Radio Girls (10 page)

Not that Talks was short on challenges. The following week, Maisie was leaving the tearoom, brushing crumbs from her skirt, when Hilda came at her at a dead run, looped her arm through Maisie's, and barreled her down to Talks.

“Bit of a crisis, I'm afraid,” Hilda explained, though she didn't look afraid at all. She was glowing hot with excitement.

“Oh, excellent. Reinforcements,” Fielden said with heavy sarcasm on seeing Maisie. “Are you sure you don't want to ask any of the cleaning crew to help?”

“Mr. Fielden,” Hilda said, and it was enough to silence him. She parked Maisie in front of a telephone and handed her a list of names, phone exchange codes, and a steno pad. “Somehow a program on Turkey has been thrust upon us, and it's all hands on deck for research.”

Turkey?

Fielden sniggered at Maisie's expression.

“The nation, Miss Musgrave, not the Christmas dinner.”

What a shame. It'd be so nice to shove a whole turkey in his mouth
.

Hilda ignored him. “We must find someone, preferably Turkish, who can speak at length, be comprehensible, and be interesting. Oh, and some music. One of those silly exotic restaurants will have a player or a group. Just be sure they are genuine. And some poetry or a reading from a novel, that will be nice.”

“There doesn't seem to be anything original,” Fielden informed her in his most dour tones. “I'm just off to King's College and the library to be sure.”

“Good.” Hilda nodded, frowning at her watch. “I'll have to cancel my lunch, poor Fred.” She turned back to Maisie. “Ready to begin?”

The only thing Maisie felt ready to do was hyperventilate.
Answering a phone was one thing—which Miss Shields didn't allow anyway (“you're not as twangy as most Americans, but your accent will still put people off”). Reaching out to a stranger on behalf of the BBC was not in her bulwark.

“I'd really rather type and things,” Maisie begged. “My voice just isn't—”

“Of course it is,” Hilda interrupted. “And we need more notes before there can be any typing.” The clear eyes lasered in on Maisie. “You have a very pleasant manner, you know.”

She always sounds so sincere. Why isn't she a politician?

“We just need to find something that won't shame the BBC.”

Was that meant to be encouraging? Hilda was halfway into her own office but stuck her head around the door again.

“And warn everyone that if I hear the phrase ‘Turkish Delight' they'll get a hose turned on them.”

Maisie picked up the phone, though she could barely keep it steady, and asked the operator to connect her.

Maybe no one will answer anywhere
.

But someone did, and she had to speak.

“Er, hullo. Um, this is Miss Musgrave calling from the BBC Talks Department, and, er . . . I . . . That is, we were hoping you might be able to assist . . .”

The voice squeaked and crackled—it would have rained fuzz through the airwaves. But the words got out. And Maisie hadn't reckoned the effect of “BBC.” The man on the other end didn't know she was Mousy Maisie, Invisible Girl, dogsbody extraordinaire.

“Yes, Miss Musgrave, what can I do for you?”

She'd never heard anyone address her so deferentially.

“We're preparing a Talk on Turkey, and we're a bit pressed for time—” Was that really her voice, gaining confidence and competence by the syllable? This man deeply regretted not being able to help, and meant it. Maisie thanked him politely and soldiered on.

“This is Miss Musgrave of the BBC Talks Department.” The voice was getting crisper and more commanding, with a mixture of
warmth and politeness. “We are looking for a knowledgeable person to speak about Turkey for a program that's come up rather suddenly and were hoping you might be able to assist us.”

Maisie reported it all: the restaurant managers who thought maybe, perhaps, could they ring back? The expert in Byzantine history who insisted the capital be referred to as Constantinople, even though it had been renamed Istanbul in 1923. (“I'm all for adding controversy,” Hilda said, “but he doesn't sound like someone who can be bullied into decorum in a timely fashion.”) The diplomat who wanted to pontificate on the successful eradication of the Ottoman Empire and the proven brilliance of the Sykes-Picot Agreement. (“Practically begs the imperialists in the Turkish embassy to march on the BBC with torches and pitchforks. Certainly good for publicity, but a nuisance for the fire brigade and awkward if we want lunch.”)

The phones rang in—Hilda had sent telegrams to “a few Foreign Office chaps I know.” The representative of the Turkish consulate was glad to speak to Miss Matheson if she was a friend of Mr. Winters, but was concerned the BBC was making light of his nation.

“Nothing of the sort,” Hilda insisted. “We want listeners to gain a real understanding of the Turkish nation, not just its history, but what its people are really like. If you can send over a few notes this afternoon, we can turn it into a script and send it back for your approval.”

“That seems satisfactory,” came the grudging, but also eager, response.

“Thank you so much!”

“I'll get on looking for musicians,” Maisie offered.

“No need,” Fielden announced with grim smugness. “I've found us a trio, Miss Matheson, who play instruments called a ‘saz,' a ‘sipsi,' and a ‘darbuka.' I suppose we can't expect Bach.”

“I should jolly well hope not!” Hilda crowed gleefully.

“They probably won't fit in the lift.” Fielden sighed, stumping out of the room.

“I expect they'll have a remarkable sound,” Hilda told Maisie. “The
engineers will be run to exhaustion, which should render them ecstatic. You did very well, Miss Musgrave. Thank you. I'll give you a note for Miss Shields to explain why you're a bit late getting back there.”

Cripes, I forgot all about the executive offices
. She came in expecting the worst, but Reith was locked in a meeting and Miss Shields only gave her a withering glance as she scurried to her typewriter. The in-tray was invisible under the weight of correspondence.

Maisie concentrated hard, fingers barnstorming over the keys, steadily reducing the mountain of replies requested, but couldn't help looking up when Reith's door opened. She got a little thrill on seeing him, breathing in the power he emanated. He walked out with yet another man in a black bowler hat saying that Reith must dine with him at his club the next week.

“I should be delighted. Miss Shields will be in contact with my free days. Cheerio, then!”

Clubs were where important men gathered to talk about important business. Maisie couldn't imagine what it must entail, but she thought how wonderful it would be to find out, just once. To be part of the life of a man who lived this way.

She brought the correspondence to Miss Shields.

“You look a bit melancholy, Miss Musgrave,” Reith observed, sending her spirits soaring. She loved when he singled her out. “I hope there isn't anything troubling in that.” He indicated the letters.

“Oh, no. Not at all, sir. I think we get busier every week.”

“That is the idea,” he answered, pleased. “Bringing culture and education to all Britain, isn't that right?”

“I should think so, sir,” she answered reverently.

Miss Shields handed him a report. He glanced at it, lit a cigarette, and scowled back at Maisie.

“I do worry about you young girls, left all on your own after that nasty war. Rum business, having to work during prime marriage years.”

Maisie didn't dare look at the ageless, but perhaps not prime, Miss Shields.

“I hope you don't devote yourself too much to work that you don't try to seize a good chance,” he advised. “There are still some sound chaps out there for a working-class girl, even if you're not British, so long as you aren't too particular.”

“Thank you, sir,” Maisie whispered, still blushing when Eckersley, the chief engineer, strode in.

“Ah, Eckersley!” Reith barked. “Good, good, do come in. Spot of something?”

“No, thanks, sir. I'm all right.”

They disappeared behind the door of the inner sanctum. Maisie lingered, twisting her hands together, and inadvertently glanced at Miss Shields, who was frowning at her left ring finger. She felt Maisie's gaze and looked up, angry triumph lighting up her face.

“Loafing, are you? I'll report that to Mr. Reith. People get sacked for less.”

Maisie slunk away. For the rest of the day, their typewriters battled to see which was loudest.

Miss Shields's report went unmentioned and the secretary's snubs continued. Maisie thought more about Reith's warning (or was it encouragement?) regarding marriage.
But who am I kidding? Look at me. Not pretty, no money, an actress mother and an unknown father.
Her attempts to make her father less unknown continued to fail. She had written to the General Register Office, hoping Edwin Musgrave's birth was in their records, but there was no reply.

Family. A home. Love. All the things she'd dreamed of as a child. It was hard not to still want them. Desperately.

At least her work here kept her so busy, and interested, she had less time to want things she wasn't likely to get.

“Hallo, New York!” Cyril's usual greeting sounded over her thoughts—and set them into a tumult—as she navigated the corridor.

The ever-shifting schedules and constant crises made it impossible to count on seeing anyone at any given time, even tea breaks.
Several days could pass without seeing Cyril. Even when she did, each of them was always rushing somewhere else.

But he does
see
me. That's more than anyone's ever done. And a man like that, intelligent, interesting, charming, handsome . . .

She shook it all out of her head, reminding herself that he just liked the idea of New York, and called her that because he couldn't remember her name.

Still. She wished she could ask someone's opinion, get advice. If nothing else, she might stop jumping and twitching like a rabbit when she saw him. She envied the easy camaraderie among the typists and other secretaries. How did a person make friends with someone?

“Ah!” Hilda cried as Maisie entered her office. “More typed scripts, wonderful.”

Maisie half wished she could ask Hilda's advice on how to speak more with Cyril. Or at least find out if he already had a girl. But she never would. Hilda, able to speak to anyone, about anything, was on a different plane. Maisie was, however, watching the way Hilda gleaned information. The woman had a remarkable way of framing a question that didn't seem to be probing at all. She knew the birthdays of everyone in the Talks Department, and it was understood she had not presumed upon the office manager, Miss Banks, for the personnel files. She also knew everyone's favorite cake. It was considered unfortunate if one's birthday fell on a Sunday, though Hilda was admirable about day-after cakes.

“It'll be a ghastly day if she ever gets married and leaves us,” Collins, one of the Talks assistants, said through a mouthful of his vanilla sponge birthday cake, courtesy of Hilda. Fielden stared the stare of a man who had never beheld such inanity, which Maisie thought a bit harsh, even for Fielden. Probably it was because Hilda was senior, and the BBC one of the few places in Britain that allowed senior women to work after marriage. Or maybe because the man to woo and win her was hard to fathom? Or maybe, simply, there was no one who could run Talks like Hilda.

By the calendar's estimation, it was summer, but the weather had its own opinion on the subject. Despite the damp and chill, the young men of Savoy Hill regressed to school holiday deportment, heralding the change in season with a raucousness that threatened to shatter the windows.

Maisie, tucked in a corner, heard nothing. She was comparing Georges Lemaître's original script against Hilda's revisions. The priest's upcoming broadcast rendered Hilda giddy, though Reith insisted she have another priest denounce his big bang theory. “A name as repugnant as the concept!” the DG fumed. Hilda argued it was important that science have its say, and much of Oxford and Cambridge agreed, which silenced Reith.