Radio Girls (43 page)

She knew. As soon as the BBC's wooden door shut behind her, she knew that the man on the corner was looking for her. There must be hundreds of people in every building on Savoy Street, but she knew. He was looking for her.

She glanced up the street. She didn't have far to walk. And it was a perfectly innocent thing she was about to do. Anyone could mail a letter.

She'd been seen. She couldn't be Invisible Girl even if she wanted to be.

She walked, strutted, actually.
Go on, try something. I dare you.

But the fist inside her was heaving and hawing like a ship's bellows. This had all become suddenly, achingly real.

“Hallo. You're leaving almost early, aren't you?”

Cyril and Billy joined her on the path, heading for the American Bar. It was very strange to be happy to see them.

“Why don't you come along?” Cyril urged. “Have a bit of a chin wag about the old pile?”

“That would be super,” she said, grinning with relief. “Only I've got to get to the post office first, a letter to go express. You know how Talks business is. Care to walk with me over there first?”

The men were just agreeing when they were joined by someone else, coming the other way.

“Is that my girl, strolling down the street with two other chappies?”

Simon. And she wasn't wearing the ring.

She pretended to be even more flustered and fidgety than she was so that the men took over the task of introductions. The ring was in her bag, in the mirror pocket. She slipped her hand in and worked
the ring on, blessing the British traditions of proper introductions and polite nothings that gave her time. Her hand clasped around the envelope in her bag.

“I rang your office and the Yorkie girl told me you'd be leaving about now. I thought I'd come and surprise you,” Simon said.

“I'm so happy to see you,” she cried, throwing her arms around Simon. She caught Cyril's eye over Simon's shoulder and glanced at the envelope in her hand. Too surprised to do anything else, Cyril took it. She nodded in a way that she hoped told him to run and post the letter without thinking about the address and to not let Simon or Billy see. But there wasn't too much one could convey in a nod. Cyril tucked the envelope inside his jacket, staring at Maisie.

“My goodness, such ardor!” Simon cried. “And, darling, you're rather excessively glowing. Some powder, I think.” He took her bag and opened it. “Only a lipstick!
Tsk.
Let's get you to Selfridges. You need a few girlish treats.”

She took his arm, not knowing what else to do. She knew Cyril and Billy were staring at her, and hoped Cyril would hurry to the post office.

“I
was able to get that letter posted for you,” Cyril assured her the next morning, outside Studio Three. “I know it's not my business, but I did want to ascertain you're not in any trouble. That all looked a bit rum, to be honest.”

“No, I'm all right. Thank you. Very good of you to post that letter for me. I just, er, didn't want Mr. Brock-Morland to know about it,” she finished lamely.

“I rather got that idea,” Cyril said dryly, nodding. “He seems an all-right sort of chap?”

“Unfortunately, I think ‘seems' is the word of choice these days.”

“Do you, er, need any help?” he asked.

His eyes were serious, but she was sure she caught the whiff of a boys' adventure tale.

“That's very good of you, Mr. Underwood, and I'll keep that offer in mind, should I get in a scrape.”

She nodded and he nodded back.

“Coming, Underwood?” Billy called from the studio. “We're ready for broadcast.”

“Yes, coming,” he said, still looking at her. He went inside and the light flashed red. Broadcast in progress; enter and perish.

Maisie was just turning the corner back to the Talks Department when Hilda strode out, a file in hand, Torquhil at her feet. She nodded to Maisie and jerked her head. Maisie fell into step and they walked, silently, all the way to the Sound Effects Department.

Hilda threw open the door, and all the men jumped up to shout at the interloper, but went quiet and respectful on seeing who it was, joining in a rather harmonious, “How do you do, Miss Matheson?”

“Good day, chaps. I've got a speaker coming in to Talk about winter sport, and some sound effects might be nice. Can you have a think on it?”

“Certainly, Miss Matheson.” Fowler nodded, eyes gleaming. “Does your dog bark?”

“Only when provoked. Or when he's playing.”

“May we try recording him?”

“Certainly.”

Someone produced a large rope and tested Torquhil on his tug-of-war skills, while someone else paid attention to all the cheerful growls. Within minutes, the sound men being what they were, the usual noise had the improvement of Torquhil's leaps and barks and all the men and dog scrabbling about in a game without rules.

“The letter got posted, but someone was definitely following me last night,” Maisie told her. “And Simon came to meet me, which can't have been coincidence.” She still felt queasy. Maisie had upgraded the headache to the age-old excuse of “women's complaints,” which rendered her free from any chance of supper or his flat. Simon had been repelled.

“Yes, I got wind of something along those lines, never mind how. I've arranged with Vita and Harold. We're going to go there tonight and practice for your appearance at the drinks tomorrow. You'll have to be ready for all possibilities.”

Fowler leaped right beside them, catching a ball. Torquhil leaped
at it with an enormous bark, and they both crashed to the ground. And still Maisie and Hilda didn't move.

“These people wouldn't be following us if they weren't worried, would they?” Maisie asked.

“That's a fair assessment.”

“Which means you're right, and they really are playing a big game. A nasty one, too.”

“It's not always pleasant, being right,” Hilda said, as Torquhil circled her, with what looked like a gramophone arm in his mouth.

“I'm learning that.”

Despite the circumstances, it was quite pleasant to be in the Belgravia home of Vita Sackville-West and her husband, Harold Nicholson, on Ebury Street. They seemed hugely fond of each other, and Harold plainly adored Hilda.

“Miss Matheson says you're a very good egg, Miss Musgrave, but I hope this level of Bohemian immorality doesn't put you out.” Harold Nicholson handed Maisie a drink.

“Not at all. My mother is an actress.”

The other three burst out laughing, and Maisie felt she was part of the circle.

They had a superb meal, with Vita and Harold complimenting Maisie on her gastronomic capacity and discerning taste, but all the while the real reason for their visit hovered over the proceedings, twinkling in the chandelier.

“I have a few men on watch, just in case any of your friends think they can pay a visit here tonight,” Harold told Maisie, as she helped herself to roast chicken. “Part of the advantage of being in the diplomatic service, what? And my man Vaughn is an old hand with this sort of thing. Have some celery sauce. It's a rather cunning little taste. I don't think we'll be troubled. I think they are hoping to take you by surprise. They may not know you know they know, that sort of thing.”

“Do you know how to fight at all, Miss Musgrave?” Vita asked with polite curiosity.

“I can run,” Maisie answered, making the company laugh again.

“Stoker—er, Hilda—tells me you're engaged to Simon Brock-Morland. I've met his family a few times. How well do you know him?”

“I think not well enough. And too well, obviously.”

“I'm going to be blunt and tell you I don't think much of him. It's not my business, of course, but I like you and know Hilda does as well, and since your own mother sounds perfectly useless, someone needs to advise you on these things.”

“Miss Musgrave has a very sharp mind,” Hilda put in.

“I am well aware of it.” Vita grinned. “But we all know how the heart can interfere with the mind. Have you slept with him?”

Maisie fumbled her fork, sending leeks jetéing across the table.

“Now, Vita, really!” Harold shook his head at her.

“I have,” Maisie answered, locking eyes with Vita.

“And he was your first. Yes, we know how it can be. But you're a levelheaded young woman, aren't you? Not the type to go all moony and thinking it must have very great meaning and what?”

“I suppose it doesn't mean anything at all,” Maisie said, rhythmically stabbing a potato.

“Well, maybe it did and maybe it didn't. Can't ever know with the fellows—sorry, Harold dear.”

“No, no, quite true,” Harold agreed.

“And you're not an old-fashioned sort, thinking you're now ruined or anything ridiculous like that?”

“Vita!” Hilda admonished her.

“No,” Maisie whispered. “I don't think that.”

“Good. Because I'm going to be very impertinent, Miss Musgrave—”

“There's a belated warning,” Hilda muttered.

“And tell you that you can do a great deal better.”

It was said with prim matter-of-factness, and whether it was the
honesty of it, or Maisie's own confused feelings, or the enormity of whatever she was about to face, she found her eyes welling with tears.

“Miss Matheson says you do great justice to puddings,” Harold said, and almost as if it had been conjured, an enormous dish of sticky toffee pudding was placed in front of her.

And it did help.

It was like playacting, working out all the possible scenarios, and what Maisie might say, and how she was going to get the contract and get away safely. Hilda would have her car at the ready, and Vaughn was being deputized to assist, but the main work was Maisie's alone.

Harold leaned back, lighting a cigar.

“And then what happens? Bring the stuff to me? Or your man, Ellis? Bit of an anticlimax, that. I suppose you're putting together enough to print it all in the papers and make them look fools?”

“Nothing like seeing something in black-and-white,” Hilda said.

“But people should hear it first,” Maisie said.

“Sorry?” Hilda asked.

“Yes! Yes, that's it. Miss Matheson, it's equal suffrage all over again! They're meeting at six, and surely by the time I get whatever it is, we can get back to the BBC by seven, and that's prime listening time. We'll just read it out, the whole of it. Sort out some sort of script—that can't be hard. And it doesn't matter if they say it's all a load of codswallop, because announcing it during peak listening time will mean maybe four million people or more get it all at once. Good luck countering that, right?”

Hilda just stared at her, cigarette dripping ash onto the carpet.

“And the DG will have left by then, too,” Maisie remembered happily. “So we're clear of him.”

“Mr. Burrows would never announce it,” Hilda said slowly, shaking her head. “He'd be too likely to be sacked. I suppose I could do it, but—”

“You need a man,” Vita said. “Authority and what. Harold, perhaps you can do it?”

“Not me, darling. They'll say I'm part of some homosexual plot. Look here, Hilda. I can have some chappies from the diplomatic service ring Reith afterwards and say you're spot-on and doing a great service,” Harold said. “And your Ellis may well do the same. It won't necessarily prevent sackings, but it won't hurt. So then it hardly matters who presents it.”

“Of course it does. Don't be silly,” Vita scolded. “There's Lady Astor, if we can't find a man,” she went on. “But it oughtn't be a politician, I think. Still, it's got to be someone with a very crisp, authoritarian voice. The sort that just commands respect and attention.”

“May I use the telephone?” Maisie asked, though she was already halfway there.