The Second-last Woman in England by Maggie Joel

he repeated, for something to say.
    Hippo and Friends was a popular children’s television program broadcast by the BBC at five o’clock on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Felicity was the presenter. It was a ludicrous sort of profession really, but there you were—not everyone could be, nor wished to be, a doctor or a policeman or to work in a law firm or a shipping firm. No doubt the war was largely to blame—Felicity had been in the ATS manning a battery in Victoria during much of it and, by all accounts, had acquitted herself awfully well. He had expected that once the war was over she would marry and have a family—most of those young girls did, eventually. Instead she had landed a job in radio—the announcer between programs. She had that sort of voice—more BBC than the BBC itself. And that was where she had met Leo. Now of course there was Television, which was purely for entertainment, and most people didn’t even own, nor wished to own, a set, and yet here she was presenting a program about a hippo. And his friends.
    Hip, hip, hip hooray . Damn catchy tune, though.
    Harriet stepped into the garden and came over already carrying a martini. She moved gracefully in white shoes with a wicked stiletto heel that spiked the lawn as effectively as a golf tee would on the centre court at Wimbledon. But as the lawn was already pocked it was reasonable to assume every other lady had on similar shoes—except Felicity—and that Leo wasn’t overly concerned. Or hadn’t properly thought through his plan, which was more likely.
    Harriet shot Cecil a glance (oh Lord, the Rocastle thing!) and for a moment it appeared certain she was going to come over to demand an explanation. He prepared to produce his nothing-to-worry-about smile. But she veered off at the last moment and he saw with surprise that Simon was here.
    Relieved, he took a sip of lemonade. ‘Certainly wasn’t expecting to see Simon here,’ he remarked to Felicity, who had remained standing beside him and looked in no hurry to return to her guests.
    ‘Oh yes. He and Leo have become quite chummy,’ she replied and it was hard to tell if she approved of this chumminess or not. ‘The BBC is doing a program about Spitfires.’
    ‘Good God, not another one? Haven’t we heard enough about the war? Surely there can’t be any more stories left to tell?’
    ‘Apparently there are. At any rate, Leo has lined Simon up to be technical advisor.’
    ‘Well,’ was all Cecil could think of to say. What he wanted to say was, why in God’s name would Simon Paget wish to get himself caught up in some ghastly Television program? Did Harriet know about this? Quite probably she did. She did have an unnerving habit of dropping some revelation into the conversation and then making one feel foolish for not having known it oneself: Oh yes I’ve known that for simply ages—did you really not know? It was unsettling. And Paget was Harriet’s brother, after all. Yet Cecil had an idea she didn’t know. He had another idea that she wouldn’t actually care one way or the other.
    Did he himself care? In light of what had happened this morning? Damn Rocastle for putting them—for putting him —in this frightful position.
    ‘There you are, old man,’ said Mumford, reappearing at his elbow and waving his martini glass before him like a divining rod. ‘I hear things are not as one might hope on the work front?’
    Cecil froze and felt an uncomfortable tightening of the chest. How the devil could Leo know about the Rocastle thing? Could Harriet have said something? He kept his expression blank and concentrated on making the tightness go away.
    ‘I’m sorry, but I prefer not to discuss such things now, Mumford,’ he replied, with an attempt at a smile to soften his words.
    ‘But it’s all over the papers, old man.’
    Cecil blanched.
    ‘The United States ,’ Mumford prompted. ‘Made the Atlantic crossing in under four days! Extraordinary when you think about it. Think