“You are a diplomat, Miss Musgrave. And perhaps you are correct. I suppose we shall see. If the election goes poorly, I daresay they can revoke the law.”
Revoke the law? Finally grant rights, then snatch them away again? That sounded like the stuff of satire. Or the Fascist meetings. It didn’t sound like democracy. Of course, there are always laws that someone doesn’t like, but . . .
“Miss Musgrave?”
Reith was scowling down at her, without a hint of a smile.
“Sir?”
“I said, ‘good afternoon.’”
“Oh!” She had been dismissed. “Yes. Good afternoon, sir. Thank you.”
“You really are a diplomat,” Hilda teased when Maisie came back to the office.
“You heard all that?” The woman had the hearing of a bat.
“It comes in handy.”
Maisie sat back down to the correspondence but couldn’t concentrate. She wanted it to be the mythical “later.” She wanted to write about men’s fears of women voting, compare it to America. She wanted more stories they could tell, to go chasing stories herself. She wanted to interview women on the street. She wanted to tell Eckersley to work harder on developing a traveling microphone. She wanted to be able to print Dame Millicent’s Talk in a magazine. She wanted to vote. Now.
“Miss Matheson!” Her shout nearly made the windows rattle.
“Gracious! Is there a fire?” Hilda looked more interested than alarmed.
“Can we . . . ? I remember we once . . . The general election is to be next year, isn’t it?”
“That’s the general idea,” Hilda said.
“Perhaps we can do a series, something to teach—no, not teach, but, well, maybe teach—”
“You’re wittering,” Hilda said, but she was grinning.
“Yes. Something to help prepare women for voting, learn about the process, how to choose their party interests. I mean, masses of women will think they ought to vote as their father or husband does, won’t they? But maybe that’s not really what they want, but maybe they don’t know . . . I’m still wittering.”
“I wasn’t criticizing. From a good witter, inspiration rises.” Hilda leaped up and paced the office. “We can start something once a week. Do more nearer to the election. Invite women from all fields, positions, interests, and talk about politics and women’s place in it. We’ll be accused of being shills for Labour, obviously—”
“Or the Communists,” Maisie put in.
“Oh, certainly.” Hilda chuckled. “But we’ll have Lady Astor first, and we’ll keep it all very neutral and informative. Give it a nice, nonincendiary title. Advice for Women Voters. No, that’s condescending. We’ll sound like agony aunts. Questions for Women Voters. That might do.”
“Can we? Ask questions, I mean.”
“The traveling microphone?” Hilda asked, smiling. Maisie nearly fainted. Could Hilda read her mind now? Then she remembered the phrase was one she’d read from Hilda’s notes on broadcasting.
“I hope we can try.” Hilda glanced at the carriage clock. “I think we deserve a celebratory lunch. Get Rules on the phone, will you?”
Rules! That was one of the grandest restaurants in London. Maisie glanced down at herself. The Garland Green wasn’t bad, but . . .
“You look perfectly smart. Ring them up and I’ll book us a table.”
Not as smart as Hilda, though. Maisie looked at her with envy as they approached the restaurant. It was an easy walk from the Strand to Southampton Street and then Maiden Lane. Hilda walked with that swift purpose, that little bounce in her step that was really quite attractive. What would it be like to wake up every day with such lovely skin, such bright eyes? She had just turned forty, but she was so young and beautiful. Vibrant. It was almost hypnotic.
As was Rules. They stepped in, and Maisie squeaked. The plush carpet, buttery lights, magnificent pictures and mirrors, heavy damask tablecloths. Her hands were shaking as she took the menu, burgundy leather and embossed in gold.
Maisie waited until the arrival of her Cornish fish soup to ask if it was “later.”
“No. It’s lunchtime.” Hilda grinned. “But I do have some news. We’re going to start a new magazine, printing transcripts of our better Talks. And other things. The Listener, it’s being called. Bit prosaic, but at least everyone will know it’s us.”
“Crikey.” Maisie whistled. “Do you think it’ll accept articles from staff?”
“It might even run bylines,” Hilda teased. Then she went on to divulge another piece of gossip—the BBC was deemed successful enough to warrant a purpose-built home, with ground to be broken in Portland Place in a few months.
Maisie was so stunned, even the arrival of partridge and bread sauce didn’t immediately arrest her attention.