by AJ Pearce
‘Mother, Bunty and I can look after ourselves,’ I said.
She smiled, knowing I had risen to the bait. ‘I know. I’m just not sure what Mrs Tavistock would do if anything happened. Or any of us. No one wants to be a man down. We all love you quite madly.’
She marched on, blue eyes just like Jack’s trying not to look concerned from under her hat.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said in a firm manner.
It didn’t wash one bit. Mother pursed her lips.
‘I’m serious, Emmy,’ she said as I rolled my eyes like a teenager. ‘You must look after each other. Mrs Tavistock doesn’t need an upset. And I’m not as young as I look.’
She glanced at me sideways and we both burst into laughter.
‘Let’s change the subject,’ Mother said, knowing she had made her point. ‘You do know you’ll meet someone wonderful one day, don’t you?’
I began my prepared speech about Being A Spinster And Having A Career, but didn’t get very far.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said. ‘You can have both. Once this silly business is all sorted, you and Bunty and all your friends will be able to get on and achieve whatever you want. Or else we’re wasting our time fighting That Madman in the first place.’ She tilted her chin up in a way I was sure had stopped policemen in their tracks during her more bohemian youth. ‘Honestly, Emmy, don’t let Edmund put you off. That’s not the right spirit at all.’
I grinned, knowing when I was beaten.
‘Some decent chap will come along at some point, and regardless of all that, jolly well make a go of it at this magazine of yours. You might not be rampaging around writing about the fighting, but it’s a start. And it’s quite a dear little magazine. I have subscribed.’
‘Really?’ I said, surprised. My mother was more likely to be found reading Virginia Woolf than Woman’s Friend.
‘Of course I have, darling,’ said Mother, looking quite indignant. ‘This is your career. And there’s lots to like. The hot-pot page is full of wonderful ideas.’
She forged on, trying hard to be supportive.
‘The nurse is very informative, the stories really quite gripping, and “Henrietta Helps” seems most . . .’ She ran out of steam.
‘Harsh?’ I suggested.
My mother laughed. ‘I was going to say robust. But it must be terribly helpful to the people who write in.’
I said Hmm. It was odd hearing praise for Mrs Bird.
‘Actually, Mother, Mrs Bird seems to think people – young ones in particular – are mostly up to no good.’ I squashed a wodge of snow with my boot.
‘Then you’ll have to show her she’s wrong, won’t you?’ replied my mother. ‘Show her what a decent young person can do.’ She took my arm. ‘A bit of the old Lake determination is in order I think, don’t you?’
I smiled into my scarf. My mother never gave in. One of Father’s friends had once said that if Mother had been in charge, the Great War would have been over by 1916. Father had replied that if my mother had been in charge, she would have made damn sure the bloody thing hadn’t started in the first place. Mother always said it wasn’t just about keeping going, but about standing up for what you believed in as well.
I nodded. She was right. A bit of the old Lake determination was in order.
As the snow began to fall and we turned back towards Pennyfield House, as much as it was good being home, I couldn’t wait to get back to my desk.
CHAPTER NINE
We Don’t Know A Harold
Replying to readers was a careful business, and not just because I was worried about getting caught. Worse even than this would be giving duff advice that made things sorrier for a reader, so I kept my replies general, encouraging people to take time and think about things, not be hasty, but never to give in. The other magazines were helpful – I learnt about what they said and how they would say it, and without actually copying them, I tried to do the same.
Dear Mrs. Bird,
I am twenty two and devoted to Mother, but she always wants to come with me when I go to the cinema or dances with my young man. She is always paying him compliments and making his favourite dinner too. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I wonder if she is a little too friendly at times.
What should I do?
Yours,
Joyce Dickinson (Miss), Preston.
‘Disgusting,’ said Mrs Bird. ‘No.’
‘Dear Miss Dickinson, I wrote back.
‘I am sure your mother means very well and you are awfully fond of each other. However, I suggest you speak honestly to her and explain that you need your own friends . . .’
I would take the letters home and as Bunty was now working on the day shift at the War Office, in the afternoons I would sit at my typewriter in the living room and carefully draft the replies. Once I was happy with my efforts, I would type them up, sign them in Mrs Bird’s name, which was still the worst part, and the next day, I would drop them into the post box outside the Launceston Press building.
So far it had gone without a hitch and in rare moments I could almost forget that it wasn’t actually my job and I shouldn’t actually be doing it. Mrs Bird was busier than ever, marching off to do her charity work or rushing to the railway station to sort out Dire Emergencies At Home (‘Pregnant cow stuck in a ditch. Nincompoops can’t get it out.’) Other than roaring instructions to everyone at the weekly Editorial Meetings, she did rather leave us all to it.
This was just as well as one morning, on the day Woman’s Friend went to press, an advertiser forgot to send in their deodorant advert on time. It was a cardinal sin to miss the final deadline and it scared Mr Newton in Advertising almost to death.
‘Oh my word, oh my word,’ he kept saying, as everyone congregated in the Art Department in something of a state. ‘If there’s no Odo-Ro-No there’ll be a two-column gap on page twelve. Nothing there. Not a thing. What will Mrs Bird say? What will she say?’
‘Never mind Mrs Bird,’ said Mrs Mahoney, threatening to reveal her firm side. ‘It’s my deadline they’ve just messed up.’
‘Hold hard, everyone,’ said Mr Collins, the only person who was calm. ‘Mrs Mahoney, might I suggest we run last week’s advert for Bile Beans again? I rather think it’s the same size.’
Mrs Mahoney softened a little and Mr Newton looked slightly less green about the gills and was able to speak for us all.
‘But who will tell Mrs Bird, Mr Collins? Who will tell Mrs Bird?’
Mr Collins appeared unworried. ‘No one,’ he said as we all looked aghast. ‘We’ll put Odo-Ro-No in next week. With luck she’ll never know. Oh, come off it, you lot,’ he added as panic seemed about to set in. ‘Hands up any of you who has ever actually seen our Editress look at a finished magazine?’
No one put up their hand. I wasn’t sure so I looked to Kathleen. She was shaking her head.
‘There you are then,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Bile Beans it is. If anyone’s worried, come and see me. Actually, don’t,’ he added evenly. ‘It’s all going to be fine.’
Then he marched out of the room and back to his office.
‘Gosh,’ said Kathleen.
‘He has quite a way about him when he wants,’ said Mrs Mahoney.
‘I shall be sacked,’ said Mr Newton.
But Mr Collins was right. Mrs Bird didn’t notice a thing.
*
It was the proof I needed. I had wondered if our Editress read the finished issues, but it had been little more than a suspicion, a bout of wishful thinking really, and definitely not enough to act upon. But now, the combination of Mr Collins’ absolute confidence and the real evidence of Mrs Bird not noticing a large advertisement for stomach tonic in the place of underarm daintiness meant there was nothing to hold me back.
With my mouth dry and my palms sweating, I slipped Confused’s letter in with the others to be printed in next week’s ‘Henrietta Helps’. I’d changed the words a bit so Kathleen wouldn’t recognise it and replaced passionately as
I knew that would give the game away. But the point about your fiancé going off you was still clear and if Confused read it I very much hoped she would feel reassured.
It was all too easy to add the letter and my response to the folder of copy that would go to Mrs Mahoney to be typeset, but it was the most enormous thing to actually hand it over. I knew Mrs Bird did not look at proofs before the magazine went to press so from this point onwards there would be no going back.
My contingency plan wasn’t exactly top notch. If I was found out, I would claim that Mrs Bird had forgotten she’d written the advice. It was worse than feeble, but it was all I had. If Mr Collins was confident Mrs Bird would not notice a switched advertisement that took up half a page, surely one small letter would be safe?
I decided to take the risk.
*
It was high time I told Bunty about my secret activities. I had been putting it off long enough. Bunty was miles from being a killjoy but she was terribly keen on honesty and might not be entirely bowled over by the idea, at first anyway. I felt sure she would be sympathetic when I told her everything so decided to take my chance the following Saturday.
The sun had pulled its socks up and was making a good effort in the almost cloudless winter sky, so Bunty and I set off for a stroll through Hyde Park. She had suggested a brisk march around the Serpentine before heading to Kensington to look at the latest bomb damage before tea and then on to the cinema for a film. After a big raid it was always sad to see flattened buildings and burnt-out churches which had stood for hundreds of years, but there was something rather triumphant about the monuments and statues, even the parks and big department stores that were still there, getting on with things. The Luftwaffe may have been trying to blast us to pieces, but everyone just kept getting back up. And when you saw that they hadn’t even managed to dent Big Ben and we’d stopped them from burning down St Paul’s, it did put a smile back on your face.
Bunty had been terrifically keen to get going, so we left without having lunch and had to chew on a piece of bread we’d brought for the ducks.
‘Do you think Mrs Bird is beginning to like you?’ asked Bunty, throwing a crust which hit a duck and bounced off into the lake. The fat little chap bravely paddled off to rescue it.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I said, huffing on my gloves. ‘Puts up with, perhaps. She’s not very keen on anyone really. Including most of the readers.’
The park was full of people making the most of a bright February day. I sidestepped an elderly gentleman guiding a little girl along on a tricycle, and looked over at a young woman in a thin coat who was wheeling an enormous pram. She was trying to get it across the grass, while keeping her two boisterous little boys within reach. She wasn’t much older than Bunty and me, but she looked exhausted. One of the boys pushed his brother into the snow and within seconds they were fighting and wailing.
‘There was a letter this week from someone who’s having a baby by the wrong man,’ I said, which did rather come out of thin air. ‘But don’t tell anyone, will you?’ I added, sounding like Kathleen.
‘Mum’s the word,’ said Bunty, no stranger to an unfortunate turn of phrase. ‘Um, as it were.’
I grinned but ploughed on. ‘Mrs Bird wouldn’t help her. She’s quite narrow-minded.’
‘Mmm,’ said Bunty, who seemed to be looking for something in the distance.
‘Which is quite unfair,’ I persevered. ‘Some people are having a rotten time.’
‘There is a war on,’ said Bunty, not unreasonably.
‘So they need help,’ I said eagerly. ‘Don’t you think? It’s part of doing your bit, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Bunts, still staring into the distance and fidgeting with her hair. ‘But there’s not much you can do if Mrs Bird doesn’t want to, is there?’
‘Actually,’ I said. ‘There is, sort of.’
Bunty turned round. I looked at the children who were still shrieking at each other.
‘Emmy,’ said Bunty. ‘What are you planning?’
She had known me a long time.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s all absolutely under control.’
Bunty closed her eyes. ‘That’s not what I asked.’
From the look on her face I decided downplaying things would be a good move.
‘There was this girl,’ I said. ‘And she sounded like Kitty. Or like she could be heading towards Kit’s situation . . .’
Bunty opened her eyes slowly, as if she was afraid of what she might see.
‘So I wrote to her,’ I blurted out.
Bunty stared.
‘As if I was Mrs Bird,’ I added.
Bunty’s mouth fell open. A lone duck quacked as if to say Oh Dear.
‘Em,’ said Bunty. ‘You didn’t. You . . . good grief.’
I decided not to mention putting Confused’s letter into the next issue.
‘It’s all going to be perfectly fine,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m just trying to help out.’
‘Well you mustn’t.’ Bunty looked at me as if I was a lunatic, her grey eyes huge, like a cartoon. ‘Emmy, this is your big chance. A step nearer what you really want to do. How is this in any way perfectly fine?’ Her voice grew higher. ‘You’ll mess everything up. Oh, Em.’
She looked incredulous. I went into my rehearsed argument.
‘Mrs Bird doesn’t even read the letters. I can reply to them and she’ll never know.’
‘But what if she finds out?’
‘She won’t. Oh, Bunts, you should see some of them,’ I said. I really wanted her to understand. ‘They’re so sad. People are ever so worried about things – you’ve just said yourself about the war. Everyone’s trying their best, but some of them are in a fix. And Mrs Bird just throws their problems in the bin. It’s not fair.’
‘Emmy,’ said Bunty. ‘I know it must be hard. But you have to stop. I’m serious.’
She glanced over my shoulder again and I turned round.
‘I say,’ I said. ‘Is that William?’
I had never been so pleased to see Bunty’s boyfriend.
Bunty herself appeared entirely unsurprised, which was strange as she had been staring in that direction for ages.
‘Don’t change the subject,’ she said. ‘Emmy, promise me.’
‘It is him,’ I said, delighted at the chance to ignore her. ‘Isn’t it? And who’s that with him?’
‘No one,’ said Bunty, looking frustrated. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bunty.
‘What’s going on?’ I said, smelling a rat and fixing her with a stare.
She had gone pink.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Well, possibly something. Anyway, Emmy, you can’t get involved with readers’ problems.’
Bunty gave me a last hard stare, straightened my scarf as if she was my mother, and gave an impatient Hmmf.
‘Now look nice and smile,’ she ordered.
William was marching towards us at a pace. Beside him, in army uniform, was the most enormous man I had ever seen.
I’d thought Bunty had rather over-blown preparation for our trip to the ducks. She’d made me change out of my wool skirt with the patch on it and swap my perfectly adequate pullover for an entirely too thin mohair one you’d only really want to wear in the spring.
‘Oh I say, that must be Harold,’ she said gaily.
‘We don’t know a Harold,’ I said. ‘Bunty, have you planned this?’
William waved jauntily, as did the big fellow.
‘Not really,’ said Bunty, looking guilty. ‘Well, yes, really. But William says Harold is lovely.’
‘Have you met him before?’ I said.
‘No. But look, he’s nice and tall.’
She could say that again. If the sun made a proper effort to come out, it would be in danger of an immediate eclipse.
‘They’re getting near,’ said Bunty, waving wildly and looking vivacious. ‘Smile.’ She was grinning lik
e a loon and speaking through her teeth like a ventriloquist.
I did as I was told.
‘Hoot at his jokes,’ advised Bunty, rather assuming this Harold was going to tell some. ‘And flutter your eyelashes.’ When I didn’t respond, she looked at me sternly. ‘Blink a lot.’
‘Look, Bunts,’ I said, still smiling like an idiot as instructed, ‘this is awfully kind of you, but I’ve already said, I’m not interested in meeting anyone. I’m concentrating on my career.’
‘That’s rich,’ said Bunty. ‘I’d say you’re trying to wreck it. And anyway,’ she added. ‘I bet he’s divine.’
Bunty had never used the word ‘divine’ in her life. She was using a peculiar voice too, which was very high and really far too loud.
The boys had covered some ground and were now right by us. Before I could say anything more, a huge voice boomed out.
‘DIVINE? ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT US? MARVELLOUS!’
Had Harold come with a foghorn?
It was too late to escape. As Mr Bone the newsagent would say, I’d been stitched up like a kipper.
‘Hello, Bunty, hello, Emmy,’ said William.
I gave in.
‘WHAT HO!’ shouted Harold.
‘Hello,’ I said, in a weak fashion that I hoped would not be mistaken for feminine excitement.
‘This is Harold,’ said William.
‘YES,’ bellowed Harold, unnecessarily.
‘And this is Emmeline,’ said William.
‘How do you do?’ I said. ‘This is Bunty.’
So far we’d managed to confirm our names and shout a lot. I certainly didn’t want to be rude to Harold, but I hadn’t the first clue what to say.
Harold was definitely striking. He stood at least six foot three and could easily have played rugger for England. He was wearing possibly the largest uniform the British army made and was grinning widely.
He held out a large ham about the size of a tennis bat, which, it turned out, was one of his hands.
‘TERRIFIC,’ he shouted, even more loudly than before. He shook my hand with vigour and I tried to join in, despite the likelihood of him dislocating my shoulder. I decided Harold was an enthusiastic type.
