Radio Girls(71)

“Holy smokes,” Maisie whispered, gazing up into the great lady’s steely eyes. “I . . . er . . .”

Vita laughed. “I do relish the sight of a woman passionate about her work. Do attend to Miss Musgrave, my dear Hilda. I can see myself out this once. Good day.”

As soon as Vita was out of earshot, Hilda turned on Maisie in a rage.

“Since when are you unprofessional? Was my promise of ‘later’ somehow not clear? I’m a patient woman, but—”

“No, it’s not that. I—” She barreled an astonished Hilda back into the studio, closing the door behind them. “Miss Matheson, Lady Astor rang, and—”

Billy was still in there, clutching a wilted bouquet of red and blue wires.

“Could you leave us be for a moment, please?” she asked him.

“But . . . I’m working,” he protested. Maisie shot him her most ferocious glare, and out he went. She slammed the door behind him and leaned against its gloriously soundproof surface, grinning in the face of Hilda’s fury.

“They’ve passed equal suffrage. Lady Astor said so. It’s being announced tomorrow, but she’s told us now on the chance we can do something with a broadcast tonight. Can we? I thought Dame Millicent Fawcett, maybe. She could speak to a rumor or some such, so it’s not ‘breaking news.’ The papers can’t complain at anything to do with Dame Millicent, surely? I mean, not the good ones.”

Hilda’s face morphed from purple with indignation to white with astonishment and was now pink with pleasure. She clasped Maisie’s hand.

“Equal suffrage? Are you sure? What did she say?”

“She said it meant all women . . .” Maisie choked up. It had never mattered to her before, not politics, not anything. But women had died for this. Phyllida lived for it. It mattered a lot. Her words came out in a squeak. “All women over twenty-one can vote. No restrictions.”

“Oh . . . Maisie.” Hilda yanked a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face. Her head popped up quickly, eyes damp and glittering. She swan-dived onto the studio phone to ring Millicent Fawcett. Maisie stood behind her, bouncing on her toes. Even through her excitement, she couldn’t help looking at the controls and thinking they’d be such fun to work. It couldn’t be so hard if people like Billy did it. Women weren’t allowed, but maybe . . .

“She said yes!” Hilda crowed. “I’ll go fetch her myself. Oh, we’d best say something to the DG,” Hilda remembered. “Can’t risk an apoplectic fit.”

Except that telling him meant giving him a chance to veto. Luck was with them; his secretary said he was gone for the day and no, he couldn’t be reached.

“A jolly good night for him to be gallivanting,” Hilda said, sighing with relief. They had, after all, attempted to follow protocol. Now they just needed to rearrange the evening schedule to accommodate the broadcast and write a script of sorts.

“Someday the BBC is going to have the right to do all its own news, hang the papers,” Hilda grumbled with uncharacteristic vitriol. “Honestly, why can’t the future be now? Even being a political secretary didn’t require so much disassembly.”

She clasped her hands behind her back and paced.

“Let’s see: ‘Rumbles from Parliament hint at the long fought-for right to equal franchise. If this is true, it will have some real bearing upon our next general election. Dame Millicent Fawcett, one of the great activists for women’s universal suffrage, is here to reflect on the legacy of the struggle and what true universal suffrage might entail.’ And then Dame Millicent can say: ‘I hope this is the case, as we don’t want to remain behind our American sisters, and it’s important for Britain, generally a universal leader, to show it trusts all its women with this task.’ Hm. This sacred task? No. This sacred duty? Bit hyperbolic? But we can’t overstate the import.” Her grin nearly split her face, and she hugged herself. “It will be a terribly interesting election.”




“Where’s Our Lady gone?” Fielden asked Maisie, standing over her desk, arms folded, ignoring the furious gallop of her fingers as she typed the script.

“She’s escorting Dame Millicent Fawcett here for a special broadcast,” Maisie said, overflowing with the joy of superior information.

“Oh, Lord, not the Fawcett woman.” Fielden moaned. “Perfect name—turn her mouth on and it never stops running.”

“She is an enormously important woman! One of the great suffragettes, and a dame, besides!” Maisie retorted, outraged.

“Damn the dames, I say.”

“Mr. Fielden!”

“I’m a republican. Small ‘r.’ It means something different over here, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Maisie snapped. “I have actually lived in Britain most of my adult life and I read all the newspapers.” She slammed the shift lever over, thundered through her final sentences, and snatched out the papers.

“Well, look who’s got a temper on her.” He tsked, smirking. “What are we coming to?”

“I’ll leave you to determine,” she told him, and flounced off to the typing pool to scoop up Phyllida. The nearest spot for a private talk was the second-favorite ladies’ lavatory and, after checking under the stalls for feet, Maisie broke the momentous news.