Radio Girls(94)

“Aren’t they supposed to be the weaker sex?” Billy’s voice sounded above her as Hilda performed a complex dribble, charging through half her opponents, sending them reeling, and launched an enormous thwack that tested the strength of both stick and ball and knocked poor Vera, keeping goal, to her knees.

“That’s why generals avoid putting weapons in their hands,” Cyril answered. Maisie glanced over at him and Billy, but they were too enthralled by the match to notice her. “So, whose knickers are you hoping to see here?”

“Oh, I’m not bothered. But I say, Underwood, look at that Matheson woman. Can’t help admiring her. Is there anything she can’t do?”

“Don’t let the DG hear you say that. Speaking of, we’d best push on. We promised to join the cricket.” Cyril’s voice was heavy with martyrdom.

“Now, lads, we can’t play anything so coarse as football,” Billy said, in an eerie imitation of Reith’s voice. They laughed as they trudged away.

Maisie took advantage of a time-out in the hockey to make her second assault on the food tables. While there, she thought she might as well examine the cakes, in the manner of a general’s studying the movements of the enemy before he plans attack.

Siepmann was being served a Pimm’s cup at the bar, and Maisie ducked behind a pyramid of peaches and plums, hoping he wouldn’t see her. She was in no mood to hear his observations on her industry or littleness.

“Ah, there you are! Coming to watch the cricket, old man?”

Maisie was rather surprised Reith came to fetch his own drink. She would have thought he’d have someone tending to him. But possibly he wished to be seen as one of the staff. The lads, specifically, to judge by his straw boater and linen jacket. He looked alien in light colors, a bear without its skin.

“Lord, yes,” Siepmann replied. “I just needed a drink after watching the girls go at it. I know sport is meant to be healthy for them, but it’s quite unfeminine.”

“I know, I know, but I would have been lambasted if I hadn’t allowed them some sort of game. I’d certainly rather they play hockey than take up some of that ghastly dancing people persist in these days. I won’t have any BBC girls behaving like that, not on my watch.”

“You know Miss Warwick goes to those parties,” Siepmann said.

“But she was properly brought up, so we trust she knows how to behave.”

“Did you see Miss Matheson leading the fray?”

“I rejoice to say, I did not.”

“Our Miss Somerville would have given some back, I’d think, but for her condition. Awfully decent of you to keep her on. And the fact is, she’s really very good at the job. So much so that if what we’re talking about comes to pass—”

“Yes, yes, precisely. I can’t pretend to understand her marriage at all. That Mr. Brown of hers must be a strange fish if he has no quarrel with her retaining her father’s name. But she’s married, she’s going to be a mother, and she’s a very regular sort of woman, quite moral and decent. She won’t try to impose advanced fare if she agrees to replace you.”

A replacement for Siepmann! Maisie wanted to run, skip, turn cartwheels. If he was leaving the BBC, that would be worth one hell of a party.

“A very good choice, I think,” Siepmann remarked with only a hint of oleaginousness. “If it must be a woman, she has certainly proven herself.”

“As have you, Siepmann, as have you.”

“I’m only thinking of what’s good for the BBC.”

“That’s what makes you such a fine man. And arguably, Miss Matheson does think much the same way, but whatever the governors say, she just seems more and more like a woman who oughtn’t have quite so much influence. Those damn unreasonable demands.”

“But she’s extremely popular.”

“Yes. She’s done well, certainly. Ah, let’s not spoil the day with the same old chat, shall we? Come, let’s see how the lads are getting on.”

Fortified, they walked over to the cricket pitch, and Maisie stood there, eyes locked with the bored bartender, who professionally hadn’t heard a single word. She mindlessly crammed cake into her mouth, the heavy plate in her other hand quite forgotten.

Hilda would say it was her foray into investigative journalism—or espionage—that was making her see conspiracies in what was just churlish grousing. But there was no way, no way she was wrong. Those sleek-groomed heads had stuck together to plan the clipping of Hilda’s wings, for no reason other than that they didn’t want to keep looking up as she flew by.

Even if Hilda had heard the whole exchange, she would likely only shrug. Unsurprised that there were those who sought to take some wind from her sails, she would carry on charting her waters. Phyllida would point out, with infuriating reasonableness, that Siepmann couldn’t be promoted to Talks until Hilda left and she wasn’t going to and Reith could never justify sacking her. The governors would sooner dismiss him.

But Phyllida didn’t know about Vita. And Siepmann might. And if Reith ever found out . . .

I need to talk to someone who has some muscle. The sort of cynic who wouldn’t be surprised . . . Where’s Fielden?

It was important to look as meandering and dreamy as possible, just one of the girls, enjoying the novelty and the buffet. She wandered with increasing impatience, almost despair—was he even here? He had to be. This holiday jaunt was mandatory.