Radio Girls (6 page)

Hilda's laugh bounced off the leather folios.

“I suppose I got a bit carried away, though you did ask that I give you a lot to choose from, this being my first time arranging our holiday broadcasts.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Reith agreed, tapping his pen along the typed list. “Important we do well, nothing inappropriate. Though Miss
Warwick tells me it was your suggestion the Drama Department do a specially designed performance of
A Christmas Carol
. A jolly good thought; should be most entertaining.”

“Ah, thank you. Yes, I am afire with anticipation,” Hilda said. “They've secured a marvelous cast. Mr. Hicks, you know.” Another minute sniff from Miss Shields, though whether for Dickens or actors, it was impossible to guess.

“Hicks, yes,” Reith murmured, eyes on Hilda's list. “Rather hard to choose.”

“I ought to have tried to edit more,” Hilda said, cheerfully unapologetic, “but we can always make use of extraneous ideas for another time. And you know, the holidays might be a time to press for more broadcast hours, what with—”

Reith made a noise like a bull sneezing.

“More hours, indeed. You've never been to a meeting of the governors. What a rum lot.”

“I would be happy to join you at one, if you would like?”

His scowl crinkled upward.

“Perhaps one day, if it can be managed.” He sounded so fatherly. Maisie's throat constricted.

“Well, if we've only got the hours we've got, let's give this a bit of a thrashing, hm?” Hilda consulted her copy of the Christmas list. “So let's see, something to accompany the Dickens broadcast, obviously, a Talk about the traditions, the tree. I'll ask Peppard at Cambridge, and do let's have a Talk about gift giving. Gilbert at the V&A should do, and Nellie will be game for a decorating Talk. She's at
Home
magazine now—”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Mr. Reith broke in, nodding vigorously and marking the list. “And then this and this, yes, yes, and what do you reckon to the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“He does fine work, I hear.”

“Pardon?”

“Just a jest, hopeless habit. He should be grand for a reading if he
isn't fully booked. Would you like to send the letter, having met him, or shall I?”

Reith had met the Archbishop of Canterbury. And here was Maisie, serving him.

“I'm happy to make the request, yes.” Reith made a final tick on the list and slid it back to Hilda. “Very, very good, Miss Matheson. You're doing splendidly. Exactly why I was pleased to hire you.”

“Begged me to come aboard, as I recall it.” Hilda pealed with laughter again. Miss Shields did not sniff, but the scratch of her pencil spoke volumes. “Lady Astor had quite a job convincing me. Still, she succeeded, as of course she always does, and I am very pleased indeed.”

“Yes, well.” Reith turned over another set of papers. “It was a good show of you, not to want to leave your employer.”

Maisie looked up from that shorthand mark. Even with her scant interest in British government, she knew the name “Lady Astor.” Everyone did. But to Maisie, she was an object of glorious inspiration that had nothing to do with being the first woman elected to Parliament. Nancy Astor had been born and raised in Virginia, and managed to marry a British nobleman. She was one of Maisie's personal goddesses.

“I think the chaps at the
Radio Times
could be making a better show of writing up the Talks programs,” Reith went on. “Perhaps you can give them more specific notes?”

“Certainly,” Hilda said. “Though we are always very clear. The fellows seem to have this idea that they add pizzazz, I think.”

“But if you can write things up for them more exactly, that will be of use.”

“Having Miss Musgrave will be a great help in that regard,” Hilda told him.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He gave Maisie a pleasant nod, and she blushed.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Reith,” Miss Shields broke in, “but it is nearly half past two.”

“Is it?” He consulted his watch to confirm. “Ah. Well, we can discuss plans for next year later in the week. Thank you, Miss Matheson, and do keep on with the fine work.”

“I absolutely shall,” Hilda almost sang as they trooped out.

Back in Miss Shields's office, Maisie hovered, waiting to be dismissed so she could type the minutes. She was eager to relive every second of that meeting.

Hilda turned to Miss Shields. “Have I got Miss Musgrave again now?”

“Not just yet,” Miss Shields said, snap and chill fully restored. “I have quite a bit of typing for her to complete. Weight must be mindfully distributed.”

“Well, indeed, but—”

A brilliantined man burst in, straightening his tie.

“He ready for me?”

“Do go in, Mr. Eckersley.” Miss Shields indicated Reith's office. “Was there anything else, Miss Matheson?”

“No, thank you,” Hilda said. She turned to Maisie. “Welcome aboard, Miss Musgrave. I hope you can be spared a few more hours this afternoon.”

“Yes, Miss Matheson,” Maisie murmured politely. Having basked in the glory that was Mr. Reith, she wanted to stay as close in his circle as possible. But she wasn't forgetting the sandwiches.

Hilda nodded briskly and was gone, her footfall so silent, she might as well have evaporated.

Miss Shields took Maisie's pad and examined her shorthand. Despite her scrutiny, she didn't find any errors. Again, she looked disappointed.

“You could be tidier. You will type the minutes for our office from my notes, and I daresay Miss Matheson will request a copy.”

“Yes, Miss Shields.”

Half an hour later, Miss Shields's voice rang out over the typewriter.

“Miss Musgrave!”

The secretary was still seated, her chair fully turned to face Maisie's cupboard.

“I have nearly had to shout,” she scolded Maisie.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” and she was, but it was only seven steps across the room to the threshold. Which Maisie herself now crossed to hear instructions.

“Mr. Reith needs his tea. He's asked that you fetch it, rather than a boy.” Her voice was crisp, her face irritated. “I am assuming you can manage that.”

“Yes, I can,” Maisie answered proudly, and set off at a sprint. If Reith needed tea, he must have it, and she was going to run faster than Mercury to bring it to him.

The tearoom proprietress, neat and busy with graying hair coiled in an austere knot at her neck, nodded at the request and wheeled out a tea tray.

“Mr. Reith's only,” she warned.

Maisie was prepared to guard it against all comers during the return trek to the executive offices, but she was unaccosted. Miss Shields sighed and waved her through, and she entered the throne room again, alone.

“Ah, Miss Musgrave,” Reith greeted her. “Very nice, thank you.”

It would have been easier to lay out his tea things if her hands weren't shaking, but he continued to nod approvingly as she set the pot, cup, milk, sugar, and—a pang of longing—two iced buns before him.

“I can manage from here,” he assured her, though she would have been so much happier to keep waiting on him.

“Yes, sir,” she said, trying not to sigh. She edged toward the door.

“Sit down a moment, Miss Musgrave.”

She'd never known an invitation could be barked. She perched on the club chair he indicated. The leather was probably repelled by her cheap wool dress.

Reith devoted himself to the pouring of tea and adding milk in a manner only slightly less ritualized than the preparing of
Communion, and Maisie's respect for him grew. He was unhurried, comfortable in his silence, allowing Maisie to drink him in at leisure. He was balding and had a cleft in his chin thick enough to hold a cigarette. Something that would be an amusing parlor trick for his children, but the heft of his eyebrows, drawn together into one, indicated that Reith was not a man given to whimsy.

He raised the lid of a teak box with an ivory inlay design and drew out a cigarette.

“Do you smoke?”

“No, sir.”

Couldn't possibly afford it
.

“Glad to hear it!” he barked. “I don't like seeing a female smoke. It's unseemly. Modern girls,” he said, sighing as he lit the cigarette, “so uninterested in decorum.”

He scowled at her again, and she wondered if it would be inappropriate to say that she was a devotee of decorum.

At least my skirt covers my knees when I'm sitting
.

“You're a nice girl,” he announced. “I heard what you said to Miss Shields in your interview. I don't have anything to do with the hiring of the girls, generally, but in this instance I thought it best to have a small hand in.”

He was still scowling, and now she discerned that the creases around his eyes turned up slightly, creating his version of a smile.

This man was responsible for hiring me
.

Her fingers were gouging into her knees, preventing her from sliding to the floor in obeisance.

If Reith noticed her naked gratitude, he hid it under his scowl as he stirred sugar into his tea.

“There are two questions I like to ask of potential BBC staff,” he said, taking a sip of tea and sniffing in approval. He leaned closer to her, eyebrows tight, chin jutted. “Are you a Christian, and have you any character defects?”

Maisie's jaw unhinged. Since the true answers were “no” and “countless,” there was nothing to do but stare at him hopelessly.

Reith took a big puff on his cigarette and laughed. Or anyway, it sounded like a laugh; she didn't want to swear to it.

“Not to worry. Not to worry. I only ask in earnest when interviewing men for top positions. I was merely curious to see how you would respond, though of course I don't doubt you are a well brought-up girl.”

Maisie was beyond relieved he had answered for her. During Toronto exiles, her grandmother (the incongruous Lorelei, who had spent an admirable life's work exorcising the name's implied sensuality) marched Maisie to the First Anglican Church every Sunday, carrying a birch switch to remind her of consequences. “Your mother is the first and last whore in this bloodline. I shall beat every last sin out of you if I must, so help me.” Certainly, all the local hoodlums were happy to assist—the unwanted daughter of an actress must deserve beating. Georgina's neglect was a welcome relief on a Sunday, as she slept all day.

As to character defects, between Maisie's assessment and Georgina's, there couldn't be enough letterhead in the BBC to complete the list.

Did Reith expect everyone to say “Yes” and “No”? Would he believe the latter? There wasn't such a man, was there? Would he be absurdly dull or irritatingly perfect?

“I hope you are a hard worker,” Reith barked, his scowl twisting into expectation.

“Yes, sir,” she squeaked. “I mean, I am.”

“Excellent.” He nodded, taking another sip of tea.

“Your next appointment, Mr. Reith,” Miss Shields announced from the door.

“Thank you,” he said, which sufficed for both women.

“Back to Talks with you, then,” Miss Shields ordered Maisie. “You have those minutes?”

The typed pages, neat and exact, were received with a resigned grunt. Maisie wondered how Miss Jenkins would react to a
supervisor who seemed to resent a lack of error. “You have to be prepared for anything,” she'd lectured her students.
I think I'll write and suggest a new course for the curriculum
.

Hilda's lamps were turned up full, making the room cozy in the chilly November afternoon. She handed Maisie a typed script covered in illegible red writing.

“A Talk runs fifteen minutes; we're rather firm about that. Except when we're not. Some Talks warrant more time. Unfortunately, every speaker thus far seems to think their subject is one of the latter.” Hilda grinned. “Can't blame them, can you? I'm developing a set of guidelines that should help them. You can type my initial notes tomorrow. No time to lose.”

Imagine knowing so much about a topic, you can talk and be interesting for fifteen minutes. Be considered an expert, invited to broadcast. Be listened to and paid.

Maisie looked at the script. It was for a broadcast by Joseph Conrad. Perhaps that meant Maisie was going to meet him, going to meet all such men when they came in to broadcast. This job might be something close to heaven.

“You'll have to type the script again, implementing my changes,” Hilda directed, waving a hand at the illegible red scrawl. Maisie felt a slight descent from heaven.

“You're making changes to Mr. Conrad's work?” she asked.

She hadn't meant to speak out loud, but however much power Hilda might wield, she couldn't think it extended to altering a syllable of a man's words, not a man like this.

“Many can write; few can broadcast. Thus far,” Hilda added with a cackle. “There's a trick to it, I've found. I mean to devote myself to developing, refining, and teaching it. You'll see. You shall come to rehearsals with me soon, and you'll see.”