Dear Mrs. Bird: A Novel

by AJ Pearce

  I know you are terribly injured, but far worse, I really do know, is losing Bill. I hardly dare write his name as you must hate me so much. Words can’t even begin to describe how very sorry I am.

  He was absolutely right. It wasn’t silly. We did row and I said some rotten things to him about trying to be too brave at work and taking too many risks. Bunty, I was so stupid. It came out wrong and when I tried to apologise, that came out wrong too. I was trying to protect you and worried about him getting hurt, but I shouldn’t have said anything. It was his job and he was wonderful at it. Everyone knew that. Some friend I was to you both.

  The words were tumbling out like mad, but none of them looked up to much. It was all just a bundle of excuses. If I were Bunty I would probably tear it up and never open another from me again.

  I leant my elbows on the cafe table and felt my shoulders slump down. The manager was still humming to himself as he swept the floor.

  He paused for a moment and looked over.

  ‘Drink,’ he said, nodding at my cup of tea. ‘Before it is cold.’

  I tried a half-smile in response and he looked at me kindly.

  ‘And write,’ he said. ‘Whoever you write, if they love you, they understand.’

  I wished he was right. I must have looked as bad as I felt as he propped his broom against the wall and came over. Then he patted my shoulder.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I have many customers. Write.’

  I was touched by his kindness and how he was trying to help with tea and songs and secret sugar.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I will.’

  Because he was right. My words weren’t very good, in fact I didn’t know if they might even make things worse, but all I could do was try my very best to explain so that Bunty knew the truth. I couldn’t expect her to forgive me, but she needed to know how much I wished I could change what had happened.

  I took a large gulp of the still warm tea and picked up my pen again.

  Bunty, I thought I could patch things up at the Café de Paris. I thought there would be time. I was wrong and I will regret it for ever.

  I can’t imagine how wretched this is for you and I realise you can’t forgive me. I would give absolutely anything to change things and swap places with Bill, I promise I would. I mean it, please believe that.

  Well then, I’ll finish now. You will try as hard as you can to get better and back on your feet won’t you? All of us love you enormously and can’t imagine life without you being quite well again.

  Please know Bunty that you will always be my very best friend in the world and I will always be here just in case you ever might need me.

  I am so very sorry.

  With much love and yours always,

  Emmy xx

  I sat back in my chair for a moment. I didn’t know what else I could say, but I didn’t want to stop. It was as if it might be my last chance to speak to her.

  I couldn’t bear that. I had to add one more thing.

  PS: I will continue to write, just in case you might feel you can open my letters. I will put a note on the front of the envelopes so that the nurses know it is me and they can throw them away if you’d prefer. Em.

  I would keep writing.

  I shut my notebook carefully. I would copy out the letter and send it as soon as I got home.

  Bunty may have lost William, and because of it, hate me with a passion, which I quite understood. But I would not give up on her. I would always be her friend, whether she wanted me or not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  War Was Foul

  I was right about Bunty. Later that evening, Mrs Tavistock came to the flat and said that while she was already Doing Terrifically Well and would be better in Absolutely No Time, neither of which I believed, it would probably be for the best if I didn’t visit for now. I should let the doctors and nurses do everything they could to help her along.

  I had no idea how much Mrs Tavistock knew, but I said Yes Of Course and even managed to add something about How Tremendous all the nurses were and How Terribly Clever the doctors had been, which sounded as if I was reviewing a show in the West End.

  I felt it only right to ask Mrs Tavistock if I might write to Bunty, crossing my fingers as I didn’t know what I might do if she said no. For the briefest of moments I thought she hesitated, but then she regained herself and said, Of Course. I had never felt so relieved.

  She was also adamant I should continue to live in the upstairs flat, for which I was ever so grateful. Even though I would be surrounded by constant reminders of Bunty and William, which meant battling with my guilt every moment I was there, it meant I was still in some way part of my best friend’s life. Most of all, I hoped it might mean that Bunty couldn’t have told her granny that William’s death was my fault.

  Staying in the flat came with a condition, however. My parents insisted that for now, I was to leave London and return home for a rest. I was dreadfully unhappy about this. I didn’t need a rest, I wasn’t the injured one and being carted off to the country made me feel like a fake. But it was obvious my parents and Mrs Tavistock had discussed it, and despite a strong-willed exchange with my mother, I had no choice but to give in. It was either that, or Mrs Tavistock would close up the house.

  Bunty’s granny had always been lovely to me, but I knew when I was beaten. Roy had said he would speak with Captain Davies at the fire station, and with Mr Collins insisting I mustn’t return to Woman’s Friend straight away, I had no reason to stay. There was nothing wrong with me, but if I was honest, I was relieved not to face everyone just yet.

  Even though I wanted to thank Mr Collins for everything he had done the night of the raid, I wouldn’t have known where to start. He had been extraordinarily kind at the Café de Paris, staying with me the entire time and trying to find Bunty. I didn’t know if I would have found her on my own. I wasn’t even sure I would have been able to get in if he hadn’t lied to the air-raid warden about me being a nurse. And now he was being kind all over again about work.

  Then there was Charles of course. Less than two weeks ago he and I had been dancing and laughing and promising to write as we kissed each other goodbye. It had been exciting and fun and something to look forward to. What should I write to him now? How could I explain what had happened to someone I hardly knew? I pushed it to the back of my mind.

  On Tuesday morning my mother and I boarded the train at Waterloo. As the rain thundered down and Mother made polite conversation with an elderly lady about shortages, I rested my head against the second-class carriage window and closed my eyes.

  Returning home could not have been more different from my last visit, when Bunty and I had wrestled with Jack in the snow and everyone had been upbeat about my accidental new job and loudly furious about Edmund’s shortcomings. Now the house was shrouded in quiet. Little Whitfield was a small village and everyone knew William and Bunty and how close we all were. Concerned friends knocked softly on the front door rather than ring the bell, and even Father’s patients seemed to be spirited to and from his surgery room with nothing to be heard of the usual conversations about the children’s measles or grandad’s lumbago.

  I stayed in my old bedroom, staring at the pretty flowered wallpaper and only going downstairs for meals which I didn’t touch, or to wander around the garden where I wouldn’t have to see anyone. In the middle of the night, with my bedroom in darkness, I would look out of the window and up at the sky, almost willing a plane to appear and do something awful. Not to anyone else, of course, but to me.

  I kept telling myself to buck up but I couldn’t. The only thing I managed to do was write to Bunty as I had promised. Short, subdued but hopeful letters, every day. I had no idea if she would see them.

  I made myself write to Charles too. I didn’t want to, but he had been so terribly nice and as he had met Bunty and William of course, it would have been unutterably rude of me not to tell him. I couldn’t tell him it was all my fault, so I kept it as short as I could
.

  Dear Charles

  I hope you are very well.

  I don’t know if your brother may have written about this, but I am afraid I am writing with rather awful news. I can hardly bear to say it, so just will.

  You see there was a raid when Bunty and William and I were out celebrating their engagement. They bombed the Café de Paris and Bill was killed.

  Bunty was injured and is quite poorly. I am fine as I was late and missed it, and Mr Collins (I’m sorry, I can’t call him Guy) was there and he helped me find Bunty. He was so kind and you would be very proud.

  I’m so sorry to write with such horrible news. I had promised to send you cheeriness.

  Please don’t worry, because Bunty is wonderfully strong and Father says she will be on the mend very soon. I wish I could help her but he says the nurses are top drawer. She is in very good hands.

  I’m at my parents for a few days but will be back at the flat very soon.

  Do take huge care of yourself, won’t you?

  Yours,

  Emmy x

  I didn’t know what else to say to him. My mother posted the letter for me as I didn’t want to go out of the house.

  It was easy being at home. I didn’t have to do anything except put on a chipper face for my parents, and say I felt better each day. Mother tried to get me interested in things – sewing blankets for the war effort or collecting eggs or even just visiting next door to see their new dog. She meant well but it wasn’t doing me any good. I wasn’t an invalid and I knew I had far too much time to dwell on everything that had gone on.

  A week after going home I was sitting on the damp old wooden swing in the garden and looking at the early daffodils that were pushing their way through the grass. It reminded me of the first time I went out with Edmund. We were seventeen and were only going for a walk, but he arrived at the door with a bunch of flowers for me and looking embarrassed. I shook my head at the memory. In my all so easy, fortunate life, his going off with the nurse had felt like a slap in the face. It was such small beer now.

  And what had Bunty done then? Fixed me that drink, told me Edmund was an absolute fool and that he would never do better than me. She was irrefutably on my side, not a moment’s hesitation. As ever, being the best friend in the world.

  ‘You idiot,’ I whispered to myself, and then more loudly. ‘You absolute bloody idiot.’

  Had anyone given prizes out for self-pity, I’d have been top of the class. If Bunty had been here and still my friend, no matter how rotten everything was, she would never have spiralled into such gloom. She would have fought on.

  I needed to go back to London and to work. It was the only way to shake myself out of this despair. I would have to make Mother and Father understand, after all, I was the one who was lucky enough to be well.

  I got off the swing, walked back into the house and went upstairs to pack.

  *

  Coming back to the flat on my own was the first test of my resolve to push on. As I opened the door and switched on the wall light in the late afternoon, almost everything about it looked the same but almost everything about being there had changed. The cold living room was quiet and lonely. Mother had moved the unopened wedding cards and presents and hidden them away. It was unbearably tidy, apart from my writing case and typewriter, which sat on the small teak dining table where Bunts and I used to eat our meals and I would write my secret Woman’s Friend letters when she was at work. There was a stack of new letters hidden in my room which I had intended to reply to as soon as possible. I didn’t know what I might do with them now.

  Before, answering the readers’ letters had given me a sense of purpose. Even when Kathleen had nearly found me out and I decided not to put any more into the magazine, I’d thought continuing to secretly write back to people could help. Now Bunty’s words at the hospital stung.

  You push in and make things worse. You even thought you could give advice to strangers at the magazine, but you can’t.

  She was right. Rather than flouncing around posting letters, I should be doing something decent for the war effort. Sitting at my parents’ house during the past week I had thought I might stop just talking about it and apply to get on the training course to become a full-time Fire Service motorcycle courier. Or try to join any one of the other services. If I was honest I didn’t really care, just as long as it meant doing something useful.

  Whatever I did, it would be more than I was doing now. I’d never have to stand hopelessly by the edge of a street as firemen saved people, or need someone like Mr Collins to get me through to someone in an emergency. I made up my mind to research the different services properly. I couldn’t afford to make another mistake and get into the wrong job. In the meantime, I’d put in for more shifts at the fire station and work my socks off at Woman’s Friend. And I would absolutely stick to the rules. No more writing to readers. No more interfering in people’s lives.

  It was the start of a plan and I felt brightened by it.

  Tomorrow I was going back to the office, but before that there was something far more important to be done. I had to go back to the fire station for the first time since the Café de Paris.

  I felt my nerve falter.

  The globe-shaped drinks cabinet in the corner very nearly waved at me. But I shook my head. Dutch courage would not help. Instead, I got up from the sofa and systematically went through every room, switched on every single light, and for absolutely no reason but to avoid sitting down and thinking about things, I cleaned every last inch of the already spotless flat.

  *

  At half past six the next morning, having not slept a wink, I was washed and dressed in my smartest work clothes. Woman’s Friend did not scare me, but facing Roy and the girls and all of William’s friends very much did. I knew that the longer I put it off, the worse it would be, so as the Luftwaffe’s pilots left London and were, I was sure, being chased back to Germany by our boys, I put on my greatcoat, shoved my woollen beret down to my ears and headed into the darkness towards the fire station.

  The Carlton Street teams were still out on calls with their engines and pumps so I arrived at an empty yard. Having run almost all the way as it had started to rain, it was a moment to catch my breath and get myself in order.

  I pulled off my hat and stood alone in the yard, breathing hard. B Watch would just be finishing their shift. Thelma, Joan, and Mary, and whoever was covering for me. My throat tightened. I hoped it wasn’t Vera.

  Even if it wasn’t, this was going to be hard. My friends would be lovely, which would make me feel horrible, but far worse would be facing their grief. Until now I had only thought of Bunty and Mrs Tavistock. And, indulgently, myself. Not William’s friends. He had been hugely popular at Carlton Street, loved even.

  ‘Come on, get into harness,’ I said out loud. Head up, shoulders back. If they ask questions about how Bunty is, tell them She Is Doing Awfully Well.

  I opened the side door and walked in, past the damp wall where everyone parked their bicycles and up the steep, dark stairs. Yet another deep breath as my heart thumped with apprehension.

  The all-clear had gone over an hour ago and as the first sign of dawn was nudging into view outside, the night-shift girls in the call room were still alert, taking messages as Pimlico’s residents ventured out and discovered what damage had been done overnight. At this time in a shift it would be calls about people who were trapped, or buildings that might well collapse or the cruel late fires that came from nowhere when air got through, just as everyone thought things were safe.

  The call room looked exactly as it should, phones and paper pads on desks, call chart on the wall showing which team was going where, big clock by the door ticking the shift to an end. Joan was on the phone, writing furiously, and Thelma and Mary were writing up call notes from the shift. It was just the three of them. Thel and Mary looked up as I entered the room and immediately got to their feet, chairs grating against the floor. Mary glanced over to Thelma for a stee
r on what to do next, but Thelma was already on her way towards me. Her face twisted itself into a determined imitation of an Everything Will Be Fine smile. I managed an equal imitation of one back.

  ‘Hello,’ I said and ground to a halt as Thelma hugged me violently.

  ‘Oh, love,’ she said, and then again, ‘Oh, love,’ in a trembling voice into my hair. She didn’t let go. ‘Bless your heart. Bless your heart.’

  Too choked to speak I fought like mad not to let tears start all over again. I didn’t want to let them all down, so I just nodded and hugged her back.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Emmy,’ said Mary, who had followed Thelma over to me. She patted my shoulder a little shyly and I looked up to see tears in her eyes too. Thelma had run out of things to say, or rather, I knew she couldn’t speak either. I hugged her back with one arm and reached out to Mary with the other. Joan finished her call and, having hastily put the note onto the call spike, joined the rest of us.

  ‘Oh, Em,’ she said and I pulled away from Thelma to hug her too. Joan had always had a soft spot for William, saying she hoped her young lads would grow up to be just like him.

  ‘I know,’ I said, trying to sound comforting rather than hopeless, which is exactly how I felt.

  Joan’s eyes brimmed. She held on to my arms, like Thelma, trying to offer a brave smile.

  ‘Our poor lad,’ she said, shaking her head.

  A big fat tear now defied my orders and ran down my cheek. This wasn’t about any of us. It was about the loss of a decent and courageous young man who hadn’t even started to do all the things he deserved to. My own feelings of guilt weren’t the point. The point was that Bill was gone. Standing in the middle of the call room, it was impossible to believe.

  Joan, Thelma, and Mary, like thousands of others, spent day and night, after day and night carrying on with their jobs in the most frightening of conditions. Every day they helped save strangers they didn’t know and would never meet. But today it was their friend. Stiff upper lips and getting on with things were all very well, but sometimes there was nothing to do but admit that things were quite simply awful. War was foul and appalling and unfair.