Neither was Hilda. “Although I would like to be, I must say.” Maisie had met her at the door to Savoy Hill that morning and they walked up the stairs together. They murmured, though they could have bellowed and no one would have heard them over the din, even at that hour. “All this fuss, just to keep a wealthy company run by wealthy men earning a bit more money. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they call themselves Christians, too. Silly idiots.”
“They also want to keep women from working. Or voting.”
“They wouldn’t, if they thought women working and voting would earn themselves one extra half-farthing. Never mind. The more we educate our listeners, the harder their work will be.”
“And the more fun for us,” Maisie said.
It was a grueling day. Hilda asked both Maisie and Phyllida to accompany her in rehearsing Virginia Woolf, an uncomfortable hour during which the writer refused to meet any of their eyes. She gazed at the microphone as though she expected it to bite her and looked fully prepared to bite back.
“I enjoyed Orlando very much,” Phyllida ventured, with her most winning smile. Virginia Woolf stared at her without blinking.
“Thank you,” she said at last. “It was a great pleasure to write.” This comment was delivered with what looked very much like a glare at Hilda.
“We’re all very lucky, aren’t we?” Hilda asked. “Getting to do work we enjoy? Wouldn’t have been possible, even when you were born, Miss Fenwick.”
“No, quite,” Phyllida answered, but her voice was wavering under that ceaseless glare, and Hilda’s usual cheer and disinterest in Miss Woolf’s temper was making it worse. Maisie and Phyllida exchanged a look, but there was nothing to do except carry on until, at last, Miss Woolf rose to leave.
Maisie stepped forward to walk her out. Miss Woolf said nothing, but shunned the lift for the stairs, moving with such ominous solemnity as to unnerve anyone coming upstairs, so that they jumped aside to let her pass. Maisie didn’t like the writer’s behavior, but couldn’t help be impressed.
“Are you working on something new, Miss Woolf?” Maisie asked, hoping she seemed polite. In fact, she wanted to punish Virginia Woolf by forcing her to talk.
“I am,” was the succinct reply.
“Another novel, dare we hope?”
“Of sorts.” They reached reception, and the writer gave Maisie the faintest of nods. “It is, in part, about the importance of having one’s own space. And having that space respected.” She raised an eyebrow at Maisie, then turned and sashayed out the door.
Well, what idiot’s going to argue otherwise?
Maisie ran back upstairs, where Hilda had forgotten Virginia Woolf and wanted to address the problem of some letters they were getting in response to Questions for Women Voters, letters from married women whose husbands were angry about them registering to vote.
“What sort of marriage do you call that?” Phyllida demanded. “One that needs walking out of, is what I say.”
“We can’t be accused of promoting marital discord,” Hilda said. “Or more scandalously, divorce. So, let’s think about these women.”
Maisie rolled her pencil up and down her pad. Just a few years ago, she wouldn’t have wanted to vote, to do anything that required making her own decisions. The old ideas, home, safety, someone who loved her, a family at last. So here were women whose husbands still believed that their voices should be sufficient in speaking for the whole family. It had for centuries; why should it not now?
All right, so they were raised to be the head of the house, and they do still earn the money, most of them, so they want to feel in control. But why should a man want to control the person who’s meant to be his partner? That can’t really be pleasant for anyone, surely?
“I suppose it’s something new to share, isn’t it?” Hilda said, sounding unusually romantic. “That’s what marriage is meant to be, sharing lives.” Her eyes wandered; she took a thousand-mile journey in a millisecond. “Another member of the family voting isn’t going to change real love.”
“Speaking of love, Maisie, you’ve got a phone call,” Phyllida said, her hand thankfully over the mouthpiece.
Maisie took the phone in surprise. Simon preferred to write than ring.
“Maisie!” he cried when she greeted him. “Glad the ever-so-important BBC can spare you a moment. Do you need to tell them it’s work-related, lest you risk a whipping?”
“No, it’s all right . . . Are you all right?” She thought he sounded odd, a bit sneerier of the BBC than usual, and almost frantic. Which wasn’t Simon at all. Maybe it was just the strangeness of hearing his voice on the phone.