Radio Girls (32 page)

But she couldn't stop herself reading, as though it were any other confusing bit of text that she wanted to understand. And there they all were, sentences no one but the recipient should see, answering many questions about Hilda but raising a dozen more. And then, at the bottom, in highly legible capital letters: “I LOVE YOU. I WANT YOU.”

She stared down at those words, which went well past Jane Austen's milieu. There was no mistaking their meaning. There was no mistaking any of it. Vita. And Hilda. Of course, the papers loved to talk about the Bloomsbury group and their leisure activities, feeding the disgust of some, the titillation of others. Maisie, despite her education in the theater, didn't pretend to understand it, but had always shrugged it off as not her business.

Which this wasn't either. But Hilda and Vita. Hilda. So she did love, after all. Loved, and wanted.

Maisie flipped the page back over—it was far more comforting to see the familiar
DO NOT WRITE ON THIS SIDE
.

“Ah, Miss Musgrave, is Miss Matheson not in?”

Maisie yelped and spun around—Reith was looking down at her. Her hands were behind her back, still on the memo.

“No, sir. She's lunching out.”

Please don't let him see the “Shall!!”
The “Shall!!” would be better than what was on the other side, but he couldn't, he mustn't, he must never think of Hilda as anything other than the brilliant if somewhat radical director of Talks.

“Ah, of course,” Reith said, scowling. “Where is Mr. Fielden?”

“Sir?” Fielden hovered at the door, radiating disapproval at Reith's being in Hilda's office when she wasn't there. Maisie kept her hands on the desk, her fingers reaching as far as they dared, searching for the script to slide back over the letter without either man noticing, but Reith wasn't turned away quite far enough. Likely he wouldn't notice, but she wasn't prepared to take the chance.

“Fielden, good. Tell me, this Talk on banking, who is this ‘Miss Cartwright'?”

“A banker, sir. The first woman to hold such a position, it seems. We've had her in to broadcast before, sir.”

“I see. And the other banker is one of the Rothschild men?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Ah. Might I ask that you arrange for a third banker? Someone a bit more traditional?”

“Certainly!” Maisie burst out, desperate to get rid of him, ignoring Fielden's glare. “We'll discuss it with Miss Matheson as soon as she returns.”

“Perhaps you have someone in mind?” Fielden asked Reith. Maisie glared right back at him. This was not the time to be so protective of Hilda's taste.

“Well, I—” Reith began, but the phone rang. Maisie didn't dare leave her post guarding the desk. She pretended to cough violently, forcing Fielden to answer.

“Talks Department, Fielden . . . Oh yes, Miss Wo—sorry?” His voice twisted upward, turning suddenly, rarely, frightened. “But we can't . . . No, I . . . She isn't . . . Miss Woolf, please, if it's a matter of the fee, I'm sure we can . . .”

Virginia Woolf! And to judge by Fielden's wide-eyed mewling, there was a problem. Maisie's eyes unwillingly slid to the afternoon's schedule, where
A Survey of Women in Literature with Virginia Woolf
shouted at her in purple mimeographed ink. She jerked her glance away, only to see Reith eyeing it as well.

Fielden hung up. His skeleton seemed to have dropped out of his frame.

“Miss Woolf is, er, not able to broadcast as scheduled.”

That letter under Maisie's hand grew hot. Now she understood Virginia Woolf's chilliness toward Hilda, and Hilda's indifference. Now she remembered that the character of Orlando was said to be based on Vita, with whom Virginia Woolf had been involved, according to gossip Maisie barely noticed. And now Vita was receiving letters from Hilda, who loved her, who wanted her.

“Women!” Reith boomed. “Completely unpredictable. And especially
those Bloomsbury sorts. I suppose you have some sort of contingency plan?” Reith glared at them expectantly.

“Certainly, sir,” Fielden said, and Maisie suddenly adored his ponderous voice, where sarcasm was so hard to discern. “We keep a score of potential broadcasters at the ready, just for such events as these.”

“I'll leave you to it, then,” Reith said, full of condescending beneficence, and wonderful undiscernment. “You'll convey to Miss Matheson my concern about the banking Talk?”

“She will treat it with the same consideration as all your concerns, sir,” Maisie assured him. She shut the door and turned to Fielden. “What are we going to do? We've got to ring her!”

“It's the Dorchester. They don't put calls through to patrons. That sort of thing is ‘very low behavior,'” he snapped, ripping off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

Maisie folded her hands and paced, tracing Hilda's thinking route. “All right,” she said. “Let's ring five of our usual people, and if we can't get anyone, I'll go to the Dorchester myself and tell her. She'll want to know.”

“You just want to go to a posh restaurant,” Fielden sneered, but fetched the bound book of names and addresses. “I suppose the Strachey woman is always keen,” he said with a gusty sigh.

“No, it's literature. We should be able to get a writer,” Maisie argued. “It's daytime. They'll be home working.”

Fielden looked up at her through heavy eyelids. “If that's what you call it.”

No one answered T. S. Eliot's phone. She tried P. G. Wodehouse and was told he was lunching out. She was wondering why all modern writers went by two initials when Fielden scored success. H. G. Wells, having been so thoroughly seduced by Hilda, was enchanted to be their white knight.

“In shining tweed, no doubt. Shiny and turning green,” Maisie commented. “He can afford better.”

“But then how would we know he was an intellectual?”

Hilda returned just before Mr. Wells was due to arrive. “Bad
news, I'm afraid,” Fielden greeted her, with a rare almost-smile. “Miss Woolf was unable to come do the Talk today. Fortunately, I was able to reach Mr. Wells, and he should be here imminently. I've made a few adjustments to the script—he should manage just fine.”

Maisie waited patiently for him to acknowledge her contribution during the crisis. She wished Hilda didn't go first white and then red on hearing about Miss Woolf's cancelation. Inscrutable as Hilda was, it was obvious she had a very good idea exactly why Virginia Woolf didn't want to come anywhere near her.

Fielden presented Hilda with the amended script, and she skimmed it.

“Topping, Mr. Fielden. Excellent work. Emergencies will occur. We manage them as we can. And it keeps things interesting.” She hung up her coat, fluffed her hair, and beckoned to Fielden. “Come along. Let's meet Mr. Wells and be obsequious in our thanks. You can manage obsequious, can't you?”

Fielden's answer was lost in the stairwell and the return of Phyllida.

“Crikey, you look mithered. What's happened?”

“Miss Woolf canceled, but Fielden found Mr. Wells to come in.”

And Fielden had been the one to find him. All Maisie had done was help. Which was her job. They were all in it together. She didn't need credit for every small thing she did. Although a “thank you” might have been nice.

Then again, this is Fielden. If he were to utter those words, he'd probably have a seizure. And that's way beyond my nursing skills
.

A nice enough vision, though, to help her get back to work.

“So that's the whole of it. I've sent notes to the
Pinpoint
offices, but there's been no reply, though I suppose that's down to the holidays,” Maisie summed up the Simon situation as she and Phyllida roamed Selfridges. They'd been allowed to leave early for New Year's Eve and combed the huge shop for possible bargains.

“He sounds a right maungy taistril!” was Phyllida's assessment,
and Maisie didn't feel the need for translation. “I've nae heard such trammel. Does he expect you to fall all over him, declare undying devotion, when he can barely manage room for you in his diary?”

“I don't know,” Maisie said. “But I miss him. I miss him awfully. I could easily have said the thing to please him and I didn't, not well enough. I did the exact same thing with the DG, who knows how many times. Why don't I ever learn?”

“I think you're quite well educated enough,” Phyllida said dryly. “And is he here pursuing you, giving you reason to worship his pampered hide? He is not. He's off being errand boy for his family. You'd always come second, in a family like that. You're better off as you are. You'll see. Remember, we're going to vote this year! We're on the verge of many great things.”

Maisie nodded automatically. She cast her eyes over the glove display and asked if she could try the plain chocolate-brown kidskin. They glided nicely over her hand and wrist, coming to rest halfway toward her elbow. She circled her wrists and wiggled her fingers as though she were typing. The gloves moved like new skin.

“They're beauty beyond, Maisie, but they're well nigh four pounds! You can get gloves nearly as good for half that.”

Maisie clenched and unrolled her fingers a few more times.

“No. Georgina wasn't good for much, but she was right about one thing. It's best to pay the money for the top quality. These will keep me warm and look elegant for years.”

And when they stepped back out into the dark, raw afternoon, the sharp droplets of rain and sleet promptly turned their faces red and wet, but Maisie's fingers didn't feel a thing.

January 1929

M
aisie had a brief moment of melancholy, noting the beginning of the New Year and that, contrary to Lola's annual prediction, she still boarded at Mrs. Crewe's house. She had a dressing gown and slippers now, and a warm nightdress. And savings building up in an actual bank, of all things. But it wasn't quite enough. Lola herself had yet to return. She still maintained her room, as her family wouldn't hear of her storing belongings with them, not while she was on the stage,. She was now on a tour in Germany, that Italian
visconte
in arduous pursuit. Maisie had half a mind to ask Lola to put the man to use and find Simon. If nothing else, he might ask why being in Germany had robbed Simon of the ability to write letters to the woman of whom he claimed to be fond.

She'd wrapped this grim mood around her more tightly than her muffler when she returned to the office on January 2, but then Hilda swooped in announcing: “We're going to rehearse that fascinating woman who trumped the house in Monte Carlo, and I'll need you to reschedule the head of the Science Museum so we can have the Tunisian ambassador, very interesting man. I'd rather like to go to Tunisia. Wouldn't you? And we should talk more about oil interests.
I know the DG doesn't like it, but it's becoming such a critical issue. I really think . . .”

And Maisie forgot everything else.

The list of things Reith didn't like was growing by the hour. Fielden opened a departmental pool, taking bets on how many of their proposals Reith would fight them on through the year. Despite the regular meetings in his office, Reith had taken to storming into Talks at least once a week. Phyllida grumbled that he must like the exercise.

“Miss Matheson, it seems you have Mr. Forster booked for a series with no end in sight? Is that correct, or have you made an error in the planning?”

Hilda went marble white, less offended by the slight on E. M. Forster than the suggestion she had made an error.

“Mr. Forster is enthusiastic about the opportunity,” she began.

“I daresay. It will mean quite a bit of regular money for him,” Reith said, with a half glance to Fielden, seeking support for this wit. Fielden failed him abjectly.

“Sir, Mr. Forster is one of our preeminent modern novelists,” Hilda explained. “Once again, we're the ones who are reaping the benefits, more than he. And I'm sure he's just as pleased to earn four guineas per broadcast as he was to earn thousands of pounds for
A Passage to India
, but I think he's quite comfortably fixed, regardless. He certainly hasn't tried to negotiate the fee.”

“His books may be well liked, but he's not an upworthy man. Do you know he was a conscientious objector? And he's not married.”

“Well, you know what writers are like. Hard enough to eat with, much less live with.”

“I'm weary of it, Miss Matheson, positively weary. Must every man of letters you bring in here be a homo . . . that is, an inappropriate sort?”

“Mr. Reith, you asked me to cast a wide-ranging net and bring as many voices as possible to the BBC. I heartily apologize if their
personal lives are not up to scratch, but they are only discussing their work. I'm glad to have a monk come in to broadcast, but none seems to be a bestselling author.”

“Oh, will you stop being so infernally clever!”

“I would try, but it's inordinately difficult.”

“Hallo, bit of trouble at t'mill?” Siepmann was leaning in the doorway.

Reith lit up on seeing him, but Hilda went even whiter with rage. To Maisie's horror, she was even trembling.

“Mr. Siepmann,” Hilda greeted him in a colorless voice. “Many thanks, I'm sure, but this is a private matter concerning the Talks Department.”

“Oh, certainly. Only I heard raised voices and thought perhaps I could be of service? One thing we are well versed in over at Schools is keeping peace. Still, right you are, Miss Matheson, and I'll be—”

“Please, Siepmann,” Reith broke in. “Do give us your opinion. Do you think a man such as this E. M. Forster is the right sort to be given prominence by the BBC?”

“Ah! Forster. Very popular writer. A fine intellect, it would seem. Not my own taste, personally, but can't say his work hasn't captured the reading public.”

“So it would seem,” said Reith, talking over Hilda. “And we can't control what gets published. But should
we
be making a show of him?”

“Mr. Reith!” Hilda said. “We're meant to expose Britain to the whole of our contemporary society and let people draw their own conclusions based on complete information. If they come to dislike Mr. Forster, they are welcome to leave his books on the shelf.”

“I think there's something in what our Miss Matheson says,” Siepmann said, grinning. “That's what I like so much about Talks. You can take these delightful little risks. And I daresay a bit of controversy builds more of an audience, what?”

“I can't say I'll ever be keen on controversy,” Reith said, though he was smiling. “But I suppose so long as we keep a steady hand on
it, we should manage. And the
Times
has been very favorable to Mr. Forster, so he can't be all bad.”

“What do
you
think of his work?” Hilda asked him, her voice a study in innocent interest. Reith wrinkled his nose.

“I haven't time to read all these modern novels; you know that,” Reith scolded. “And especially not if they're written by that sort.” He glared at Hilda's bookshelves, groaning under the weight of work by that sort. “These people are supposed to go to prison, not be given book contracts!”

“Yes, there is something very Byzantine about our justice system,” Hilda agreed. Reith only sniffed and strode out the door, nodding to Siepmann.

“Ah, never a dull moment here in Talks, is it?” Siepmann said. “Glad I could help, Miss Matheson. We're all in it together—isn't that right?”

Hilda waited till they were both long gone before she sat down and sighed.

“Why does the DG get so aerated about . . . well, everything?” Maisie asked. “I suppose his intentions are decent enough, but—”

“Yes.” Hilda lit a cigarette. “His spleen is in the right place.”

Spleen seemed all the trend suddenly. Maisie could shrug at it in some places, like the
Telegraph
, but took it far more personally when yet another letter searching for Edwin Musgrave was answered with a sharp rebuke at her lack of information. She felt her own spleen rumbling when the Lion told the Fascists that the BBC didn't understand how people needed things to be simple, so they didn't have to think too hard. Maisie longed to ask how people who had no brains could possibly think too hard, but figured this was a question best left unasked, despite her interest in seeing their spleens explode.

“They're still not talking about anything illegal,” Ellis said to Maisie and Hilda. They were convened in the study in a building neither Ellis nor Hilda deigned to identify. “Ask every third person on
Oxford Street and they'll tell you the BBC is a load of Bolshevist propaganda. Every next third person will insist it's a government mouthpiece.”

The interviews Maisie still wished to conduct, using that traveling microphone.

Hilda looked over Maisie's notes, one hand idly twisting up her onyx necklace, the other holding a cigarette. She was smoking more these days.

“It's certainly gratifying to know we've done such good work,” Hilda said. “Barely a blink ago the papers were swearing the BBC was a fad that wouldn't last. Now entire political factions want to bend us to their will. Nothing says you've arrived like a conspiracy. Except maybe a death threat.”

“Most people are never that bored,” Ellis muttered.

Maisie studied their pile of propaganda. More pamphlets, articles cut from German newspapers with notes in English, a two-volume book by Hitler claiming to be autobiography, but mostly just what Phyllida would call “political blether,” and a lot of letters from Vernon Bartlett whose contents did not make it into his
Way of the World
Talks. There were also scribbled sections of letters from Vita, in Berlin. Maisie wanted to ask if she was acting as a spy as well, but was uneasy about venturing into any discussion that might touch on the word, “Shall!!”

“Vita tells me a great deal that doesn't find its way into the papers,” Hilda said.

Maisie blushed at the name “Vita” being spoken out loud. She sneaked a glance at Ellis, but if he knew anything in particular about that name, his mostly bored expression didn't reveal it.

“She has noticed much in the way of a cosmopolitan atmosphere, and a great influence from Hollywood and even Asia in entertainments. But she's also observed more than once a club primarily attracting homosexuals being attacked by thugs.”

“Hardly surprising,” Ellis muttered.

“But then we have all this propaganda, from these Nazis—”

“A marginalized group of mostly laughable idiots, as I understand,” Ellis interrupted.

“Yes, and Vita and Harold agree with you. But Harold, in his capacity as diplomat, notes that some political circles agree with the concern over interest in Bolshevism and, of course, everyone's favorite specters, trade unions and media. These circles would also like to see a more traditional Germany rise again. And increasingly there are those murmuring that given the opportunity, they'd lend support to whoever can help make it happen. And everyone thinks Germany is being stifled and robbed by the British and French, and is not to be borne.”

“Yes, even your economist friend Keynes said that,” Ellis pointed out. “And on the BBC no less. One would think the Fascists would appreciate him.”

“Mr. Keynes is no Fascist!” Hilda snapped. “He was making a perfectly fair point, and his studies indicate that it will hardly improve our own economy to keep fleecing Germany.”

“And continuing to kick someone when they're down is never a good idea,” Maisie chimed in.