Bluebirds by Margaret Mayhew Page B

stopped knitting. The mass of khaki wool lay inert on her lap. She looked up at Virginia earnestly. ‘If you want my advice, dear, I should go and join the Air Force as soon as you possibly can. It’s a chance to do something else with your life . . . see a bit more of the world . . . meet all sorts of different people . . . do some really interesting, useful work. You shouldn’t spend your youth keeping your mother company, or working in an office like this with a whole lot of old people like me; not if there’s a good alternative. So long as your mother can look after herself and get out and about there’s nothing whatever for you to feel guilty about. That’s the way I see it. And I speak from experience. I spent years living with
my
mother, for much the same sort of reason, until she died recently, and every day I came to work in this office. Look at what has happened to me. Or
not
happened, I should say. Life has passed me by. If I were your age again, I’d join up like a shot . . . and I shouldn’t let anything stop me. Just find the courage, if you can, to do what you want to do. You’ll live to regret it, if you don’t.’
    She picked up her knitting again, the unexpected exhortation finished. Virginia went on with her work. Mavis, if she had heard Miss Parkes, would have been equally astounded; she would probably, being Mavis, have cheered.
    The tube was even more crowded than usual that evening, and Virginia had to strap-hang most of the way to Wimbledon. She walked in the pitch darkness up the hill from the station to the flat in Alfred Road. Her torch battery was wearing out and gave only a glimmer of light but she knew the way so well that it scarcely mattered. Her mother was in the sitting-room, sewing, and she began complaining at once about Mrs Barton who lived in the flat upstairs.
    â€˜She has her wireless on far too loud. It’s so inconsiderate . . . I’ve told her so several times but she still takes no notice. I had to speak to her again about it today. Do you know she had the effrontery to suggest I should help her in some canteen . . . I told her that, as it happens, I do a great deal of work knitting for the forces, and I can do that perfectly well here in my own home. The war will be finished by Christmas, in any case. I’ve no intention of becoming involved with people like Mrs Barton . . . such a
common
woman. It’s quite bad enough having to live cheek by jowl with someone like her . . . were you going to say something, Virginia?’
    â€˜No, Mother . . . no.’
    â€˜You looked as though you were. Will you turn on that other lamp, please. I can’t see properly.’
    On the nine o’clock news that evening it was announced that negotiations between Finland and Russia had broken down. The Russians were accusing the Finns of firing on their border patrols. More trouble seemed to be brewing in the cold wastes of Northern Europe. And Christmas was only six weeks away.

Three
    DEAR KEN, I hope you are well
 . . . Winnie chewed the end of her pencil, thinking hard.
I hope your mother is well too
. That was a lie. She didn’t really care if Mrs Jervis was well or not. Maybe it was wicked to think like that, but she couldn’t help it. Ken’s mother was the only person in the world whom she almost hated. It wasn’t just because she was always so sharp-spoken and critical, no matter how hard Winnie tried to please her, but mostly because of the way she treated Ken. She was always going on and on about how delicate he was, making him out to be a useless invalid. He was a bit liable to catch chills and get bad chests, that was true, but Mrs Jervis made things much worse for him by the way she behaved.
    I’m sitting on my bed in our hut writing this letter and it will soon be time to put the lights