“Why do you think poor people are made to feel ashamed for being poor?” Maisie burst out as she dumped half a bottle of HP Sauce over the fresh chips.
“Well, what? Would you have the rich feel guilty about their oversized houses and collections of Greek sculptures and dead butterflies?” Phyllida asked, stabbing her knife into her chicken croquette.
“I’m serious.” Maisie was suddenly livid. “London and New York are stinking rich. It’s like the peasants and the lords still, and we should know better by now. Why isn’t it the government that’s ashamed ’cause so many people are poor?”
“Why, Maisie Musgrave,” Phyllida shrieked, her laugh bouncing around the restaurant. “Aren’t you just a wild, mad Bolshie!”
A dozen heads swiveled around to glare at Maisie. Phyllida sobered up at once.
“Only joking, not that it’s anyone’s business,” she announced. An officious woman, her feather-festooned hat poised to take flight, glared at them.
“I will have you know I’m not above calling the police.”
“It’s not illegal to be a Bolshevist,” Maisie told her. “Whatever some Tories might think.”
“And I were only having a bit of fun with my chum here,” Phyllida said, her voice steely. “I’ve nae read of any laws against having fun.”
On hearing her accent, it was clear the woman was astounded Phyllida could read at all. The waitress hovered, hoping she would not be called upon to mediate or, worse, adjudicate.
Whether it was evident from the breadth of Phyllida’s shoulders that she could thump a person soundly and return to her meal without missing a breath, or a general unwillingness to be one of those who caused a scene she could not control, the feathery woman merely harrumphed.
“You girls these days. So keen on your fun. Just you wait and see; you’ll pay for that fun good and proper.”
It was certainly a fine exit line—Georgina would have adored it—but she lost some ground as she was leaving because Maisie called after her:
“At least we’ll pay with money we’ve earned ourselves!”
After which Maisie and Phyllida found it prudent to pay and leave as well. They each gave the waitress an extra penny, and congratulated themselves on being able to do so.
“I lost my eldest brother in Passchendaele,” Phyllida said as they walked toward the cinema in the heavy blue twilight. “And not a day goes by I wish I didn’t know how to spell that bloody name. But these are better times, whatever anyone says, and I like being able to work and if I don’t want to marry, I won’t, and I will not go back to a time when someone says otherwise.”
A brother. Phyllida didn’t tend to talk about her family, which Maisie well respected. She knew that nearly everyone they passed on the ten-minute walk had lost someone. Father, brother, son, uncle, nephew, cousin, friend. But these were better times. Weren’t they? She was seized by an impulse to stop and ask everyone in Piccadilly Circus what they thought and write it all down. She linked her arm through Phyllida’s to stop herself.
“I’m so sorry.” Her mind wandered once again to the unknown Edwin Musgrave. Likely too old to have fought, she hoped. But he had family here; he must. Had she lost cousins, uncles, perhaps even half brothers? Lost before found. How would she ever know? “Why the heck did so many have to die to make these better times? It’s a damn crying shame.”
Phyllida squeezed her arm.
“Do you know, I can always tell when you’re a little hotted up—you use American slang.”
“Do I? Gads, but I’m years out-of-date.”
“Or you’re starting the trends here,” Phyllida said, unfailingly loyal. “I shouldn’t have joked on being a Bolshie, though. Not where stupid people could hear.”
“Stupid is right. What’s the matter with them, anyhow?”
“Pah. Nowt queer than folk, is what my people say. A bit pat, but does the job. Want to share a chocolate bar?”
Maisie did. But neither the chocolate nor Buster Keaton could stop her mind from asking questions.
The questions were still flowing as bountifully as the tea in The Cosy Rosy, where Maisie ignored the silly name and spent half her Sunday afternoons reading and working through two pots of tea and a mountain of Cosy’s special digestives. The Radio Times, she found, was a great balm to the buzzing mind. She read it cover to cover every week, exulting in its perky nothingness and her own part in its existence. The same general advertisements ran in each issue. Bert likely found it both boring and convenient. There were also a few personal advertisements, and these Maisie couldn’t resist reading. It felt like eavesdropping. She had technically outgrown the glossies, but she still pored over Lola’s discards and found plenty of personals with which to sympathize. The personals in the Radio Times were less drenched in bathos but still intriguing. “If you love the evening Talks and want someone to sit and listen with, please write.”