“Very astute.” Hilda nodded. “So! How would you answer any or all of these?”
“I’m asking you,” Maisie said, liking the snap in her voice. Clearly, so did Hilda.
“And if you didn’t have me to ask?”
“I don’t know,” Maisie cried. “I . . . Well, I suppose I would try to find a clever reporter on one of the better newspapers and ask him to help.”
“You could do that, yes.” Hilda nodded. “I think you’ll find, though, that even clever reporters don’t know things right away.” She gathered the mimeographs and smoothed them into a neat stack.
“Miss Matheson . . . what is an equity drop?”
Hilda looked down at the pages in her lap and ran a finger under the words: Suggestions for Writing an Excellent Talk. When she glanced back at Maisie, her expression was almost rueful. “Probably nothing I ought to fuss about. I’ve sometimes been told I read too much. Think too much. Perhaps there’s something to that.” She chuckled, and slid off the table. “But one thing I do know for a fact is propaganda costs money, if it’s going to work. A lot of money.”
She took the mimeographs and headed back to the department, leaving Maisie to think dark thoughts about enigmatic statements.
And wish she were the clever reporter she needed to find.
How would they start, anyway? The library, I guess. And then a banker, maybe, or someone in finance? Someone like that Mr. Emmet we had in. He’d be easy enough to get on the phone or meet with. And then maybe talking to someone in the Labour Party, asking about—
Oh.
One universal instruction Maisie had always been given was not to break rules. Her one great moment of disobedience was her lie—the false age that had brought her here, to her father’s homeland, far away from Georgina and to work that seemed worthwhile. Despite the success of the venture, Maisie, unwilling to tempt fate, remained reluctant to try rule-breaking again. Certainly, no one else ever encouraged her to do so.
Neither had Hilda, or not openly. But the unanswered question pushed her past all the mountains of work she was meant to do and reaching into the wastebasket for discarded paper, which she sneaked into the lavatory with her to make a few notes in privacy.
Siemens. What was Hilda wondering about Siemens? They’re German, they’re big, and they’ve got a huge operation here. All perfectly right as rain. Maisie chewed on her pencil. That man Hoppel had said something to Reith, something Maisie wanted to hear, because she liked when people thought highly of Reith. Something about being right-thinking. An alliance, with the BBC. And some sort of meeting.
Two secretaries came in, chatting. The pencil fell out of Maisie’s mouth. How long had she been in there? She flushed the toilet and ran back to the office, shoving the papers into her sleeve. Please let Miss Shields be away from her desk. Please let Miss Shields be away from her desk.
Miss Shields was at her desk. She looked up as Maisie entered, glanced at the clock, and made a notation in her pad.
Maisie rolled paper and carbons into the typewriter. She typed, she filed, she took dictation, she typed some more. But her mind wanted to think, to ask and answer questions. That fist in her chest swelled through her skin, pushing a grin onto her face.
She was typing: “I do not think Schools is managing to achieve its full potential as of yet. There is far more we can do to inform the youth of Britain,” when something Hoppel had said sprang into her head. She yanked the papers from her sleeve and scribbled: “Right-minded man, making sure the country runs as it ought.” Funny thing for a businessman. Or is it? I suppose the right-minded should manage things, anyway. But who says what’s right-minded? I suppose someone thought Nero . . .
“What exactly are you doing?” Miss Shields asked. She stood over Maisie, arms folded, nose in full declension.
Maisie yelped, and the pencil cartwheeled out of her hand.
“Nothing. I—”
“Yes, I can see that. You certainly aren’t finishing that memo. What is this you’re writing?”
One arm unfurled and extended to its full length, palm full of expectation.
“It’s just personal—” Maisie began in a squeak.
“Personal?” Miss Shields repeated, making the word seven syllables long.
“No! Not . . . That is, I mean, it’s for Miss Matheson, but . . .” She trailed off, remembering too late that “being for Miss Matheson” was a graver offense.
“I see. Something for Miss Matheson. Even though you are on executive duty at this time. To which you have been late returning from Talks eight times this month. I have kept track.” The arm was still extended. The fingers gave one insistent twitch and Maisie, defeated, surrendered the paper. Miss Shields glanced at the shorthand notes and sucked in her breath. “Who are you to be giving opinions about Mr. Hoppel?”
“I wasn’t. It’s not—”