Radio Girls (29 page)

It was positively alien to think of Hilda needing anyone else's brains. Ellis lit a cheroot and grinned at Maisie.

“It's not actually my brains she's after, but kind of her to say.”

Maisie looked back and forth between the two of them. “Is this . . . ? Are you . . . ? You are MI5, aren't you?” She sagged against the Regency table.

“Ah, girls and their fancies,” Ellis said, winking at her.

“Yes, we're hopelessly frivolous,” Hilda snapped. “Now, then, have a look at these, so as to offer your dubious yet valued opinion.”

Maisie wanted to point out they hadn't answered her question, but Hilda was spreading their notes, German propaganda, and annotated articles across the table.

“I know you were putting it down to cleverness, Matty, but if the girl thinks you're a spy, it may be because that handwriting looks like desperately tricky code.”

“What hilarity,” Hilda said. “How are you not a music hall star?”

“I have a rotten agent. So, your little interest in the political lunatic fringe rises again, I see.”

“Not so lunatic or fringe if they are attracting people with money. Miss Musgrave sneaked into an underground meeting . . .” Hilda turned to Maisie. “How were you able to get in, by the way? They weren't letting just anyone in, I should think?”

“No, there was a code word, ‘lion,' which . . .” She paused, as Hilda and Ellis were laughing.

“Sorry, Miss Musgrave. It's only that these people are like little boys playing adventure games. Look at the advert again, just the first letters of every line.”

Hilda ran her finger down the ad:

L
isten in a like-minded crowd!

I
f Siemens is your favorite wireless,

o
pt to gather 'round with us.

N
ews of a
real
sort and refreshments, too!

“And I daresay it's ‘Lion' for the lion of England,” Ellis finished, wiping his eyes. “But really, Matty, how can you think people who put on such a poor show are worth worrying about? I grant you, they would do better to take up good, solid hobbies like Onanism—”

“Ellis!”

“—but I fail to see anything illegal.”

“They want to take over the BBC and stop women working there!” Maisie cried.

“Everyone wants to run the BBC. You're a great success. But I'll say to you what I said to Matty. I see foolishness and odiousness, but not illegality.”

“The
Radio Times
,” Maisie said suddenly. “Not just any magazine—they picked the
Radio Times
to alert people to meetings.” She whirled to Hilda. “That quote. From that fellow Goebbels. Where he said that coup the Nazis staged in 1923 might have succeeded, if they could have taken over the radio.” She turned back to Ellis. “That wasn't legal. And now they're trying to raise money, and from here, too. And if British Fascists are thinking along the same lines—”

“I said they were legal, not decent,” Ellis muttered.

“Honestly, if captains of industry are giving up a free evening to attend Fascist meetings, they must see a business opportunity,” Hilda said. “And that's rarely good for those who like freedom. They want to buy some papers too, it seems, to further exert influence.”

“Ah, following closely in Mussolini's footsteps, eh?” Ellis asked with a theatrical wink. Hilda, to Maisie's surprise, actually blushed.

“My point,” Hilda said, biting her lips, “is that it might be worth keeping at least a casual eye on them.”

“That takes time and money,” Ellis said. “Of which I have virtually
none. But if the two of you wish to dig deeper and then share findings, there is always plenty of brandy.”

“So you do think it's worthwhile!” Hilda cried.

“No. I'm just humoring you,” Ellis said. “You always like to have all your thousand and one projects. But I say, Miss Musgrave, do be careful. These fantasists rarely amount to much politically, but they can allow their ideas to run away with them, which can be a bit dangerous. Not really something a nice young girl ought to be getting muddled up in.”

“That's very good advice,” Maisie said gravely. “If I see any nice young girls, I'll be sure to pass it along.”

London, September 1928

Dear Lola
,

I'm so pleased the show is such a success and you're enjoying Rome. I do miss you, though. You needn't worry about my moving anytime soon. I'm earning more money as a Talks assistant, but I'd rather build up some savings, and of course get some more decent clothes and things. I do wish you were here to help me with shopping
(which wasn't true but it would delight Lola)
. Tell me more about this visconte who meets you at the stage door every night. I hope he's noble in every sense of the word! We all miss you. Mrs. Crewe wants you to hurry home from such a disreputable place as Italy, though she's glad you decided to keep your room here. As am I, and thank you again for giving me free rein with your things. I'm putting them to good use, and will tell all when you get home.

Yours,

Maisie

E
ven if she had funds enough to move, there was absolutely no time for flat-hunting. In addition to her full days as a Talks assistant, she continued to type Hilda's notes on broadcasting as they accumulated, every few weeks. A fine book was taking shape. Her budget now allowed for her own copies of morning papers, and as she had mastered the art of balancing in the tram without holding a strap, she could read and mark interesting events or people that might generate a Talk. And now she was sniffing around at what this unauthorized branch of the Fascist party was up to, as it was trying to upset her apple cart. She never felt tired, only energized.

This week was particularly historic, as she was the first one to attack a submitted script with a red pencil. The Talk was
A Day in the Life of a London Postman
. She worked on it in the tram, in the evenings, even in the bath.
Make it conversational. Bring out the most interesting bits. Help him be his most natural self.
Then she presented it with high ceremony to Hilda.

“Excellent work, Miss Musgrave,” Hilda said half an hour later, handing it back to her. Covered in blue writing. Hilda had made several dozen more revisions—all of them perfect.

“Sometimes I wonder why any of us even bother,” Maisie murmured to Phyllida, who was reading the script over her shoulder.

“Hers is better,” Phyllida said unhelpfully.

“I'm aware of that.”

“And next time you'll do better, too,” Phyllida said, bopping Maisie on the shoulder.

Maisie looked forward to getting her hands dirtier with
Questions for Women Voters
, which was an instant success. So much post came in asking follow-up questions, they had to run an extra five minutes at the end of each broadcast just to address a tenth of them.

“We need a daily program, frankly, and an hour long,” Maisie told Simon, as they strolled through the National Gallery. He was keen to show her what he considered all the best art.

“If the ladies have so many questions, maybe they're not ready to
vote,” Simon said, laughing in the face of Maisie's lightning-bolt glare. “Joking! Rights for one should be rights for all, certainly. And it's far better than having women protesting on the streets, yowling like banshees and creating all kinds of mess. I remember seeing it as a lad, grim stuff.” He pretended to shudder.

“If equal rights were just given from the beginning, then no one would have to fight for them on the street and create a mess,” Maisie said.

“Ah, there's no arguing with the radical ladies.”

“Not radical; reasonable, I think.”

They laughed, and Maisie tried not to feel too pleased with herself. She couldn't entirely believe it, believe this was her, the former Mousy Maisie, exploring the National Gallery with a charming and handsome and honest-to-goodness aristocrat, who seemed to like her. She still felt a bit awkward around him. Even after an acquaintanceship of several months, she hadn't seen much of him. Indeed, their only contact over the last few weeks had been letters.

“Can you forgive me, dearest?” he asked. “I've been working at it like a family of beavers. The words, the words, eh? Well, you know, you do a bit of writing yourself. Awfully satisfying when it comes out right and is printed, isn't it?”

“It is,” she agreed, thinking it was high time she tried to write something for print again.

“But I can't help wishing for a larger readership,” he complained. “
Pinpoint
is doing such fine work, but so few know it.” They stopped before
The Hay Wain
. “Ah, Constable. A great beauty, isn't it? He really knew how to capture the best of Britain, the country life, the ordinary worker. Now, you see, that's the sort of man I'd like my work to reach.”

“Constable?”

“The worker, darling. Provided he can read. Ah, I suppose that is the advantage you have over me. With radio, it doesn't matter if the people are illiterate; you can still present them with useful facts and thus shape their minds.”

“Well, we actually try to—”

“Wouldn't it be grand if the newspapers and BBC worked
together, after a fashion? Get the most important information to the people, make sure no one missed it?”

“But news does get everywhere,” Maisie said. “Every town and village has a paper, and there's Reuters and—”

“Of course, of course. But it's not the same as a really brilliant editor, putting together all the best stories, not just facts but essays, opinions. Think of it, darling. A good, strong voice, clear of all the other dross that ends up in papers, that would provide some real meat for the man. Or woman,” he added graciously.

“I don't know,” Maisie said. “It sounds like it waters things down an awful lot.”

“Not if the writing is masterful. Besides, isn't that rather what your BBC does? It is only a single entity, based in London and so not unreasonably viewed as London-centric, and travels unaltered all through the country.”

“But that's what makes us so democratic,” Maisie argued. “Anyone anywhere can hear a poem or a debate or a play and they don't have to be able to read or be in London and they can enjoy it equally.”

“They don't have to be bothered with a lot of different views.”

“But we
do
present different views! Miss Matheson says that's one of the most important—”

“Oh, Miss Matheson, Miss Matheson. Honestly, darling, she begins to sound like a deity. Come, let's pay obeisance to Vermeer.”

He took her hand to pull her along. She was sure his argument was flawed and wanted to think about it, but when he touched her, the ability to think fell out of her ears. She just wanted to follow that touch wherever it went.

“If that's true, you'd best be careful,” Phyllida warned. They were cranking out mimeographs, so they could steal a moment for a private conversation. “At least go to one of those clinics.”

“Those . . . Oh!” Those sorts of clinics. She had come a long way
from Cyril. She wasn't sure if she was in love, but she wasn't sure she cared. When she was with Simon, she just wanted . . .

“But what do you think when you're not with him?”

“Mostly about the BBC.”

“Aye, so be careful. Don't want to get yourself in what they might call ‘a situation.'”

“You have to be married to go to those clinics, though,” said Maisie.

“So you borrow a ring and call yourself ‘Mrs.' They're not going to check.” Phyllida shrugged.

“How do you know?” Maisie demanded.

Phyllida gave Maisie a disdainful frown.

“I came up through the typing pool. Try to find something I don't know.”

Maisie laughed, gathered the mimeographs, and headed for the corridor.

“As it happens, unlike some people we need not mention, Simon Brock-Morland is thus far as honorable as his title.”

Beanie, hurrying past them, skittered to a halt.

“Simon Brock-Morland? Don't say
you
know him!”

“I do, actually.” Maisie grinned.

“He's courting her,” Phyllida added, smirking.

“Is he? Really? Fancy that—here I thought I was the one who specialized in unlikely scenarios. Anyway, must dash, rehearsal. Cheerio!”

Maisie had her own rehearsal to attend, so kept pace with Beanie.

“So you know him, too? You do, don't you? Do you like him?”

Beanie gave Maisie a sidelong glance, looped arms with her, and propelled her up the stairs, heads close together.

“I don't know him well, if that's what you're asking. I was just paraded before him a few times as a viable candidate, doing my show horse rounds.”

“Sorry?”

“He's eligible. I'm available. Got to display all the wares.
Les parents
may be tickled by my work, living the regular life, doing good, et cetera, et cetera, but I'm still who I am and there are expectations, don't you know? Can't let the side down. Duty will come for us all and can't shirk it forever. Got to produce more top foals and what.”

Beanie was too well trained to let her real feelings show, even accidentally. But Maisie swore she heard a twinge of bitterness in that cut-glass accent.

“But you don't have to marry anyone you don't want to, surely? It's nearly 1929, for heaven's sake.”

“You really aren't British.” Beanie giggled, shaking her head. “Ah, well, in any event, the Honorable Mr. Brock-Morland didn't take my bait, even though the story says he could do with some extra dosh.”

“Just because he's the second son doesn't mean he hasn't got money.”

“Perfectly true. But I hear his father isn't the best manager of things. Of course, one can't ever be sure. And thank goodness for that, or what would we talk about?”

Maisie turned this information over and over. If Simon was concerned about money, but seemed to be interested in her and not someone like Beanie . . .

“He might like that you're clever, you know,” Beanie said. “He's a funny one that way. Or he hopes to shock the family, of course. Shocking one's family is quite ‘the fad' these days. This year's pea-shooting. Ah, here's for me, cheerio.”

Beanie was halfway down the corridor when Maisie shouted after her.

“How do families like that lose money? It's not just taxes or peasant revolts. It can't be.”

Beanie turned and stared at her. “It would take a lot more journeys up and down the stairs to answer that question.”

“Can you, though? Answer it?”

“Are you looking for gossip about Simon? I can likely scrape some up for you. He was rather a pompous ass to me. You're not in love with
him, are you? Not that it matters. On the other hand.” She paused, studying Maisie. Her expression was so serious, she was unrecognizable. “If you really want to know more about reversals of fortune, there are any number of stories written on it, I should think. But if this is towards a Talk, you tell Miss Matheson I want to be the one to present it.”

“You? Really?”