“I feel as though we ought to be doing something ourselves, not frivoling like this,” Phyllida said, lighting a cigarette.
“Resting up, that’s what we’re doing,” Maisie said, though she felt the same. The election fever was high, and even women who would never have called themselves political were buzzing about it. They could hear snips of conversations all around them, and discovered the sailboats were christened “Labour” and “Liberal.”
“I can’t wait till I’m running in an election,” Phyllida said, stretching out her legs and crossing her ankles.
Maisie reached into her bag and pulled out another letter from Simon.
“Practice your political acumen by telling me what you think of this.”
My dearest Maisie,
The beauty of this part of Germany is extraordinary. The food and wine are nothing to what one gets in France, but the people are far more fine than I imagined and I think they have learned their lessons well. I do miss all the beauty of home, of course, but business must be done and things must be put right before I can return. Be well and be good, and think of me.
“Still busy trying to renew the family fortune by exploiting the flattened German economy somehow or other, is he?”
“I hope not,” Maisie said, biting her lip. “But somehow, the way he’s always saying how keen he is on beauty—”
“Call yourself plain and I’ll punt you into the lake.”
“I wouldn’t say that about me anymore. It’s that, all right, he lives and works in London, and loves it, but he’s always joking about his love of that other life: the great house, the manor, riding his horse every day. And I don’t know that it’s joking, really, and . . .”
“And you’re wondering where you fit into that life?”
Maisie sighed. “Sometimes I imagine a . . . wild sort of world, I guess, me in a long dress and cloak, long hair, wandering through the countryside . . .”
“And after the five minutes are up, what do you think of?”
“A flat in Mecklenburgh Square, where I can read as late as I like and listen to the wireless and no one says boo about the electricity.”
“And is Simon there, too?”
“I guess I can’t help hoping so.”
“Hmm. Well, no good getting mithered till he’s back in Britain anyhow,” Phyllida said with finality. “Come on, let’s hire some mallets and join the croquet.”
“I don’t know how to play.”
“I’ll teach you. It’s great fun. You just pretend the ball is the head of someone you despise and give it a solid whack.”
“You’re a champion at it, aren’t you?”
“With the ribbons to prove it.”
The spring of 1929 might have been beautiful or miserable, but no one in Savoy Hill could know for sure, because in those few weeks from the announcement to the election, the staff worked at a fever pitch. The broadcasting day was still short, but the preparations for each election-related broadcast took hours. And where there was time, Hilda swept Maisie off in the evenings to instruct her in the finer details of snooping through a stranger’s office.
“The trouble is, Miss Musgrave, if you get caught, it’s not going to speak particularly well for the BBC, is it?”
“It won’t be official BBC business,” Maisie argued. “It’ll just be me.”
“Yes. I suppose. All right, these are the sorts of papers you want to look for . . .”
She wasn’t to start until after Election Day. Maisie was out the door in record time on May 30 to run to her polling station, and found a long queue already. Half those waiting to vote were women.
Maisie was bouncing on her toes, counting the heads in front of her, when a man’s voice sounded in her ear: “Pardon me, miss. Might I ask you a few questions?”
“You mean me?” she asked the eager reporter, blinking at her from behind smeary glasses. He was so young, he still had spots.
“Yes, please. How did you decide whom you would vote for?” he asked, licking his pencil and holding it poised over his pad.
“Ah! The BBC series Questions for Women Voters was a great help,” she told him, not lying. Then realized she was in trouble if he asked her name and printed it.
“You’ve got a bit of a peculiar accent,” he told her.
“Thank you.”
He frowned, but was too eager to get to his next question to dwell on her accent. “Tell me, did the appearance of the candidates sway you at all?”
“Appearance? I’m not sure what you mean.”
He leaned toward her with a superior grin and winked.
“Maybe you’re voting for a particular party hoping a good-looking representative will take the seat?”
“Do male voters make their decisions that way?” She was genuinely curious.
“We’re just wondering what’s driving so many women to the polls. Do you think this is something you’ll do again, or is it just a bit of a fad?”
He was very reedy-looking. It wouldn’t be hard to overpower him, seize his pad, and write a proper story for him.