Radio Girls (45 page)

“I will not be spoken to like this!” Reith was bright red. “Why can't you comprehend that there are a great many people who must be guarded, who depend upon their betters to guide them to the sort of culture that will be pleasing and comforting but not taxing—most people cannot manage with being challenged—”

“So then they leave those books aside!”

“No, because they might be damaged with even just a little reading! These are delicate people, and the world is really far more dangerous than a girl like you can understand—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“—and we have a solemn duty. You will go to your poofy little friend, and you will tell him that whatever he does in his own life, his bandying about with his aristocratic ‘wife' and all their estates and travel and importance, and then all that time he really spends with men, doing just as he wants, with no judgment upon him, and no consequence, just living like a hedonist, all that pleasure . . .”

Reith was as scowling as ever, but as his words folded over and over one another, Maisie stared at the contours of his face, his eyes, enraged, but full of . . . Was it pain? Was it envy? Was it both? Her glance slid briefly to Hilda, and it was clear she saw it as well. There was almost a flash of pity in Hilda's eyes. Bits and pieces of Reith's actions and words over the last five years tumbled through Maisie's brain. His obsession with men's morality. His unreasonable rage when someone was having sex outside marriage. And the way he smiled and fawned over Siepmann. He had a wife. He had children. He had been given honors and had worked his way into immense importance. But there was something else he really wanted, and perhaps he hated himself for it, or hated everyone else who got to have it. And it colored absolutely everything else he did.

It made Maisie speak to him with more sympathy than she otherwise might have.

“Mr. Reith, of course we understand your concerns, but Harold Nicholson is awfully well considered and respected, and think of how many times you've had a similar worry and it's all come to nothing, really?”

He ignored her.

“Miss Matheson, you will instruct Nicholson to remove the offending passages from his script if he wishes to broadcast. What's more, you will now vet every last one of your speakers and their scripts with me and submit to all my direction.”

“I will do no such thing. Not one last bit of it.”

“Perhaps we can compromise?” Maisie suggested.

“Miss Musgrave!” Reith shouted. “I have been more than tolerant with you from the beginning. You are no one and nothing, and you've risen quite high. I insist you retype the script to my specifications. But if you back Miss Matheson in this folly of hers, I will have your employment terminated.”

The words were on Maisie's lips. She was quite ready to tell him she wasn't going to submit to threats or blackmail or censorship. But she caught Hilda's eye. Hilda did not move a muscle, but her expression told Maisie she could do more with staying on.

“I'll adjust the script,” Maisie whispered.

“Thank you, Miss Musgrave. Perhaps you might be elevated to producer rank after all.”

“Mr. Reith,” Hilda said, her voice very plain and casual. “You have made yourself very clear, and there is nothing else for me to do other than to submit my resignation.”

“No!” Maisie cried, unable to stop herself. But neither of them seemed to notice her.

“Miss Matheson, that is being a bit extreme.” Though he looked pleased. “I am hardly asking you to leave, and I do think the BBC will be somewhat diminished without you.”

“For a while, perhaps. But what is sure is that this entire venture is lesser for submitting to such diktats. I've never heard of open censorship of literature leading to anything good, and I will not be seen to tolerate it. I shall deliver my formal letter of resignation in the course of the afternoon.”

And that was that.

The carriage clock was packed last, nestled lovingly into straw. Up until that moment, Maisie had thought for sure there would be one more reprieve.

“Cheerio, all. Onwards and upwards!” Hilda cried, sauntering out of the office.

As soon as she was gone, Siepmann turned to Maisie.

“I'll have you know I expect total loyalty. This department is due for a shaking up, and I don't know that we need quite so many girls running around.”

“I do understand.” Maisie nodded gravely. “I might be better off writing a massive exposé on the inner workings of the BBC and how staff is reorganized.”

Siepmann fixed her in a hot glare, and she smiled back, placid and almost bored.

“You're not only angling to stay, but you want to be a producer, don't you? Do you think I'd let you on anything other than
The Week in Westminster
?”

“‘Let'? No, but I think I'll earn my way onto more shows.”

“And I suppose you want that Yorkie girl as your Talks assistant.”

“Miss Fenwick? I would, but Lady Astor has just engaged her as her new political secretary and protégée, despite their being of wildly different parties. Don't worry. I'll make sure she sees that Lady Astor still has plenty of time to come and broadcast for us. You know how popular she is. The Talks Department will start getting good press again, I'm sure.”

“Your first failure, little lady, and you're out,” Siepmann hissed.

“Good job I've got no intention of failing,” she assured him.

In fact, she'd just scored a success.
He called me a lady, not a girl. Before he knows it, he's going to stop calling me “little.”

Lady Astor fought hard to have Hilda appointed to the BBC board of governors, but Hilda declared herself sick of broadcasting. At least for a while.

“You know, Lady Astor's coaching me to stand for office,” Phyllida confided as Lady Astor was giving her broadcast. Her new role
as Lady Astor's political secretary had bought her a tweed suit and attaché case, but she was still her pretty and pugnacious self. “Bit tricky, as I've been living down here, I want to represent the North properly, you see.”

“You always have,” Maisie said, but her voice was shaking. She would have rather Phyllida had stayed at the BBC a little longer.

“None of that now, you dozy cow,” Phyllida warned, though her voice wasn't as steady as it could be. “We'll still have lunch three times a week at least, and larks at the weekend. Onwards and upwards, remember?”

“Onwards and upwards.”

“And anyway, not all change is bad, is it?”

“No. No, it's not.”

1932

H
ilda leaned back in the chair and smiled around the pretty pub back garden.

“I can't believe I thought life would be more restful after the BBC, but here I am, traveling all over Africa with Lord Hailey, and oh, did I mention? A publisher is interested in the little book on broadcasting, so it's back to that as well. I'm doing revisions now.”

“I suppose you don't need a typist?” Maisie asked. Hilda laughed, shaking her head.

“A producer at the BBC, a columnist for the
Listener
, and how many magazines have you written for now?”

“Five.”

“Yes, I can just see you making time to type my notes for me.”

“Also I've probably forgotten how to read your handwriting.”

Hilda laughed again.

It was really too early in the year to be sitting outside, but it was a bright day and the pub garden was very pleasant and they had it all to themselves. It had been several months since she'd met with Hilda, and Maisie was pleased to see her looking so happy. Besides doing work on the African Survey with Lord Hailey, and some work in independent
radio—so much for being sick of broadcasting—and the book, she was also involved with Dorothy Wellesley, the Duchess of Wellington.

“Seems it's you who has the taste for the aristocracy more than I ever did,” Maisie teased her.

“Yes, I'm quite the social climber,” Hilda agreed, raising her eyebrow.

She asked, so Maisie told her about Broadcasting House, where they were about to move, and how Siepmann was still upset because the Talks director's office had been designed to Hilda's specifications, down to the furniture, and no one would give him the money to change it.

They were still laughing when a distant church bell rang.

“Goodness, I'm afraid I have to get on,” Hilda said. They each looked at their watches—Hilda smiled to see Maisie still had the lilac one she'd given her.

“I have almost an hour before I'm meeting Cyril,” Maisie said.

“Ah. He grew up nicely, didn't he?”

“Well, we'll see,” Maisie said, but she was smiling. This was only their third proper date. She didn't count the one from 1927. She had told him not to get any ideas about her, and she had come a long way from being the marrying kind. He said he'd take her company however he could get it.

Hilda paid the bill, waving away Maisie's money.

“Stay and have another drink. I know you. I know you don't relax enough.” She squeezed Maisie's shoulder, dropped a green folder on the table, and was gone.

Maisie stared at the folder. She knew Hilda was still involved with MI5. Was it a lead, maybe? Maisie was constantly chasing stories these days. It was always nice to have one handed to her.

She opened the folder and read.

“Musgrave, Edwin. Born 1881, Selby, Yorkshire. Died 1915, Belgium.”

He had immigrated to Canada in 1900, worked as a painter in the theater. Which must have been how they met. “Married Georgina Allen, 1902. Issue: Maisie Edwina, born 1903.”

Edwina? Georgina had always told Maisie to be grateful enough just to have one name. Edwina. For her father.

“Divorced: 1904. Returned to England: 1904.”

A year. Or less. He had been there that long. Known her. But maybe not. It only opened up more questions.

Worked as a joiner. And joined the army, even though he was thirty-three and could have done his bit from a safer locale. And died before she'd joined the VAD and was stationed to the hospital in Brighton. Died in Belgium, so she wouldn't have seen him anyway.

There was a photo. Rare, in those days, for a man to have his photo made. Had it been for Georgina?

He was young, with stick-straight hair and Maisie's prominent nose. His eyes were solemn, chin pointy. His expression was appropriately placid, but there might be something behind his eyes that suggested he was interested in hurrying off to do something else.

Hunger.

Maisie wiped her eyes and went on reading. There wasn't much left. He had a brother, Maxwell, invalided home in 1916, living in York. A clerk for the county. Two children, Peter and Hannah. Each married. Two grandchildren, Gerald and Samuel.

She closed the folder so as not to let tears drip on it and rested her head in her hands.

She had a family. An uncle Max. Cousins. And she was from Yorkshire, just like Phyllida.

She could write to them. They might know nothing about her, but she could write. Maybe go to York. It would be good to travel more anyway. There was a lot to see. Phyllida might take a holiday with her. And maybe she would come away with a family.

She wiped her face again and tucked the folder into her holdall—stuffing it in with the newspapers, notebooks, pencils, two novels, and a primer on beginner's German.

Hilda hated being thanked.

I'll send her tickets to a concert. Something very lively and modern. She'll love that
.

Maisie sauntered off into the evening, swinging her holdall beside
her.