Radio Girls (37 page)

Planning to break into Nestlé was more difficult than Siemens. Maisie made several reconnaissance visits and confirmed Hilda's observation that, British arm or not, being beholden to their Swiss overlords
subsumed the company with a penchant for high order and exactness, which didn't allow for deviations and unauthorized visitors. But she had to get in. She wanted the evidence of Grigson's lack of ethics, at least, and if he was found to be engaged in anything worse, so much the better.

After the morning tea break, Maisie knocked on Hilda's door for their meeting. Hilda was sitting bolt upright in her chair, hand pressed to her heart, staring at a mountain of telegrams.

“Miss Matheson?”

Hilda didn't look up.

“The American stock market crashed yesterday.”

“But that's happened before,” Maisie said, remembering her vague attempts to understand the wilderness that was nineteenth-century American banking.

“It appears to be rather bad,” Hilda said, struggling to light a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. Maisie moved to help her just as Phyllida came in with a brandy.

“The whole business of stocks never made much sense to me anyway,” Phyllida said. “Unless they're talking about cattle.”

Maisie read a few of the telegrams. Whatever a “run on the banks” was, it didn't sound good.

“So people will get their money, and—”

“There is no money,” Hilda interrupted, her voice hollow. She threw back the brandy in one gulp. Phyllida hovered uncertainly, the bottle cradled in her arms.

“You, er, didn't have money in American stocks, did you?” she asked.

Hilda glanced at her and shook her head. Then she fixed her eyes on Maisie.

“America was doing a great deal to prop up the Weimar Republic.”

Germany was still struggling. And if there was to be no more American money, and Mr. Keynes and other economists urging the end to reparations weren't heeded, Germany might become desperate. And here was the example of Italy, who had neatly turned its
desperation into a thriving dictatorship. And here were these German patriots, building their agenda, helped by corporate money and ideologues.

“What's Germany got to do with anything?” Phyllida asked.

“God, I hope nothing,” Hilda said, staring into space. “I really, really hope nothing.” She slipped the bottle from Phyllida's grasp and poured herself another drink.

The story of the disappearing American money—a magician's greatest feat—was the only tale told in all the papers. In some there was gloating, because the bounty of American cash had been a source of some irritation in a Britain struggling with its own sluggish economy. In others, there was worry, but only because the crisis was being handled so poorly. There was no whisper of Germany.

“We can't be the only ones who know, can we?” Maisie asked.

“No. We might be the only ones who care,” Hilda said.

Which wasn't particularly encouraging.

“Bit of a poor show our homeland's puttin' up, wouldn't you say?” Lady Astor greeted Maisie when she came to broadcast the inaugural
Week in Westminster
. “Terrible mess. I can't imagine what the boys were thinkin', but I daresay they weren't, and that's how messes get made. Shouldn't be surprised if it's mostly women who do the cleanin' up, or would, if they're allowed in.”

Hilda came in to lend further gravitas to the occasion. Billy was finishing the setting up, and the presenter, Miss Hamilton, prepared the introduction. Maisie's old friend, the fist inside her chest, was the size of a boulder and doing serious damage.

“I find every new program gives me butterflies on its maiden voyage,” Hilda whispered. “You as well?”

“Swap butterflies for pterodactyls,” Maisie said through short breaths.

“You've done marvelous work, and I've told the DG so.”

Billy signaled, and Maisie and Hilda gripped hands.

“Good morning, and welcome to our new program,
The Week in Westminster
,” Miss Hamilton greeted the listeners. “Every week we will hear from different female members of Parliament, who will explain the workings of Parliament and the business before the House of the previous week. Our inaugural presenter is Lady Astor, MP for Plymouth, of the Conservative Party. Good morning, Lady Astor.”

“Thank you. I'm terrifically honored to be here and to assist in educating all the young ladies who have just enjoyed their first vote as to the workings of our system. I've talked to far too many ladies who think politics sounds too confusin' to manage, or just a dreadful bore. I assure you, nothing is further from the truth. A lady does require a powerful voice, though, and some very serious backbone. Now, then . . .”

Fifteen minutes later, Maisie exhaled.

“Marvelous!” Lady Astor said, though it was hard to be sure if she was congratulating them or herself. “And not a moment too soon. Some of the letters I've gotten lately . . . Gracious, there are a multitude of muttonheads out there. Honestly thinking that America's example shows too much democracy leads to scrapes. ‘The firm few, not the muddled many, are what's needed for a strong nation.' That's what one imbecile wrote. Do hope this helps sort people out.”

Which seemed a lot of pressure for fifteen minutes a week. But Maisie was keen to try.

By that afternoon, they had early notices from papers and a number of congratulatory telegrams.

“There, you see? I knew it would be a success,” Phyllida said, giving the telegrams an approving pat.

“Surely the more people care about our political system, the more they'll fight to maintain it, right?” Maisie sought confirmation.

“What idiot would look around the world and think anything's better than what we have here?” Maisie just looked at her. “Oh, all right. Plenty, but they're not going to do anything except make fools of themselves shouting in a pub.”

Maisie smiled. But for once she thought Phyllida might be overly optimistic.

By the time she left that evening, her brain felt so full, her hat was tight. It wasn't a train of thought; it was King's Cross Station. The damp cold was a relief. It tugged at some of the threads in her mind and unspooled them so they floated behind her as she headed up to the Strand.

“Pardon me, miss.” A hand tapped her on the arm.

She screamed.

It was Simon.

“Easy, easy. We'll be arrested if we keep on like this,” he said, finally managing to pry her away. But he kissed her again, too.

“Were you waiting for me out here? You could have come inside, you know.”

“But that wouldn't have been as romantic.”

His lips were moving, he was talking, but Maisie couldn't take any of it in. All this time, and now here he was. He seemed too big, too much, as if he'd been consigned to memory and was now made solid—it was like a series of fun house mirrors, with everything too big and small and distorted. She had the most horrible sense of wanting to break out and be in normal space again.

“I'm overwhelming you, aren't I? I'm so sorry, darling. It's just I . . . I don't know what to . . .”

“Neither do I,” she breathed.

“I can't tell you how I missed that voice.” He picked her up and kissed her. “Have dinner with me,” he whispered into her neck. “At my flat. Come home with me.”

She wanted to. She wanted to be with him. Feast off him. Feel everything she'd only ever dreamed about and wondered and hoped. But the suddenness of it, the popping up of him, a jackrabbit in
spring . . . Her head was too distorted. Somewhere in the din, she heard Phyllida's firm advice, reminding her to keep her head, at least, if she couldn't keep her heart.

“No,” she whispered. “Not at your flat. Somewhere in Soho or Chelsea.”

“I'm longing to be alone with you, darling,” he murmured, stroking the exact spot on the back of her neck where he always made her tingle. She leaned into him, feeling that melting sensation.
Just go. Just let go. Just let yourself have this
.

“No,” she said, and saw his brows jump at her firmness. “No, it's too soon, after all this time. No. We're going for a meal and then I'm going home.”

He looked startled, then smiled and was more gallant than ever, whisking them into a cab and soon after a bistro. And they talked, and ate, and laughed, and she wondered if she saw something in his eyes, some sort of unease, but decided that was the peril of journalistic pursuits. She was always looking for something more in things, creating a danger of seeing things that weren't there.

I must work on that. Can't be devoted to the truth if I'm living in even half a fantasy
.

For all that some people decried the Marie Stopes clinics as hives of immorality, only married women were officially allowed to partake of their wares. Maisie felt more of a fraud wearing one of Lola's more understated rings as a wedding band than in a wig and heavy makeup. She tried not to fidget with the ring as the reception nurse was asking her a few rudimentary questions and taking her through to a little examination room.