Radio Girls (13 page)

“In its infancy.” That was the phrase. Radio was a form in its infancy.

This is the cradle of civilization.

She stared harder, wanting to read the five pips that began each broadcast, before that call crackled through wirelesses up and down the country.

From Penzance to John o' Groats, anyone who had a wireless and the license fee could tune in and hear a symphony, poetry, gardening advice, a thriller, a debate, scenes from new plays, sporting events, stories about places scattered throughout the globe, because why shouldn't a farmwife in South Yorkshire know something of Shanghai, or San Francisco, or São Paulo?

“It's just so wonderful,” Maisie breathed, wishing she could fold herself inside it and be part of those flickers, entering wirelesses in every home and pub and shop, seeing the faces as they listened to the stories.

“It is,” Hilda agreed. “Quite an instrument for communication,” She continued, her eyes traversing the length of the transmitter. “A magnificent tool. Of course, one quirk about tools is that many of them can also be wielded as weapons.”

Maisie looked up at her, but Hilda was lost in the machine.

No wonder Reith was so particular about the BBC's content. With millions of listeners already, it would be catastrophic to broadcast something, call it fact, and then discover it was wrong. Broadcasting was only five years old, but it was becoming an institution. And institutions had power.

And I'm a part of this.

Her heart was pounding, the fist beating her ribs.

“Time we were getting back to the office,” Hilda announced. “I imagine there are at least twenty new crises to corral. Such is life at our BBC.”

No doubt. And Maisie couldn't wait to get back to it.

Her new vigor was a talisman, a shield against any arrow that might be slung her way, attempting to pierce Invisible Girl. She shoved Cyril to the back of her mind, where she was hoping he would fall out. There was too much else to think of, and it was all more important.

“Miss Musgrave, are you capable of bringing a broadcaster up for rehearsal?” Fielden asked. “Our Lady is still meeting with that ball of scruff from the Urban Allotment Society.”

The broadcaster was a City man, Mr. Emmet, talking about the importance of investments and stocks, peevish because Hilda had revised his script four times.

Maisie guided him into the studio, where Billy and the new engineer were running tests and making adjustments to the mike.

“We're about to do a rehearsal,” she informed them. They looked
up at her, then turned back to their work, muttering something about being nearly done.

“I suppose there's no hope of a drink,” Mr. Emmet asked, holding out his hat for Maisie to hang.

“Not in the studio, I'm afraid, sir.”

He snorted and settled himself in the chair.

“I'll just run and tell Miss Matheson you're here,” Maisie said.

“You should take him to the Tup,” Billy said in an undertone. Maisie was astonished—Billy never spoke to her. “City chaps are awful lightweights. After a few, maybe he'll think you're one worth marrying.”

The talisman pushed back her tears but did nothing to allay her mounting rage. It could just have been a matter of Billy being himself, but it was possible, just possible, that Cyril had told them.

Her talisman got its real test a few days later, when she was hurrying to the Talks Department. She saw Cyril before he saw her, and that fist in her chest flung itself in five directions at once. She concentrated on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other, thinking about the script she was about to type.

Cyril saw her and stopped. “Maisie, hallo. How are you keeping?”

She had to dig her nails into her palms to prevent herself from stopping or shaking.

“Copacetic,” she answered, trying to sound like a brusque New Yorker, far too busy and important to even break pace. He jogged backward to keep eye contact.

“Good, good. I say, will you stop a moment?”

He put out a hand and she stopped, mostly to avoid his skin making contact.

“I, ah, just wanted to be sure . . . no hard feelings, hey? We can be chums?”

A fleeting image of fish bait swam through Maisie's brain.

“I'm sure you can be anything you'd like to be,” she told him.
“Really must dash, cheerio,” and she skittered around him and down the corridor, wondering if he was watching and refusing to care.

She was still roiling two hours later on her tea break.

“Goodness, what did that poor toast ever do to you?” Phyllida was moved to ask, hypnotized by Maisie's atavistic gnashing.

Everyone else in the tearoom, however, was focused on Billy and another engineer, Paul, who had built some ridiculous motorized contraption on which the handler could guide metal football players over a pitch. The clutch of BBC boys was enthralled.

“Seems to get a bit hot,” Cyril observed, playing his round.

“Funny since you're such a rotten player,” Billy said.

“Funny yourself!”

“Here, I'll show you.” Billy nudged Cyril away and took over to a chorus of jeers.

Maisie lunged into another slice of toast, wishing they would shut up. As if solely to aggravate her further, the shouts grew louder. Then there was a sudden boom, puffs of black smoke, and the whole room chorused with shouts.

“What have those lunatics done?” shrieked Mrs. Hudson, ever protective of her abused tearoom.

The room was unscathed, the only casualties of the explosion being Billy, squalling and clutching his hand, and the toy, oozing unidentifiable liquid and an acrid smell. Paul keened over this destruction.

“We ought to get him to the hospital!” shouted Cyril.

Blood spilled onto the table, and several girls shrieked. Maisie, still chewing, hurtled over a table to get to Billy.

The cut wasn't deep, but it was just above the thumb, and spurting blood.

“My hand, my hand! I'll lose my job!” Billy's shrieks flowed as freely as the blood.

“I know it hurts,” Maisie said, “but it's nothing much. No need to worry.” She expertly wove a napkin around his hand to stanch the flow. “If someone runs to Miss Banks's room, she'll have a medical kit. This won't take but two stitches at most.”

“Can you actually do it?” Phyllida asked, her face percolating with interest.

“I can,” Maisie answered curtly.

Someone else must have thought of the medical kit, because Rusty came sprinting in with it. Maisie calmly selected a needle, wiped it with alcohol, and threaded it. Billy continued to yowl, convinced his career was finished.

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” Maisie snapped, starting to stitch. “Quit casting a kitten, will you? See a doctor if you want, but you'll be perfectly fine, probably by tomorrow.” And she finished stitching and cut the thread.

Cyril was the first to speak.

“Well, that's a turnup,” he said, echoing the unspoken sentiment. “I'd have pegged you for the type who faints at the sight of blood.”

“Yes,” Maisie agreed. “And I'd have pegged you for a gentleman. Some surprises are nicer than others.”

The others, even if they hadn't previously been given reason to speculate upon Cyril's gentlemanliness, were still delighted to see his deep blush, and congratulated themselves on a brilliant afternoon's entertainment.

“H
ow is it possible?” Beanie wailed, channeling Sarah Bernhardt. “How could I have missed the greatest drama in the BBC? It is too tragic!”

Maisie wondered what version of the story Beanie had heard. Probably the one in which she sewed Billy's whole hand back on, although it might have been the one of her bringing him back from the dead.

Growing up with Georgina had taught Maisie not to enjoy a pleasant moment, because it was likely to be snatched away. So Maisie worried the story would be heard by Miss Shields and worse, Mr. Reith, and her reputation smeared due to what must have been some sort of improper something or other with Cyril. Reith was particular about morals, and any good credit she might have built up with him would be revoked in an instant, even if she explained.
I shouldn't have gotten in a cab with him. That was asking for trouble.

“The local broadcast says there was quite a tempest in the tearoom the other day,” Hilda announced from the floor, where she was marking up a script as Maisie came in with filing.

Well, of course Hilda knew.

“It was nothing, truly,” Maisie insisted. “The chaps were being a bit . . . stupid, that's all.”

“Yes, that would make it a day ending in ‘y,'” Hilda agreed. “Although my secretary swanning in to mop up a bad injury rather ups the interest factor.”

“I'm glad I was able to help,” Maisie muttered. (Mostly. It
was
Billy, after all.)

“I suppose you think someone's going to ask an awkward question?”

That drew Maisie's eye.

“Miss Musgrave, if you wanted people not to guess that you lied about your age to nurse during the war, the expedient move would have been to use a different name or simply leave it off your list of experience.”

“I didn't have any other references,” Maisie protested, both stunned and not surprised by Hilda's guess. Though it didn't sound like a guess.

“You had the secretarial school,” Hilda reminded her.

“Yes, but I had to offer some sort of work experience, too,” Maisie said. “Please, Miss Matheson, I don't mind being reprimanded, but you won't tell Mr. Reith, will you?”

“Why on earth would I? Anyway, it's hardly news. I've known since your first week. Don't look so mutinous. You can't be surprised. As soon as I looked at you I knew you were never old enough to have done all you'd done in the proper way.”

So I'm improper. No wonder Cyril asked me out.

“I did tell that lie,” Maisie admitted, her old crime far easier to dwell on, “but I'm an honest person. I really am.”

“Of course you are,” Hilda said, astonished there would be any argument. “I wasn't reprimanding you, and it's no one else's concern. I was awfully pleased to discover it, though. It told me you were someone who was devoted to a cause. Or would do anything to be part of something bigger than yourself. Or wanted a great escape.”

Am I supposed to say which it was?

“All worthy,” Hilda went on. “It also told me you were someone who, when it came to it, was prepared to break rules.”

Her eyes were sparkling. Maisie railed inwardly, determined to no longer be any sort of rule breaker. Mr. Reith wouldn't like it.

“Rules are useful, of course,” Hilda noted, as though she were discussing galoshes. “But I find it's best to be flexible. You'd be amazed at who might turn out to be wrong.” Hilda's grin turned conspiratorial. “The lads are keeping it quiet, but Billy was taken to the woodshed by Mr. Eckersley. He's also been given a few days off—without pay—to ‘recuperate,' as it's being put. What with the shame, and a ‘mere secretary' having done him such a good turn before all his friends, he'll never dare look you in the eye again, I should think.”

Maisie couldn't help it. She laughed. Hilda laughed, too. She opened a biscuit tin and tossed one to Maisie.

“Butter. Your favorite, I believe.” It was. “Let's forge on. We've a great deal to do. The lads can mess 'round if they like. We need to get things done.”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps we can have a nurse do a series of Talks on treating injuries at home,” Maisie suggested. “Not me! I mean, obviously, a proper nurse, a Sister from a hospital. Someone who really—”

“A very, very fine idea,” Hilda agreed. Her smile was something different this time. Maisie had nothing to compare it with, but if she had to guess, it was respect.

“I'd have thought you'd be too brokenhearted to carry on there, after that rotten fellow,” Lola said, watching Maisie put on her hat. “But you seem almost . . . jolly.”

Imagine me, jolly.

“I suppose I'm still a bit cut up about it, to be honest,” Maisie admitted. “But they keep me too busy to think about it much.”

“‘Too busy' is the problem. You'll never get a chance to meet anyone else.”

“Ah well.” Maisie shrugged, pleased with her fresh lack of concern.
“Perhaps I'll have more luck when I get some new clothes. What do you think?”

Lola, always a keen advocate of new clothes, waxed eloquent all the way to the tram stop, where she saw Maisie off.

True to Hilda's prediction, Billy melted into the wall whenever he saw Maisie approaching. When she couldn't be avoided, his addresses were to her shoes, or occasionally an elbow. Maisie marveled at the improvements humiliation could make in a man's character.

Phyllida, on the other hand, was so impressed with Maisie, she drew her into a circle of two. They quickly became friends.

“You're very lucky, working for Miss Matheson,” Phyllida told her. “She's an absolute genius. She was political secretary to Lady Astor, you know.”

“I know. I can't imagine. Or I can, but I can't.”

Phyllida flicked some ashes off her cigarette and sipped her coffee.

“I trow . . . er, bet she was a suffragette.” Phyllida's native Yorkshire dialect ceaselessly battled to break free of its London cage, scoring the most victories when she was animated. “I wanted to be a suffragette. I even came down to London for the last big fight!” She grinned and took a long drag of her cigarette. “I was ten years old. But tall, so no one noticed me till we were arrested. And just months before it was legal, what rot. The police didn't mither—bother—me, but I still have the scars from Father's whipping. Right nonsense women can't vote till we're thirty! I'm going to stand for office one day, you know, and get to changing things.”

From a Yorkshire dairy farm to a typist at the BBC to an MP. That would be quite a story. Someone should be keeping notes.

“Did you vote, in America?” Phyllida asked longingly.

“I couldn't. I'm not a citizen there,” Maisie reminded her. She'd still been in Brighton in 1920, and read about the American election with the same cursory interest she'd give a story about farming in India.

“The Talks are getting awfully fascinating. I wish I could have been Talks secretary.” Phyllida looked mournful, not jealous.

“Did you put yourself forward?” Maisie felt guilty.

“Couldn't.” Phyllida snorted. “If a lass is to shift from typing, she's got to be asked, not ask herself. That's just not the done thing. Besides, I'm a Northerner, officially uneducated, and nobody. So goes the assessment.”

“But I'm not educated, and I'm nobody,” Maisie said. “Why would—”

“Ah, but you're foreign,” Phyllida pointed out, as though that answered everything. “Never mind. We're all here; that's what matters.”

Back in the office, Hilda was radiating so much glee, the chilly summer felt almost warm.

“No, I shan't tell you until the meeting,” Hilda teased. Her excitement was contagious, and Maisie tore through correspondence with hungry impatience.

The Talks staff usually held their meetings around a large table in the room that housed their files. It was the only room where the staff was guaranteed to sit still for an hour at a time, and so had the perversity to be the draftiest in the department.

Hilda sailed in, took a brief gauge of the temperature, and threw up her hands.

“Oh, this is just too absurd. Into my office, everyone, and settle by the fire. Room enough for all. Budge up, budge up,” Hilda fussed, chivvying the staff into place. “Come along, we're all friends.”

“Not all,” Fielden muttered. He was sitting next to Maisie, but his disparagement was generously general.

Hilda's cheerfulness, as well as the novelty of holding a meeting on the floor, sparked a campfire mentality. Maisie thought they might open the meeting with a song.

“We've got weeks of business to discuss in one hour,” Hilda warned them, the usual start of a Talks meeting. “But I have some rather ripping news to share. ‘News' news, if you like.” Enjoying the sight of their bemused faces, she plunged on. “We're finally starting a News section in Talks!”

“Won't we be prosecuted?” Fielden asked, looking almost perky.

“This comes down from the governors,” Hilda assured him, eyes twinkling. “We can do things like in-depth analyses of events, and other such, and thus show off our capacity. It's a beginning!”

The BBC's governors, simultaneously dictatorial and distant, were Reith's benefactors and the thorns penetrating his tweed waistcoat. He bowed before their every whim, even as he cursed them fluently from a safe distance. But it was less the governors than the actual government that tied the BBC's hand when it came to news reporting.

At the BBC's birth, Fleet Street newspapers had banded together in an unheard-of camaraderie to insist that radio not be allowed to do original news. As certain as they were that radio was a silly fad that wouldn't last and no one except a few eccentrics was going to buy a license and who could afford a wireless anyway, if the BBC reported news, it would put the papers out of business. And Parliament, always keen on good press, agreed, so the BBC could only read news after seven p.m. and that was only the prepared Reuters bulletin.

“If we can prove anyone listens to those bulletins, I'll eat my hat,” Fielden said. Maisie had never hoped so much that the bulletins garnered interest and decided they'd have to rent a cine-camera to record the meal.

“The ban is not lifted,” Hilda told them, and they all wilted, even Maisie, who had never given news a thought. “But Talks such as Mr. Bartlett's broadcasts can be expanded and increased. So! Let's have some ideas!”

It was understood that Hilda had enough ideas to fill the Talks slots for the next seven years, but she expected her department to be a place where everyone had a dozen thoughts at any one time and should express them.

Fielden began, as usual. As second-in-command, he felt his position keenly. He rattled off eight ideas at a speed that made Maisie suspect he was testing her shorthand.

“Of course, that's just off the top of my head,” he finished, giving Hilda a reverent nod.

“Very good indeed,” she congratulated him. Always the same
script, but always sounding so sincere. “Anyone else? Let's really thrash this all out.”