Radio Girls (15 page)

Maisie hoped he didn't see her gulp.

“I don't object to girls writing nice little stories, of course, although you're hardly . . . Well, you will always remember what your real duty is, yes?”

There was only one answer, and she gave it.

“Good!” He nodded. “Now, then, I think docking your pay this week will be sufficient punishment. Don't you, my dear?”

“What?” she shrieked. Too late, she clamped her hand over her mouth. Miss Shields had gotten her reward.

“Just a shilling,” Reith clarified. “That compensates for your lateness. Even minor infractions cannot be allowed to go without punishment, or where would we be? Besides, you're a young girl, and unprotected. You need to be guarded against your weaknesses. Ambition is a dangerous thing in a girl like yourself. And it has a dreadful tendency to lead to rule-breaking. I should be very sorry to see that.”

The words “just a shilling” zinged through Maisie's head. A shilling was nothing to Reith, casually lost in his trouser pocket. To Maisie, it was twelve pennies, precious armaments toward the new dress that would demonstrate her heightened respectability. She looked down at her knees, the overly mended stockings covered by the blue serge dress that bore a patch under the arm and was growing shiny in the elbows. Just a shilling. And she was lucky. There were families in her road for whom the loss of a shilling would mean the choice between having supper that week or losing their home.

“I'm only looking after your interests,” Reith said. “Now, off you go, then, back to work.”

Maisie nodded. She knew she should thank him for his benevolence, but couldn't get the words out. She breathed carefully as she measured the steps to the door. By the time it opened, her face must be neutral.

Miss Shields was at her desk, upright and efficient as ever, but her eyes sparkled with cold triumph. Maisie stood before her, ramrod straight and yet apologetic.

“I'm sorry if I've offended you in any way, Miss Shields.”

The secretary simply looked at her, an unhurried, untroubled stare mindfully designed to make Maisie feel more uncomfortable.

“Don't flatter yourself, Miss Musgrave. Mr. Reith sees you as a pet, which is lucky for you. You should maintain that so long as you can. He has nothing to do with the hiring of the girls, and so he can't see that you don't belong here. You're a good enough worker and sharper than you look, but you lack—”

“Brio?”

“The right sort of manner,” Miss Shields countered.

“I'm sorry. I do try, you know.”

“Yes. But the BBC requires someone who doesn't need to try.”

“I understand you,” Maisie said, meaning it. “And I am sorry. But I'm not sorry I'm here. I know I'm not the sort of girl you want as your deputy, but I'm working on being the best sort for the BBC I can be.”

“Much luck to you,” Miss Shields said, with more amusement than acidity. “If I were you, I'd start with catching up on your typing.”

Maisie returned to her typewriter. She hadn't needed this incident to tell her Miss Shields didn't want her here. But there were any number of people in Savoy Hill whom she wanted to see the back of, and when Maisie considered who was first on that list, she decided it wasn't a bad list to be on at all.

Despite the honor of the list, Maisie resolved to put aside equity drops, German propaganda, and anything else that wasn't strictly within her job parameters.

At the next meeting between Hilda and Reith, there was no mention of wireless sets or Hoppel. Reith didn't seem to notice, being too overwhelmed by Hilda's laundry list of plans and thoughts, several of which required vast technical improvements, until he interrupted her with a dry chuckle and said, “Miss Matheson, do try to restrain some of this unbridled ambition. It's not an attractive thing in a girl, you know, even at your age. You have to be patient, my dear.”

“Certainly, Mr. Reith,” Hilda conceded, a flap of her hand smacking patience aside. “But at least in so far as our content and its nature, there's a great deal we can—”

“Our content's exactly what it should be. You see how the papers compliment us. It's edifying and entertaining. What more could we possibly achieve?”

“We're doing well, certainly, but think of the opportunity for deep connection—”

“For what?” He turned pink around the edges, and Maisie thought he must have misheard something very rude.

“Connection,” Hilda repeated, with a transcendent smile. “That's what people really want, you know. They want the feeling of immediacy, someone actually there and sharing an experience. A voice in the wilderness of the mind.”

Maisie knew what Hilda meant. It was in the quieter letters they received, the sort Reith would never read, but she did. Radio helped people feel less lonely.

“It's not unlike a favorite book,” Hilda went on, “the way it can be a friend. What's your favorite book?”

“The Bible,” he answered promptly.

“And yours, Miss Shields?” Hilda said, turning around to draw the secretaries into the conversation.

Miss Shields's eyes rolled upward just enough to meet Hilda's.

“Just for a bit of fun,” Hilda clarified.

Miss Shields looked as if she'd rank this “fun” slightly below getting branded.

“I can't but be curious, even if this is a colossal waste of time,” Reith put in.

“Well,” said Miss Shields. “I suppose it's the . . .
Jane Eyre
.” She spoke with an almost defiance that seemed to surprise her. Reith's brows shot into orbit, and Hilda smiled, a minuscule glint of triumph in her eyes.

Maisie had never owned a book and couldn't imagine rereading anything when time was so short and the libraries so full. So as to a
favorite, “Whichever one I have in my hand,” was the only answer. She was just happy to know how to read and that libraries were free. Hilda looked pleased.

“I suppose mine is
Pride and Prejudice
, although I do so love poetry,” Hilda mused. “But you see my point, that we turn to these books as old friends. They're always there and they speak to us. Radio has the same capacity, and we should make more of it, in all our broadcasts. That's how we'll build something that will find a home in any number of hearts.”

Reith exhaled cigarette smoke through his nose. “Miss Matheson, you either read too much poetry or are simply a true Utopian. It's a charming picture you paint, I'm sure, but I don't think anyone thinks of radio quite so seriously. We simply will do our best with it for as long as it lasts. All right? Now, was there anything else on the agenda?”

Hilda was applying lipstick when Maisie brought the last of the day's letters for her to sign. She was lovely already, with that milky skin and those penetrating eyes, and the makeup she didn't need made her exquisite. Striking. Maisie sighed and turned her gaze out the window.

“Good, good, good,” Hilda told each letter as she signed it. “Very good. Are you busy this evening, Miss Musgrave?”

“Me?” How did Hilda always catch her by surprise? It made her feel like part of her was sleeping, when in fact she was sure she was buoyantly awake.

“I'm attending Lady Astor's salon, and if you're free, I was hoping you might join me. It's not just for fun,” Hilda clarified. “Scads of important people will be there. Actors, too, I believe, and so Miss Warwick will likely attend. It's a good opportunity to woo potential broadcasters.”

“Why would they need wooing? Broadcasting pays.” Maisie was dumbfounded. She'd never heard of an actor to turn down work, money, or food.

“You'd be surprised how often that isn't enough,” Hilda told her.
“Remember, radio's still not wholly reckoned as a force for good. It might ‘taint a career.'” She couldn't say that without laughing. “In any case, I'd be glad for your help. As it's work, I'll of course give you extra pay. And she serves a lovely buffet supper.”

Extra pay? Had Hilda heard of the docked shilling? It almost didn't matter, as the enticement of Lady Astor needed little sweetening. Only . . . Maisie looked down at herself. Same old brown frock, same mended stockings. Same face, same hair, same her. She glanced at the carriage clock. Phyllida had left, so there was no borrowing lipstick.

Oh well. No one will look at me, even if I'm not wearing Invisible Girl
.

She plucked a fresh steno pad from the stash and they were off.

Lady Astor's house in St. James's Square was a jungle of tassels and ornaments and Baroque art. All this, for a house she lived in only when Parliament was in session.
Or for “the season,”
Maisie reminded herself, hearing Phyllida's snort.

The place teemed with sequins and feathers and glitter and gloss. True to form, it was the actors who were the most showily dressed. Those born wealthy had a studied ease to their glamour. The intellectuals had given themselves a dusting and the artists competed to see who could be the most avant-garde.

“Ah, Miss Matheson, marvelous!” rang a commanding voice. Lady Astor: a masterful confection of cut cheekbones and arched brows, hair twisted elegantly at her neck, pearls and eyes equally black and sparkling.

“Lady Astor! Wonderful to see you. May I present my secretary, Miss Musgrave?”

Lady Astor extended a gloved hand. Maisie felt all the breath leave her body as she took it. Lady Astor had the sort of grip that could pick you up and pitch you like a horseshoe.

“How d'ye do, Miss Musgrave?” Her voice was patrician English, but with the slightest twang reminiscent of her Virginia upbringing.

“I . . . I . . . It's such an honor. I'm so pleased to meet you.
Milady!” she amended, relieved the room was dim enough to hide her blush.

Lady Astor's smile was warm, but Maisie could see how just a twitch in her lips could turn it into a hatchet. She should have been an aristocrat back when they had had the power to order death sentences. No one would have ever crossed her.

“No need for any ‘milady' nonsense. We're both born-and-bred Americans.”

“Beg pardon, Lady Astor, but Miss Musgrave was born in Canada,” Hilda interjected.

“Ah, yes. A Canadian and a New Yorker, too—isn't that right? Confusin' bit of backstory, Miss Musgrave, and good for you, I say. Always keep 'em guessin'. Don't you agree, Miss Matheson?” She turned to Hilda, with the expectant air of one who is rarely contradicted.

“Most certainly,” Hilda obliged. Maisie would have agreed as well, but she wasn't asked.

“Now, then,” Lady Astor commanded. “Come along and let me present you to some interestin' people. Might be good for your BBC, I think.”

Maisie tagged along at a safe distance, discreetly taking notes as Lady Astor introduced Hilda to some of the throng with the air of a matron chaperoning a debutante—a titan in publishing, a magazine editor who eyed Hilda with suspicion, and the artist Laura Knight, whom even Maisie knew was famous for her
Self-Portrait with Nude
. “I knew I'd done well when the
Telegraph
called me vulgar,” she said.