Radio Girls by Sarah-Jane Stratford

Author:Sarah-Jane Stratford
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-03-31T16:36:37+00:00

“Oh good, you found your way. I knew you wouldn’t let the side down.”

Maisie blinked at Phyllida, not entirely sure how she’d found her way to the chip shop. She thought she might have flown.

“Was it that good or is there a Talk brewing in there?” Phyllida asked, tapping Maisie’s temple.

“I . . . well . . . I enjoyed it.”

“Aye, you’re floating so high, you could make a few extra bob giving people balloon rides.”

“He’s rather swell. A swell swell,” Maisie added.

“Which certainly trumps being swill,” Phyllida rejoined. “Now tell me what you mean.”

“I think he might be an aristocrat.”

“Oh, good Lord.”

“Possibly not a lord. He didn’t say.”

Maisie grinned shakily and dumped half a decanter of vinegar on her chips.

“You do look besotted,” Phyllida said. “Before the fantasy gets too developed, just remember you’re not senior enough to stay at the BBC if you get married.”

“It was one date,” Maisie protested. “And only tea.” Though he did seem to be everything she’d ever dreamed of. Except now I want something more. She shoved a forkful of chips in her mouth, feeling guiltily ungrateful. Phyllida’s father was content to think of her as dead until she got married and grew out her hair. Half the female working force in Britain had a similar story. The papers trumpeted their great modern times, but a lot of parents were still firm devotees of Victorianism, and nearly all the institutions and businesses embraced modernism only in so far as it enhanced their fortunes. The BBC was nearly a lone exception, and even its beneficence only stretched so far. I wonder if my father would approve of me working.

“Ah, that was rotten of me. I’m sorry,” Phyllida said, misreading the meaning of Maisie’s expression. “I’m glad you had a good time, as you should. ‘All work and no play . . .’ or whatever damn thing it was someone once said.”

“Is it still work when you absolutely, totally, and completely love it?”

For once Phyllida didn’t have a quick response. She broke into a wide smile and ordered them more chips. It was such luxury, being able to buy a meal and not feeling you had to skimp on something else. They were still poor, but there was a division in London—the same division that existed everywhere, Maisie supposed—between the poor who had regular work and those who weren’t able to secure it. Those were the people the Poor Law forced into workhouses, another Victorian vestige, offering meager assistance and copious amounts of shaming.

“Why do you think poor people are made to feel ashamed for being poor?” Maisie burst out as she dumped half a bottle of HP Sauce over the fresh chips.

“Well, what? Would you have the rich feel guilty about their oversized houses and collections of Greek sculptures and dead butterflies?” Phyllida asked, stabbing her knife into her chicken croquette.

“I’m serious.” Maisie was suddenly livid. “London and New York are stinking rich. It’s like the peasants and the lords still, and we should know better by now.

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