BOOK REVIEW : Memoir of Determination, Self-Reliance : LETTER TO LOUISE: A Loving Memoir to the Daughter I Gave Up for Adoption More Than 25 Years Ago, <i> By Pauline Collins</i> , HarperCollins $20; 224 pages

You can’t judge a book by its title either. Instead of the three-hankie fiesta you might expect, Pauline Collins has written a slight but winsome memoir combining recollections of an English wartime childhood with an ebullient account of her early days as an itinerant character actress.

Though the poignant segment about her inadvertent pregnancy and her decision to relinquish the child for adoption fills a third of the book, Collins’ natural ingenuity and resilience never desert her. There are the inevitable bleak moments, but she’s a determined and self-reliant person--an actress on stage and off--and the bad patches last for no more than a page or two. She was also uncommonly fortunate in finding an agreeable, well-run home for unwed mothers in which to spend the weeks preceding and following the birth of her child; an establishment managed by the Sisters of Nazareth.

Brisk, compassionate and non-judgmental, these dedicated women made every effort to minimize the emotional anguish of the widely assorted group of young women who sought their help. Collins’ sojourn in their hospice, though hardly an idyll, was far from the ordeal she had imagined.

Known to American audience for her role as Sarah in “Upstairs, Downstairs” and most recently for her amazing tour de force as Shirley Valentine on stage and screen, she exhibits that same earthy vitality as a writer. The breezy colloquialisms are relentlessly British and sometimes a bit obscure; the grammar occasionally a bit shaky, particularly when the author is obliged to choose between the subjective and objective pronoun. While the result has a genuineness that no co-author could supply, somewhat more finicky editing wouldn’t have detracted in the least from the total effect.

The merriest portions of the book concentrate upon Collins’ adventures in Killarney as a member of a pickup repertory group. Though two shows a week and her duties as assistant stage manager left little spare time, the author and other members of the troupe took full advantage of everything Killarney could offer--and in more than one case, of each other.

Friendships flourished and romance flowered. The father of Collins’ child was a member of the company, an engaging but feckless young actor with no intention whatever of marrying his summer sweetheart, though he generously offered to do so when she told him that she was pregnant. Instead, she decided to go it alone, concealing her condition from her affectionate Catholic family during visits home and even while sharing a flat with her sister. Enveloped in increasing layers of oversize clothing, a ruse possible only in the English climate, she continued to work at every acting and teaching job she could find.

When concealment finally became impossible, she found a room in a seaside town, posing as the wife of a touring actor--a masquerade in which the baby’s father willingly collaborated. Though her stay there could only have been troubled and lonely, there’s not a word of complaint in her account of those weeks. Fiercely independent, she lived on her small store of savings and determinedly paid her way at the convent, refusing even the government allowance for which she was eligible. Stoically, she surrendered her baby after deciding that adoption was the best possible solution.

The months thereafter were the most difficult, a slough of despond briefly recalled but only gradually overcome. Eventually Collins married, had three more children and resumed her varied career as an actress and teacher. Twenty-two years after she had handed her infant to an officer of the adoption agency, that daughter appeared on her doorstep; a poised and affectionate young woman who seemed to harbor none of the resentment Collins had feared. “And with unbelievable ease we slipped back into each other’s lives.” Even if it couldn’t have been quite as simple as all that, isn’t it pretty to think so? For a change?