“Of course.”
Maisie slid the note into the top copy and handed the rest to Hilda.
She would thank him politely but decline. One didn’t meet men for tea after just an accidental and unwanted shared lunch. Even if he was a writer. Who called her fun and clever and made the back of her neck tingle. She would ask Phyllida if she wanted to go to the pictures; they could see the new Buster Keaton at the Odeon.
She still couldn’t breathe.
ELEVEN
“Are there Russian spies amongst us and is this government doing enough to quash them?”
Audiences had been interested to see what sort of Talks they might expect now that “controversial” material was allowed, and thus far Hilda did not disappoint. This was the third of dozens of scheduled debates on slippery subjects of the day, and audiences were primed.
So were the broadcasters. Studio One seemed far too small and stuffy—though Maisie thought it didn’t matter, as everyone was holding their breath.
The moderator, Mrs. Strachey (Rachel, but she went by Ray), introduced the speakers on each side, and the debate took shape.
“I have a quarrel with the very title of this debate,” began the first speaker, “because the second question assumes the answer to the first is a resounding yes. And until such time as we have proof positive—by which I don’t mean a sensationalist story in a publication favored by fluff-headed young girls titillated by the notion of white slavery—we cannot insist upon the government allocating precious time and resources to chasing down what doesn’t exist.”
“But the dissonant voices in Britain are growing!” he was countered. “Trade unionists and Communists are advocating against our finest traditions.”
“We have a long tradition of dissonance, which surely must be welcome in any free society. As effective as our system might seem to those who benefit from it the most, we must also allow that it has its imperfections, and we ought to be open to correcting them as such.”
Maisie glanced at Hilda, watching the broadcasters, nodding along with each point. Reith liked to suggest that controversial material was simply to “educate and inform,” but Hilda insisted it must go further. It must provoke thought.
The legions of the provoked made their feelings known in letter after letter. But by last count, there were two and a half million BBC licenses purchased, so Hilda felt emboldened to carry on provoking.
Maisie wondered if Hilda was what was termed “a radical.” It seemed unlikely. Lady Astor was a Conservative, so why would she have employed a radical political secretary? Maisie and Phyllida often discussed it on Sunday walks.
“I’ve heard the rumor Miss Matheson’s a Communist. Hardly matters if she can’t vote, though, does it?”
“Miss Matheson can vote,” Phyllida corrected her.
“But she’s not married,” Maisie said. “Doesn’t a woman have to be married?”
“The stupid rule is you have to be over thirty. Then you have to either own property yourself or be married to a chap who does. Or be a graduate. It’s mad,” Phyllida scoffed. “The fight was for equal suffrage, not this cobbled-together rubbish. I don’t want to wait. I want to make things happen now!”
“America doesn’t bar women under thirty.”
“Nae, because America was so late joining the war,” Phyllida said, without judgment. “We lost loads more young men, so if women over twenty-one were allowed to vote here, we’d be the majority. And, you know, heaven forfend.”
Maisie was looking forward to the debate on equal suffrage.
Billy gave the sign they were off the air, and everyone applauded. The debaters were shiny pink with sweat, and Mrs. Strachey looked cheerfully harassed.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed. “That was stimulating! And here I always thought blood sports a lot of nonsense. I could moderate one of these every day of the week. Marvelous exercise.”
Maisie wished the debates would answer the questions they asked, but she agreed with Mrs. Strachey. The constant asking was a thrill. She wanted to be even deeper in the midst of it. She’d certainly rather not keep asking herself about Simon.
“Why did I agree to this?” Maisie asked Phyllida, staring into the mirror in the favorite ladies’ lavatory.
“Because he’s handsome and witty and said you were clever, which means he’s not stupid, so you’ll go and have this tea, and then you’re meeting me for chips and croquettes and the pictures after,” Phyllida told her firmly.
Maisie had deliberately made no effort to look smarter, though the Garland Green dress had been given a careful brushing, and she wore Lola’s white rose in her hair. Phyllida supervised a light dab of pink lipstick, laid a tissue on Maisie’s lip and instructed her to blot, then barreled her off to the tram.