Radio Girls(78)

“Aye, so be careful. Don’t want to get yourself in what they might call ‘a situation.’”

“You have to be married to go to those clinics, though,” said Maisie.

“So you borrow a ring and call yourself ‘Mrs.’ They’re not going to check.” Phyllida shrugged.

“How do you know?” Maisie demanded.

Phyllida gave Maisie a disdainful frown.

“I came up through the typing pool. Try to find something I don’t know.”

Maisie laughed, gathered the mimeographs, and headed for the corridor.

“As it happens, unlike some people we need not mention, Simon Brock-Morland is thus far as honorable as his title.”

Beanie, hurrying past them, skittered to a halt.

“Simon Brock-Morland? Don’t say you know him!”

“I do, actually.” Maisie grinned.

“He’s courting her,” Phyllida added, smirking.

“Is he? Really? Fancy that—here I thought I was the one who specialized in unlikely scenarios. Anyway, must dash, rehearsal. Cheerio!”

Maisie had her own rehearsal to attend, so kept pace with Beanie.

“So you know him, too? You do, don’t you? Do you like him?”

Beanie gave Maisie a sidelong glance, looped arms with her, and propelled her up the stairs, heads close together.

“I don’t know him well, if that’s what you’re asking. I was just paraded before him a few times as a viable candidate, doing my show horse rounds.”

“Sorry?”

“He’s eligible. I’m available. Got to display all the wares. Les parents may be tickled by my work, living the regular life, doing good, et cetera, et cetera, but I’m still who I am and there are expectations, don’t you know? Can’t let the side down. Duty will come for us all and can’t shirk it forever. Got to produce more top foals and what.”

Beanie was too well trained to let her real feelings show, even accidentally. But Maisie swore she heard a twinge of bitterness in that cut-glass accent.

“But you don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to, surely? It’s nearly 1929, for heaven’s sake.”

“You really aren’t British.” Beanie giggled, shaking her head. “Ah, well, in any event, the Honorable Mr. Brock-Morland didn’t take my bait, even though the story says he could do with some extra dosh.”

“Just because he’s the second son doesn’t mean he hasn’t got money.”

“Perfectly true. But I hear his father isn’t the best manager of things. Of course, one can’t ever be sure. And thank goodness for that, or what would we talk about?”

Maisie turned this information over and over. If Simon was concerned about money, but seemed to be interested in her and not someone like Beanie . . .

“He might like that you’re clever, you know,” Beanie said. “He’s a funny one that way. Or he hopes to shock the family, of course. Shocking one’s family is quite ‘the fad’ these days. This year’s pea-shooting. Ah, here’s for me, cheerio.”

Beanie was halfway down the corridor when Maisie shouted after her.

“How do families like that lose money? It’s not just taxes or peasant revolts. It can’t be.”

Beanie turned and stared at her. “It would take a lot more journeys up and down the stairs to answer that question.”

“Can you, though? Answer it?”

“Are you looking for gossip about Simon? I can likely scrape some up for you. He was rather a pompous ass to me. You’re not in love with him, are you? Not that it matters. On the other hand.” She paused, studying Maisie. Her expression was so serious, she was unrecognizable. “If you really want to know more about reversals of fortune, there are any number of stories written on it, I should think. But if this is towards a Talk, you tell Miss Matheson I want to be the one to present it.”

“You? Really?”

Beanie laughed, looking much more like herself.

“I told you. Shocking one’s family is all the thing.”




Georgina would certainly be shocked if she saw Maisie using stage makeup to good effect, and especially if she saw the disguised Maisie entering a secret meeting of Fascists.

Except she probably doesn’t know what Fascists are.

This time, the Lion was dismissing any effect women voting might have, as he assumed most women were too featherbrained to even find their way to the polling booths. Maisie ignored him and inched her way to Hoppel, who was having a whispered conversation in the back corner. She was so intent on her quarry, she didn’t notice his companion until she was upon them. The teapot-shaped man who had looked at Simon with such interest. His bowler hat was tipped back and a cane hung over his arm in a parody of Charlie Chaplin. Neither man noticed her.

“Your friend at the BBC really must try and control that impossible woman,” the teapot-shaped man said in a gravelly voice. “She is making every attempt to see Labour win the election. I am convinced it’s the fault of the BBC, and that ghastly Manchester Guardian drivel, that trade unions are allowed to thrive. Total disaster for business—we’ll all be paupers if this carries on. Appalling state, might as well be living in Moscow.”

“‘Appalling’ is the only word,” Hoppel agreed. “I tell you, Grigson, plenty of men are willing to work for whatever they’re offered, but then those damn unions give them notions. And these book clubs! That’s the sort of thing that makes a workingman think he’s better than he is. More of that dreadful woman’s influence. The sooner we see the back of her, the better.”