Radio Girls (35 page)

“Meaning what, you could be chief engineer?” Fielden said with a sneer.

“I'd put up a good fist learning. I'll tell you that.”

Hilda crooked a finger at Maisie, beckoning her away from the brewing donnybrook.

“Margaret Bondfield's agreed to come broadcast,” Hilda announced.

Hilda's charms worked where they counted. Margaret Bondfield was the subject of much scrutiny and some quiet scoffing, being the first woman who wasn't an aristocrat to be made a Cabinet member.

“Oh! How wonderful! May I work on the first draft of her script?”

Hilda grinned, blowing a smoke ring. “I remember a young woman terrified to take on such work, or even ask questions.”

“I remember her, too,” Maisie said. “I can't say as I miss her.”

“She was a great deal more than she knew to credit herself for, though. Ah, and she still blushes, I see. Yes, Miss Musgrave, you may have a go at the script. That's the only way to carry on learning. Rather good, having a lady politician in so soon after the election. Feels like a continuation of
Questions for Women Voters
, don't you think?”

“It does. Maybe if we could keep bringing on women in politics in some way—”

“Just as I was thinking. But not haphazardly. Women are still so new to being part of the political process. Most of them haven't the foggiest idea how Parliament works. Mind you, I can say the same for some MPs. But what's good for the goose is good for the flock—what do you think of a weekly program that will educate women as to the goings-on in Westminster and we'll only have women MPs as broadcasters, and a woman as the presenter and moderator? Explain how the sausage gets made and talk about specific policy discussions. Good, eh?”

“The bee's knees,” breathed Maisie.

“I admire all parts of the bee, myself. Anyway, jolly good. I was thinking we'd just call it
The Week in Westminster
, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You are pliant today. And here's what else I'd like to propose. That you should be the producer. Yes?”

“No. What? Me?” Pliancy flew up the chimney.

“You'd be quite good at it. Lady Astor will be one of our regular speakers, obviously, and she already likes you. And you've come to rather enjoy politics, I think.”

Maisie's fingers were itching. She wanted to write to every woman in Westminster at once.

“Do you think the DG will approve it?” she asked.

What she meant, though, was,
Will he approve me?
It felt like a long time since Reith had extended any sort of approval to Maisie. She missed it. Though in fact, it was a long time since she'd approved of him.

“He likes the women's programming,” Hilda answered. “Especially when it's edifying and features upstanding women. And he's terrified of Lady Astor's wrath. And”—seeming to know Maisie's real question—“if I convince him that it's only a small sort of program, educating young women like yourself, then it's only reasonable that you should be at the helm and I'll keep a close eye as always, and that sort of thing.”

That sort of thing.
The sort of thing of which minor revolutions are made
.

“Can you stay a bit late today, to discuss things further?” Hilda went on.

Maisie grinned. She knew perfectly well what that meant.

Hilda had prepared for the momentous chat and was equipped with bread and honey and tea.

“We might do a Talk on that fellow's new invention in Missouri,” Hilda said, her knife singing through the loaf. “The machine that slices bread. Mind you, that's copping to the worst of people's laziness. There's an art to slicing bread, and each piece should have its
own idiom. I'd like to say I hope the machine doesn't find its way into every bakery in Britain, but I daresay it will.”

“People like being lazy,” Maisie observed, sucking honey from her pinkie.

“Many find it preferable, yes. But you don't.” Hilda waved a hand at the notes spread on the floor around them. With the door closed and barred with a chair, and the rain making it hard for them to hear each other, never mind be heard past the door, they were free to discuss Maisie's Siemens adventure.

“My goodness. They are ambitious,” Hilda observed.

“It looks like they want to silence women and unions everywhere. And what's it for but money?”

“People are awfully funny. Always thinking lots of money makes them special, and thus superior, and so they ought to exercise that superiority.”

“It's a wonder they don't try to revoke the Magna Carta.”

“I'm sure there are those who wouldn't mind. But there you are. We simply carry on reminding people not to take anything for granted. You've done very well, Miss Musgrave. Are you prepared to carry on with this project?”

“They're not getting into the BBC without a fight.”

“No. No, they're not.”

As
The Week in Westminster
would focus on events of the week, notes on scripts were made every day. Maisie spent her morning tram ride scrawling ideas for themes and tidbits voters would want to know. She sailed into Hilda's office and was knocked into the umbrella stand as she was leaped on by a huge red spaniel.

“Steady on there, Torquhil,” Hilda commanded, laughing.

Dogs made Maisie nervous. An admirer had once given Georgina an overbred puppy and Maisie had been deputized to feed it scraps from her plate. Whether because it was hungry or simply sensed the resentment, it sank its teeth into Maisie's fingers. The combination of
screeching and growling prompted audience merriment, which made Maisie cry, which made everyone, especially Georgina, laugh harder. The dog soon disappeared, part of the ceaseless detritus flowing in and out of Georgina's life. The scars on Maisie's fingers were still visible.

“Isn't he beautiful?” Hilda purred, stroking Torquhil's red head. “He was a gift.”

“Um, he's very nice,” Maisie muttered, avoiding the dog's eye.

“Don't you worry,” said Hilda. “Torquhil can't even do damage to a chewing bone.” She scratched behind his ear and crooned, “If a man were trying to have my bag off me, he'd just sit there and look for a biscuit, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he?” She stood and studied him. “Or am I maligning your character? Many apologies, if so.” She turned to Maisie and grinned. “Well? Aren't you going to tell me I'm off my nuts?”

“I was thinking of saying more like you're barking mad.”

Hilda threw back her head and laughed.

“Well, there's no directive against bringing in dogs, and the DG did say he wanted us treating family well. Now that Torquhil's trained, no need to keep him at home all day, so here he is.”

Her eyes were bright and challenging. Maisie wasn't sure who would be more displeased, Reith or Samson.

Phyllida came in with a green interoffice envelope. “Good morning. This just came. It's marked ‘Urgent.' Oh, hallo!” She saw Torquhil and he, recognizing a friend, nudged her hand for a pat. “New Talks assistant?”

“Excuse me?” Maisie asked.

“Oh, good Lord, please no,” Hilda moaned as she read the interoffice memo.

Maisie and Phyllida exchanged alarmed glances.

“Not another tour of inspection by the governors?” Maisie asked.

“Worse,” Hilda replied in a hollow voice. “We're to have a Sports Day.”

I
t wasn't quite a Sports Day in fact, but rather a Savoy Hill–wide picnic, in the countryside, featuring games, amusements, dancing, and loads of food. All in all, a grand day out.

Maisie hopped off the bus Reith had hired for them, wearing borrowed brogues, a georgette ocher frock, and a straw hat, and carrying the good wishes of her whole boardinghouse. It was a startlingly warm day, and the park chosen for the event was a lush expanse of green lawn ringed by very fine oaks and shrubbery.

“Ah, the Hundred Acre Wood!” Phyllida cried. “Lord, the whole thing is rather tidy, isn't it? Bet it belongs to some landed gent, raking in a few extra shillings. They still have their names and houses, but the cash is running down. Excuse me whilst I weep.”

Marquees stretched over tables groaning with food, and Maisie was second only to the messenger boys in making her first strike. She took her food and settled herself on a blanket, happily working her way through a cold collation and salmon aspic as she watched a rather brutal game of field hockey, with Hilda as one team captain and Beanie as the other. Maisie had long since reconciled herself to her
lack of schooling, though she still felt a twinge at not being able to join this melee. Even Phyllida could play a little, applying brawn whenever there was a small lapse in her knowledge of the rules.

“Go, go, go!” Beanie shouted, a general leading a cavalry raid. “What do you call that?”

“Good form, troops, good form. Now move in, strike!” cried Hilda, equally militant.

“What a bother I can't join!” Mary Somerville said, coming to stand beside Maisie. She had married last year and was now six months pregnant. Not only did she still prefer to be called “Miss Somerville” at the BBC, but the rumor was she was intending on returning to work some months after the baby was born and had asked Reith for what she called “maternity leave.”

“You could be goalkeeper for Miss Matheson's team,” Maisie suggested. Though Beanie's team put up an impressive fight, the goalkeeper had not been much challenged.

“I think I'll go watch the cricket. It'll be more soothing,” Miss Somerville decided after a particularly vicious attack.

Maisie watched her stride along the grounds, her gait only just becoming ungainly.
That's who I could be
. In Simon's last letter, he'd written, “I do admire you, my darling Miss Musgrave, working so hard as you do, devoted to your cause, and rising.” He was a modern man at heart, and proud of her. He wouldn't mind her staying on, still being Miss Musgrave, still rising.

“Aren't they supposed to be the weaker sex?” Billy's voice sounded above her as Hilda performed a complex dribble, charging through half her opponents, sending them reeling, and launched an enormous thwack that tested the strength of both stick and ball and knocked poor Vera, keeping goal, to her knees.

“That's why generals avoid putting weapons in their hands,” Cyril answered. Maisie glanced over at him and Billy, but they were too enthralled by the match to notice her. “So, whose knickers are you hoping to see here?”

“Oh, I'm not bothered. But I say, Underwood, look at that Matheson woman. Can't help admiring her. Is there anything she can't do?”

“Don't let the DG hear you say that. Speaking of, we'd best push on. We promised to join the cricket.” Cyril's voice was heavy with martyrdom.

“Now, lads, we can't play anything so coarse as football,” Billy said, in an eerie imitation of Reith's voice. They laughed as they trudged away.

Maisie took advantage of a time-out in the hockey to make her second assault on the food tables. While there, she thought she might as well examine the cakes, in the manner of a general's studying the movements of the enemy before he plans attack.

Siepmann was being served a Pimm's cup at the bar, and Maisie ducked behind a pyramid of peaches and plums, hoping he wouldn't see her. She was in no mood to hear his observations on her industry or littleness.

“Ah, there you are! Coming to watch the cricket, old man?”

Maisie was rather surprised Reith came to fetch his own drink. She would have thought he'd have someone tending to him. But possibly he wished to be seen as one of the staff. The lads, specifically, to judge by his straw boater and linen jacket. He looked alien in light colors, a bear without its skin.

“Lord, yes,” Siepmann replied. “I just needed a drink after watching the girls go at it. I know sport is meant to be healthy for them, but it's quite unfeminine.”

“I know, I know, but I would have been lambasted if I hadn't allowed them some sort of game. I'd certainly rather they play hockey than take up some of that ghastly dancing people persist in these days. I won't have any BBC girls behaving like that, not on my watch.”

“You know Miss Warwick goes to those parties,” Siepmann said.

“But she was properly brought up, so we trust she knows how to behave.”

“Did you see Miss Matheson leading the fray?”

“I rejoice to say, I did not.”

“Our Miss Somerville would have given some back, I'd think, but for her condition. Awfully decent of you to keep her on. And the fact is, she's really very good at the job. So much so that if what we're talking about comes to pass—”

“Yes, yes, precisely. I can't pretend to understand her marriage at all. That Mr. Brown of hers must be a strange fish if he has no quarrel with her retaining her father's name. But she's married, she's going to be a mother, and she's a very regular sort of woman, quite moral and decent. She won't try to impose advanced fare if she agrees to replace you.”

A replacement for Siepmann! Maisie wanted to run, skip, turn cartwheels. If he was leaving the BBC, that would be worth one hell of a party.

“A very good choice, I think,” Siepmann remarked with only a hint of oleaginousness. “If it must be a woman, she has certainly proven herself.”

“As have you, Siepmann, as have you.”

“I'm only thinking of what's good for the BBC.”

“That's what makes you such a fine man. And arguably, Miss Matheson does think much the same way, but whatever the governors say, she just seems more and more like a woman who oughtn't have quite so much influence. Those damn unreasonable demands.”

“But she's extremely popular.”

“Yes. She's done well, certainly. Ah, let's not spoil the day with the same old chat, shall we? Come, let's see how the lads are getting on.”

Fortified, they walked over to the cricket pitch, and Maisie stood there, eyes locked with the bored bartender, who professionally hadn't heard a single word. She mindlessly crammed cake into her mouth, the heavy plate in her other hand quite forgotten.

Hilda would say it was her foray into investigative journalism—or espionage—that was making her see conspiracies in what was just churlish grousing. But there was no way, no way she was wrong.
Those sleek-groomed heads had stuck together to plan the clipping of Hilda's wings, for no reason other than that they didn't want to keep looking up as she flew by.

Even if Hilda had heard the whole exchange, she would likely only shrug. Unsurprised that there were those who sought to take some wind from her sails, she would carry on charting her waters. Phyllida would point out, with infuriating reasonableness, that Siepmann couldn't be promoted to Talks until Hilda left and she wasn't going to and Reith could never justify sacking her. The governors would sooner dismiss him.

But Phyllida didn't know about Vita. And Siepmann might. And if Reith ever found out . . .

I need to talk to someone who has some muscle. The sort of cynic who wouldn't be surprised . . . Where's Fielden?

It was important to look as meandering and dreamy as possible, just one of the girls, enjoying the novelty and the buffet. She wandered with increasing impatience, almost despair—was he even here? He had to be. This holiday jaunt was mandatory.

Her plate was nearly empty by the time she found him, perched under an umbrella, watching the sound effects crew play a highly querulous game of croquet.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fielden! May I join you?”

“I know the DG considers this a social gathering, Miss Musgrave, but we don't need to humor him beyond a nod. Do please feel free to finish off the buffet instead.”

Since there was nothing to be gained by breaking the plate over his head, she sat down as if she'd been invited, or at least not discouraged. It would be so preferable to talk to Beanie! Both as an aristocrat and an adept of an elite school, she must know everything about shifting allegiances and how petty quests for greater personal power must operate. But Beanie was very deliberate in her avoidance of trouble at the BBC, and very loving of gossip. Fielden might not like Maisie, but he didn't like anyone, except Hilda. So there it was.

He looked at her a long moment, as if trying to ascertain that she really was sitting there and not moving.

“I suppose the geese are watching from the shrubbery, and if you trouble me long enough, you win some sort of prize?”

“Er. No. What?”

“Direct and clear-spoken as ever.”

“Mr. Fielden.” She cast a nervous glance around her to be sure they couldn't be heard. Then again, there was little chance of being heard over the shouts of the sound effects men. It seemed inadvisable to let them handle wooden mallets. “What would happen, do you think, if someone in Savoy Hill was thinking of disrupting the Talks Department?”

His eyebrows shot up. She wouldn't have guessed his features could be so animated.

“Seen a bad play, have you?” he asked, though it was clearly just to maintain form.

“A multitude,” she agreed. “But that's beside the point. I overheard a discussion I wasn't meant to hear—”

“That's what ‘overhearing' generally is, Miss Musgrave.”

“—and it made me think there is an effort to elevate . . . a certain person . . . in a way that would, er, affect our department.”

“Ah. Siepmann,” Fielden stated.

“What have you heard?” Maisie demanded.

“Only what you're failing to tell me in worthwhile detail. But the DG's fading enthusiasm for Our Lady is legion enough that it may as well have been broadcast, and who else could he connive with within the ranks to try to splinter us? He's not going to pull from outside, not these days. Strictly an earn-your-way-up man, save where himself is concerned.”

“We've got to do something.”

“We can't do something against nothing. We couldn't even if it were something.”

The whole of the BBC opined that A. A. Milne had modeled Eeyore on Fielden.

“We've got to warn Miss Matheson,” Maisie insisted. “There must be a way to do it without upsetting her.”

“There is. We say nothing, but rather double our efforts in producing brilliant Talks. We support the genius of Our Lady and of course be sure that there is no chance of the Dear Generalissimo missing a single positive response, either from listeners or the press. Whatever he thinks of Our Lady, his greatest love is for the BBC itself.”

“Can't help feeling sorry for his wife,” Maisie said.

“For so many reasons. My point is, he's not going to interfere with the growth of his child, even if one of its godmothers irks him. He's far too pleased with his nose to cut it off.”

“But the thing of it is, Mr. Fielden, we do a top job already, and if he's thinking—”

“You don't really know what the Dire Gargoyle is thinking, and he could simply be letting Siepmann know he has faith in him.” Fielden hid a faint smile in his drink. “Thinks he's good enough to do a woman's job.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Maisie snapped.

Fielden looked surprised. “Do they not have jokes in your homeland? Or is the entire dominion of Canada joke enough in itself?”

His head was saved by a shout from Fowler and an errant croquet ball crashing into the table between them. Fielden pulled his drink to safety but jerked too hard and half of it landed on his summer tweed.