Radio Girls(99)

“What’s Germany got to do with anything?” Phyllida asked.

“God, I hope nothing,” Hilda said, staring into space. “I really, really hope nothing.” She slipped the bottle from Phyllida’s grasp and poured herself another drink.




The story of the disappearing American money—a magician’s greatest feat—was the only tale told in all the papers. In some there was gloating, because the bounty of American cash had been a source of some irritation in a Britain struggling with its own sluggish economy. In others, there was worry, but only because the crisis was being handled so poorly. There was no whisper of Germany.

“We can’t be the only ones who know, can we?” Maisie asked.

“No. We might be the only ones who care,” Hilda said.

Which wasn’t particularly encouraging.




“Bit of a poor show our homeland’s puttin’ up, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Astor greeted Maisie when she came to broadcast the inaugural Week in Westminster. “Terrible mess. I can’t imagine what the boys were thinkin’, but I daresay they weren’t, and that’s how messes get made. Shouldn’t be surprised if it’s mostly women who do the cleanin’ up, or would, if they’re allowed in.”

Hilda came in to lend further gravitas to the occasion. Billy was finishing the setting up, and the presenter, Miss Hamilton, prepared the introduction. Maisie’s old friend, the fist inside her chest, was the size of a boulder and doing serious damage.

“I find every new program gives me butterflies on its maiden voyage,” Hilda whispered. “You as well?”

“Swap butterflies for pterodactyls,” Maisie said through short breaths.

“You’ve done marvelous work, and I’ve told the DG so.”

Billy signaled, and Maisie and Hilda gripped hands.

“Good morning, and welcome to our new program, The Week in Westminster,” Miss Hamilton greeted the listeners. “Every week we will hear from different female members of Parliament, who will explain the workings of Parliament and the business before the House of the previous week. Our inaugural presenter is Lady Astor, MP for Plymouth, of the Conservative Party. Good morning, Lady Astor.”

“Thank you. I’m terrifically honored to be here and to assist in educating all the young ladies who have just enjoyed their first vote as to the workings of our system. I’ve talked to far too many ladies who think politics sounds too confusin’ to manage, or just a dreadful bore. I assure you, nothing is further from the truth. A lady does require a powerful voice, though, and some very serious backbone. Now, then . . .”

Fifteen minutes later, Maisie exhaled.

“Marvelous!” Lady Astor said, though it was hard to be sure if she was congratulating them or herself. “And not a moment too soon. Some of the letters I’ve gotten lately . . . Gracious, there are a multitude of muttonheads out there. Honestly thinking that America’s example shows too much democracy leads to scrapes. ‘The firm few, not the muddled many, are what’s needed for a strong nation.’ That’s what one imbecile wrote. Do hope this helps sort people out.”

Which seemed a lot of pressure for fifteen minutes a week. But Maisie was keen to try.

By that afternoon, they had early notices from papers and a number of congratulatory telegrams.

“There, you see? I knew it would be a success,” Phyllida said, giving the telegrams an approving pat.

“Surely the more people care about our political system, the more they’ll fight to maintain it, right?” Maisie sought confirmation.

“What idiot would look around the world and think anything’s better than what we have here?” Maisie just looked at her. “Oh, all right. Plenty, but they’re not going to do anything except make fools of themselves shouting in a pub.”

Maisie smiled. But for once she thought Phyllida might be overly optimistic.




By the time she left that evening, her brain felt so full, her hat was tight. It wasn’t a train of thought; it was King’s Cross Station. The damp cold was a relief. It tugged at some of the threads in her mind and unspooled them so they floated behind her as she headed up to the Strand.

“Pardon me, miss.” A hand tapped her on the arm.

She screamed.

It was Simon.




“Easy, easy. We’ll be arrested if we keep on like this,” he said, finally managing to pry her away. But he kissed her again, too.

“Were you waiting for me out here? You could have come inside, you know.”

“But that wouldn’t have been as romantic.”

His lips were moving, he was talking, but Maisie couldn’t take any of it in. All this time, and now here he was. He seemed too big, too much, as if he’d been consigned to memory and was now made solid—it was like a series of fun house mirrors, with everything too big and small and distorted. She had the most horrible sense of wanting to break out and be in normal space again.

“I’m overwhelming you, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, darling. It’s just I . . . I don’t know what to . . .”

“Neither do I,” she breathed.

“I can’t tell you how I missed that voice.” He picked her up and kissed her. “Have dinner with me,” he whispered into her neck. “At my flat. Come home with me.”