
‘Dear Mrs Bird,’ I ventured. ‘My husband tells me I am unsympathetic and cold.’
‘Ooh no,’ Kathleen said before I could get to the crux.
I tore it in half and tried another.
‘Dear Mrs Bird, I am going to marry my fiancé when he comes home on leave from the Army . . .’
Kathleen looked encouragingly upbeat.
‘But I feel I am rather ignorant about Married Life.
‘Married Life is in capitals,’ I said, as Kathleen looked into space in a ferocious manner which must have been her thinking face.
‘I’m pretty certain Married Life is a no,’ she said.
‘Most specifically, the intimate side . . .’ I added helpfully.
‘Oh dear me no,’ gasped Kathleen, glancing at the door as if Mrs Bird might be about to crash through in a terrible rage. ‘Intimate won’t do at all.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Bird says that she didn’t have to answer that sort of horridness in 1911 and she has no intention of doing so now.’
Kathleen reported the diktat with such sincerity that I couldn’t bring myself to argue. I tried another one.
‘“Dear Mrs Bird, Might you have any advice on how to get burnt dripping out of the pan?” Oh, that’s one for Mrs Croft, isn’t it?’ I answered myself and continued to sift through the remaining post.
‘“What’s In The Hot Pot?”’ said Kathleen faintly, with a look of relief on her face.
I unfolded a letter written in an elegant hand and headed ‘Lacklustre Relations’, from a nice lady who referred to herself only as ‘Disappointed from the North East’.
Disappointed was married to a good man but he was showing very little interest in Getting The Hang Of Things after lights out. The letter was written in a delicate way so I thought we were in with a chance.
‘No, of course not,’ said Kathleen, fiddling with a strand of hair as it abandoned ship from an inadequate bun. ‘It says Relations. Mrs Bird doesn’t like Relations.’
‘But they’re married,’ I argued.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘And he’s not showing an interest.’
‘Emmeline.’
‘Which can’t be much fun.’
‘Now hold on,’ said Kathleen. ‘You’re not supposed to read the details. You should have stopped after the third line.’
‘I did,’ I lied.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well all right then, perhaps a bit later. But it sounds rotten. They’ve been married a year and she hasn’t seen him without his pyjamas.’
‘Emmeline!’ Kathleen went bright red and I decided not to mention the next sentence in case it brought on a turn. ‘Honestly. You aren’t supposed to read anything Mrs Bird has put on the list. You’re very young.’
She stood up and looked concerned.
I thought that was a bit rich seeing as Kathleen didn’t seem to be any older than me, but I didn’t want to make another blunder on day one, so I apologised again and said I would know better in future.
But I felt uneasy about it all. Not just for the lady in this letter, but for Shy Teen-ager and the other readers whose problems were considered a no go.
I could see people were ever so frank when they wrote in, which I thought really quite brave. Mrs Bird was just a stranger at a magazine, but readers told her their secrets all the same. Some of them sounded in a re
al fix – lonely while their husbands were away fighting, or having their heads turned, or even just young and wanting a bit of guidance. Things were difficult for everyone at the moment and I did think it was poor of Mrs Bird not to write back. The magazine was called Woman’s Friend after all. Some friend Mrs Bird was. Almost all the letters I had read would be cut into pieces and thrown in the bin.
I opened the last envelope on my desk. The reader had drawn faint lines with a pencil and ruler and while it was in a very neat hand, I could tell it had taken ages to write.
Dear Mrs. Bird
I am seventeen and in love with a young man in the navy who is kind and generous and says he loves me back. He takes me out and to dances and now I have repaid him in a way I know is very wrong. My friend Annie is the same with her young man and we are both worried and Annie is scared if her Dad was to find out. Please can you help? We don’t want to lose our boyfriends.
I have enclosed a stamped addressed envelope and a postal order for the overcoat pattern from last week so my Mum thinks it is for that.
Yours truly,
In A Muddle
Kathleen was checking a tricky double-page spread of patterns for early spring frocks so I quietly read In A Muddle’s letter again. If I had felt sympathy for the other readers, I was especially concerned for her and her friend. They were heading for deep water.
Bunty and I had talked about similar things ourselves, sitting in the air-raid shelter and chatting into the night as you do with your best friend. Bunty was smitten with William, and while Edmund might have been stuffy about my career dreams, he had always been attentive and kind. Handsome in his uniform as well.
I almost sounded like poor In A Muddle.
But the difference was we knew where the line was, and whether we wanted to or not, we wouldn’t cross it. It was probably awfully provincial to be determined to Remain Firm, war on or not. But Bunty and I had seen things go horribly wrong on this front, and it had been wretched all round.
I sat at my desk and pretended to read In A Muddle’s letter again, but actually I was miles away.
All through school, Bunty and I had been in our own little gang. Bunty and me and Olive and Kitty. The four of us did everything together: joined the same school clubs, belonged to the same teams, got crushes on the same film stars, showed off around the same boys. Nothing special, just all the normal things everyone did.
