Radio Girls(33)

“I, ah, just wanted to be sure . . . no hard feelings, hey? We can be chums?”

A fleeting image of fish bait swam through Maisie’s brain.

“I’m sure you can be anything you’d like to be,” she told him. “Really must dash, cheerio,” and she skittered around him and down the corridor, wondering if he was watching and refusing to care.

She was still roiling two hours later on her tea break.

“Goodness, what did that poor toast ever do to you?” Phyllida was moved to ask, hypnotized by Maisie’s atavistic gnashing.

Everyone else in the tearoom, however, was focused on Billy and another engineer, Paul, who had built some ridiculous motorized contraption on which the handler could guide metal football players over a pitch. The clutch of BBC boys was enthralled.

“Seems to get a bit hot,” Cyril observed, playing his round.

“Funny since you’re such a rotten player,” Billy said.

“Funny yourself!”

“Here, I’ll show you.” Billy nudged Cyril away and took over to a chorus of jeers.

Maisie lunged into another slice of toast, wishing they would shut up. As if solely to aggravate her further, the shouts grew louder. Then there was a sudden boom, puffs of black smoke, and the whole room chorused with shouts.

“What have those lunatics done?” shrieked Mrs. Hudson, ever protective of her abused tearoom.

The room was unscathed, the only casualties of the explosion being Billy, squalling and clutching his hand, and the toy, oozing unidentifiable liquid and an acrid smell. Paul keened over this destruction.

“We ought to get him to the hospital!” shouted Cyril.

Blood spilled onto the table, and several girls shrieked. Maisie, still chewing, hurtled over a table to get to Billy.

The cut wasn’t deep, but it was just above the thumb, and spurting blood.

“My hand, my hand! I’ll lose my job!” Billy’s shrieks flowed as freely as the blood.

“I know it hurts,” Maisie said, “but it’s nothing much. No need to worry.” She expertly wove a napkin around his hand to stanch the flow. “If someone runs to Miss Banks’s room, she’ll have a medical kit. This won’t take but two stitches at most.”

“Can you actually do it?” Phyllida asked, her face percolating with interest.

“I can,” Maisie answered curtly.

Someone else must have thought of the medical kit, because Rusty came sprinting in with it. Maisie calmly selected a needle, wiped it with alcohol, and threaded it. Billy continued to yowl, convinced his career was finished.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Maisie snapped, starting to stitch. “Quit casting a kitten, will you? See a doctor if you want, but you’ll be perfectly fine, probably by tomorrow.” And she finished stitching and cut the thread.

Cyril was the first to speak.

“Well, that’s a turnup,” he said, echoing the unspoken sentiment. “I’d have pegged you for the type who faints at the sight of blood.”

“Yes,” Maisie agreed. “And I’d have pegged you for a gentleman. Some surprises are nicer than others.”

The others, even if they hadn’t previously been given reason to speculate upon Cyril’s gentlemanliness, were still delighted to see his deep blush, and congratulated themselves on a brilliant afternoon’s entertainment.





SIX




“How is it possible?” Beanie wailed, channeling Sarah Bernhardt. “How could I have missed the greatest drama in the BBC? It is too tragic!”

Maisie wondered what version of the story Beanie had heard. Probably the one in which she sewed Billy’s whole hand back on, although it might have been the one of her bringing him back from the dead.

Growing up with Georgina had taught Maisie not to enjoy a pleasant moment, because it was likely to be snatched away. So Maisie worried the story would be heard by Miss Shields and worse, Mr. Reith, and her reputation smeared due to what must have been some sort of improper something or other with Cyril. Reith was particular about morals, and any good credit she might have built up with him would be revoked in an instant, even if she explained. I shouldn’t have gotten in a cab with him. That was asking for trouble.

“The local broadcast says there was quite a tempest in the tearoom the other day,” Hilda announced from the floor, where she was marking up a script as Maisie came in with filing.

Well, of course Hilda knew.

“It was nothing, truly,” Maisie insisted. “The chaps were being a bit . . . stupid, that’s all.”

“Yes, that would make it a day ending in ‘y,’” Hilda agreed. “Although my secretary swanning in to mop up a bad injury rather ups the interest factor.”

“I’m glad I was able to help,” Maisie muttered. (Mostly. It was Billy, after all.)

“I suppose you think someone’s going to ask an awkward question?”

That drew Maisie’s eye.

“Miss Musgrave, if you wanted people not to guess that you lied about your age to nurse during the war, the expedient move would have been to use a different name or simply leave it off your list of experience.”

“I didn’t have any other references,” Maisie protested, both stunned and not surprised by Hilda’s guess. Though it didn’t sound like a guess.