Mr.Churchill's Secretary(5)

“In any case.” Mrs. Tinsley sighed, shaking her head. “It’s bound to be difficult at first.”

Maggie drew herself up in her straight-backed wooden chair and lifted her chin. I’ll show you, she thought. I’ll show all of you. “I’m ready for anything. Ma’am.”

“Very well, then,” Mrs. Tinsley said. “But remember—if you leave now, no one will hold it against you.”

It was a long day.

Maggie met Miss Stewart, a petite and plump older woman with watery blue eyes and snow-white hair with a wide pink part, another of Mr. Churchill’s secretaries. She spoke in a soft, melodious voice. She whispered that because “He” was spending the week at Chequers, the Prime Minister’s official country house, the office was quieter. The atmosphere was much more intense, she said, when “He” was in.

Fantastic, Maggie thought. I can only imagine Mrs. Tinsley under pressure.

Maggie was also introduced to Richard Snodgrass, head private secretary. The bastard who kept me from getting the private secretary job, she thought.

“Thank you, Mrs. Tinsley. But Mr. Snodgrass and I have already met.”

Several months ago, Maggie had been up for a job as one of the illustrious private secretaries but didn’t get it. No women allowed. No girls in the precious private secretary sandbox, Maggie thought. In the caste system of No. 10, women were the secretaries—the typists. Men, usually Oxford or Cambridge graduates of the upper class, were the private secretaries, who did the research, drafted reports, and ventured opinions, while the women took dictation.

Richard Snodgrass was short, made to look even shorter by his striped double-breasted suit. His greasy black hair was combed over his bald spot. His hands were small and soft, and he blinked rapidly, as though coming into the light after a long stretch of darkness. Like a little mole, Maggie thought. She caught a whiff of vetiver cologne.

“Mr. Snodgrass, Miss Hope is our new typist,” Mrs. Tinsley said.

“Of course,” he said stiffly, the name ringing a bell.

“I obviously made quite an impression with my sparkling personality,” Maggie said drily.

“So glad to see you’ve found your proper place here at Number Ten, Miss Hope. I’m sure you’ll do well—with the rest of the ladies.”

Maggie forced her lips into a tight smile. “Thank you.”

“Miss Hope. About the private secretary job …”

Oh, this should be good, she thought.

“You may be very smart. For a woman.” He coughed. “But you see, women—even smart women, university-educated women—have the bad habit of going off and getting married. You just can’t count on them to stick around and get the job done. Especially in wartime.”

Maggie was silent, inwardly fuming.

“After all, if we made an exception for you, pretty soon there would be all kinds of women insisting on doing work on higher levels. And then where would we be? Who’d do all the typing?”

Snodgrass laughed.

The two women didn’t.

Maggie had the feeling Mrs. Tinsley was just as angry as she was.

“Mr. Snodgrass,” Maggie began, before she could stop herself, “how is Mr. Simpson working out?”

Snodgrass looked confused. “Mr. Simpson?”

“Yes, Mr. Conrad Simpson. Who was hired as a private secretary. Instead of me. How’s he doing in his new position?” Maggie knew very well from David that Conrad had been let go—he’d been terrible at his job.

“He, ah, moved on.”

“Really?” Maggie said. “So, you just couldn’t count on him to stick around and get the job done, then?”

“Miss Hope, that’s not—”

“And so—I’m here, and he’s not.”

“Miss Hope!” Mrs. Tinsley sounded shocked.

“I merely wondered what happened with Mr. Simpson,” Maggie said. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

Snodgrass spluttered, “That’s not—” before collecting himself. “Carry on!” he barked as he waved one hand, turned on his heel, and walked away.

“Back to work, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley said sternly.

Later, that evening, two young men in dark suits passed by the office door.

Mrs. Tinsley saw Maggie glance up and frowned. “You should know, Miss Hope, that the private secretaries, while young, are men of considerable standing. Under the guidance of Mr. Snodgrass, they act as a buffer between Mr. Churchill and the rest of the world, making sure he has everything he needs—conducting research, writing drafts, producing reports. They will go on to their own illustrious careers.”

“Yes, I—” I know all too well, Maggie thought.