Radio Girls(70)

Much later that afternoon, while Hilda was attending a broadcast, the correspondence brought Maisie another note from Simon. Dear Maisie, I do hope you’re feeling better today. Many thanks for such a gloriously stimulating evening, and I shall no doubt beg of you your next free Saturday night. Yours, Simon. Maisie pressed the note to her chest, then crammed it in her bag lest anyone spot it and returned to her immersion in cathode rays. The phone rang.

“Talks Department, Miss Musgrave,” Maisie answered crisply.

“It’s Lady Astor for Miss Matheson,” said an equally authoritative secretary.

“I’m so sorry, but Miss Matheson is not available. May I take a message?”

“When will she return, please?”

“She’s in the studio and can’t be disturbed. May I have her ring Lady Astor back?”

There was a surprised yip, a shuffle, and Lady Astor’s imperious voice came on the line.

“Miss Musgrave? Good. I couldn’t abide speaking to that hang-dried misery-boot. The news can’t wait, because I want to give Miss Matheson an exclusive, and as she trusts you, that means I can as well, doesn’t it?”

It wasn’t really a question. Maisie was glad Lady Astor couldn’t see her smile.

“I always strive to be very worthy of trust, Lady Astor.”

“Marvelous. Though in my experience, keepin’ certain people a bit unsure isn’t without use. Now, listen! They’re going to announce it tomorrow, but they’ve finally just passed equal suffrage, and that’s going to make for some very good Talks, I should think.”

Maisie, writing the information on the Talks Department harvest-moon-orange memo (a clever choice of Hilda’s—there was no missing a missive from Talks), knew she was meant to respond with enthusiasm. But Lady Astor knew they were still constrained as to the sort of news they could report, and when was there time for an exclusive?

“That’s very good news, Lady Astor. Thank you so much for letting us know.”

“Those are the words of a polite and professional secretary, my dear. Don’t you realize what this means? All women over twenty-one can cast a vote next year, single or married, rich or poor. It’s the law now, and it won’t ever be changed again. It’s rather a bit of something.”

Phyllida would turn twenty-one next year. She would be able to vote. Everyone would. Then Maisie swayed and seized hold of the desk. A Canadian national, living in Britain, was allowed to vote. That meant her. And now she was going to get to spread the news.

“I’ve got to get Miss Matheson straightaway.”

“That’s better,” Lady Astor trilled, her laugh ending in an unladylike snort.

Maisie slammed down the phone, snatched up her pad, and sprinted for the studio. Where of course the BROADCASTING IN PROGRESS sign kept her rooted to the corridor. She circled before the door, a bull trapped in a pen.

“My goodness, dear, you’ll wear a hole in the floor!” It was Siepmann. With Cyril. She wanted to lower her head and charge. “You don’t look like you’re working. Doesn’t Miss Matheson keep your nose well to the grindstone?”

She thrust her nose into the air to give him a better view. “She does, Mr. Siepmann, though it’s hardly necessary. We in Talks are very dedicated to doing the best possible work. For the BBC,” she added, remembering their last conversation. She was pleased to see Cyril look abashed at Siepmann’s manner. Or maybe he was surprised at hers.

“I rejoice to hear it,” Siepmann said. “I do sometimes wonder how you all manage, being so busy.” He shook his head, as though the wonderment preyed on him. “I’m surprised Miss Matheson doesn’t seek to expand the department, do more delegating while keeping the whip hand high. I’m sure if I ran it, I’d have to be a terrible tyrant.”

I’m sure if you ran it, we’d all take up pitchforks and torches.

“Miss Matheson manages very well, thank you.”

“Certainly according to the papers and listener numbers, yes,” he agreed, as though such things were inconsequential. “Well, keep up your hard work, my dear,” he said, and jerked his head to Cyril to chivvy him on.

If only I were one of those secret agents. I’d have a poison dart to shoot at him.

She shunted aside that pretty picture and focused on the real masterpiece: Lady Astor’s scoop. There had to be a way to use it and not step outside their bounds. A special guest, perhaps, ruminating on the possibility that full suffrage would at last be the law of the land? And if that person was highly respectable, known, above reproach . . . maybe Lady Astor herself? No, not a sitting politician. Everyone knew they leaked stories all the time, but none would do so publicly. But it should be a woman. A suffragette! Emmeline Pankhurst had just died (such a lovely retrospective Talk on her life and work). Her daughter Christabel had moved to California. Perhaps the other daughter, Sylvia? No. An older suffragette would be better, someone who had fought long and hard and survived to see—of course, Millicent Fawcett. She was over eighty, not well, but very much alive and a dame, so decidedly proper.

Hilda came out of the studio and Maisie pounced on her.

“Miss Matheson, the most extraordinary thing! We’ve got to . . . It’s so . . .”

A shadow loomed over her. She’d forgotten it was Vita Sackville-West who had been broadcasting.