Chuck made her way toward the copper kettle on the stove but stopped short at the state of the sink, piled high with dirty dishes. “Jesus H. Christ!”
Maggie shrugged. “The twins.” The twins in question were Annabelle and Clarabelle Wiggett, two pixielike young blondes who also lived in the house, known as much for their thick Norwich accents and incessant giggling as for the catastrophic messes they left. Chuck referred to them, not necessarily unkindly, as “the Ding-belles,” “the Dumb-belles,” and “the Hell’s Belles.”
Chuck made a low growl in her throat. “Off with their heads,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves and taking up a dishrag.
The telephone rang, and Paige jumped to get it. “Hello?” she cooed, as if expecting to hear from one of her numerous boyfriends. Then, “Oh, yes, David—she’s here.” David was David Greene, one of Maggie’s good friends, who worked as a private secretary to Winston Churchill.
Maggie took the heavy black Bakelite receiver and sat down at the kitchen table, running her fingers over the nicks and scars in the wood. “It’s just that the girl’s gone missing,” David said, his voice solemn. “Actually, it’s a bit more serious than that. But the thing is, we need a replacement. Yesterday.”
“Wasn’t she murdered a few days ago?” Maggie asked. “Mugged for a few pounds? I saw something in The Times about it. And in Pimlico, too—”
Paige and Chuck both turned, listening.
“Look, it’s a terrible situation, Magster, but there’s still a war on and work to be done. Now more than ever. We need to fill the position.”
“Paige and I have already decided—we’re going to be drivers. The call of the open road and all.”
“Maggie, my dear, I know you can take dictation and type well. And that’s what’s needed right now. And please, let me emphasize the right now bit.”
Maggie leaned back in the chair. She could see where this was going. “Well, then, why don’t you do it?”
“I’m already a private secretary, research and that sort of thing. Besides, I don’t, well—”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t … type?”
“Not very fast, I’m afraid,” he said. “But you can, and quickly, too. And that’s what’s needed.” Then, “We need you.”
Maggie was silent. Dishes done, Chuck had turned back to her tea, the mug dwarfed by her large, capable hands. Paige busied herself with the newspaper.
“Merciful Zeus, woman!” David exclaimed over the crackling line. “It’s a chance to work on the front lines. You’d be doing something important. Making a difference.”
The knowledge that he was right stung. She could make a difference. But not in the way she wanted, with her mathematic capabilities. As a typist.
“Working for Mr. Churchill would be one of the hardest and most challenging jobs you can do. And vital as well. But it’s up to you, of course. I can’t say it’s going to be anything but difficult. But if you’re interested, I can make it happen. We’ve already started the paperwork, proving you’re a British citizen in good standing—despite your dreadful accent.”
Maggie smiled in spite of herself; David loved to mock her American accent. “Would there be any chance of my being involved with the research and writing end of things? After all, with my degree, I could be of more help, especially with things like queue theory, allocating resources, information theory, code and cipher breaking—”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, Maggie, but they’re only hiring men for those jobs. I understand your frustration.…” Maggie had already tried for a private secretary job, a position traditionally held by young Oxbridge men from upper-class families. Despite being more than qualified, she’d been turned down.
“No, David. You don’t.” It wasn’t his fault, but still, the truth hurt. She could type and file, while young men her age, like David, could do more—research, reports, writing. It just wasn’t fair, and the knowledge made her want to throw and break things. Immature, she knew, but honest. “I’d rather drive or work in a factory, making tanks.”
“Maggie—why?”
“Look, you of all people should know why.” David, after all, wouldn’t be there, either, if they knew everything about him. “You don’t get to judge me.”
“I’m sorry.…”
“You’re sorry? Sorry?” she said, her voice rising in pitch. In the kitchen, the girls all pretended to be very, very busy with what they were doing. “Perfect. You’re sorry. But it doesn’t change anything.” Her pronunciation became more distinct. “It doesn’t change that when I interviewed for the private secretary job, I was more than qualified. It doesn’t change that Dicky Snodgrass was a condescending ass to me. It doesn’t change that John sees me as a mere girl incapable of anything besides typing and getting married and having babies. And it doesn’t change that they hired that cross-eyed lug Conrad Simpson—a mouth breather who probably still has to sound words out and count on his fingers—all because his daddy has a fancy title and he has a … a … a penis!”