“Well, we actually try to—”
“Wouldn’t it be grand if the newspapers and BBC worked together, after a fashion? Get the most important information to the people, make sure no one missed it?”
“But news does get everywhere,” Maisie said. “Every town and village has a paper, and there’s Reuters and—”
“Of course, of course. But it’s not the same as a really brilliant editor, putting together all the best stories, not just facts but essays, opinions. Think of it, darling. A good, strong voice, clear of all the other dross that ends up in papers, that would provide some real meat for the man. Or woman,” he added graciously.
“I don’t know,” Maisie said. “It sounds like it waters things down an awful lot.”
“Not if the writing is masterful. Besides, isn’t that rather what your BBC does? It is only a single entity, based in London and so not unreasonably viewed as London-centric, and travels unaltered all through the country.”
“But that’s what makes us so democratic,” Maisie argued. “Anyone anywhere can hear a poem or a debate or a play and they don’t have to be able to read or be in London and they can enjoy it equally.”
“They don’t have to be bothered with a lot of different views.”
“But we do present different views! Miss Matheson says that’s one of the most important—”
“Oh, Miss Matheson, Miss Matheson. Honestly, darling, she begins to sound like a deity. Come, let’s pay obeisance to Vermeer.”
He took her hand to pull her along. She was sure his argument was flawed and wanted to think about it, but when he touched her, the ability to think fell out of her ears. She just wanted to follow that touch wherever it went.
“If that’s true, you’d best be careful,” Phyllida warned. They were cranking out mimeographs, so they could steal a moment for a private conversation. “At least go to one of those clinics.”
“Those . . . Oh!” Those sorts of clinics. She had come a long way from Cyril. She wasn’t sure if she was in love, but she wasn’t sure she cared. When she was with Simon, she just wanted . . .
“But what do you think when you’re not with him?”
“Mostly about the BBC.”
“Aye, so be careful. Don’t want to get yourself in what they might call ‘a situation.’”
“You have to be married to go to those clinics, though,” said Maisie.
“So you borrow a ring and call yourself ‘Mrs.’ They’re not going to check.” Phyllida shrugged.
“How do you know?” Maisie demanded.
Phyllida gave Maisie a disdainful frown.
“I came up through the typing pool. Try to find something I don’t know.”
Maisie laughed, gathered the mimeographs, and headed for the corridor.
“As it happens, unlike some people we need not mention, Simon Brock-Morland is thus far as honorable as his title.”
Beanie, hurrying past them, skittered to a halt.
“Simon Brock-Morland? Don’t say you know him!”
“I do, actually.” Maisie grinned.
“He’s courting her,” Phyllida added, smirking.
“Is he? Really? Fancy that—here I thought I was the one who specialized in unlikely scenarios. Anyway, must dash, rehearsal. Cheerio!”
Maisie had her own rehearsal to attend, so kept pace with Beanie.
“So you know him, too? You do, don’t you? Do you like him?”
Beanie gave Maisie a sidelong glance, looped arms with her, and propelled her up the stairs, heads close together.
“I don’t know him well, if that’s what you’re asking. I was just paraded before him a few times as a viable candidate, doing my show horse rounds.”
“Sorry?”
“He’s eligible. I’m available. Got to display all the wares. Les parents may be tickled by my work, living the regular life, doing good, et cetera, et cetera, but I’m still who I am and there are expectations, don’t you know? Can’t let the side down. Duty will come for us all and can’t shirk it forever. Got to produce more top foals and what.”
Beanie was too well trained to let her real feelings show, even accidentally. But Maisie swore she heard a twinge of bitterness in that cut-glass accent.
“But you don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to, surely? It’s nearly 1929, for heaven’s sake.”
“You really aren’t British.” Beanie giggled, shaking her head. “Ah, well, in any event, the Honorable Mr. Brock-Morland didn’t take my bait, even though the story says he could do with some extra dosh.”
“Just because he’s the second son doesn’t mean he hasn’t got money.”
“Perfectly true. But I hear his father isn’t the best manager of things. Of course, one can’t ever be sure. And thank goodness for that, or what would we talk about?”