Radio Girls (16 page)

Eventually Hilda whispered to Maisie to get some food, and she didn't need urging. She gathered a treasure trove of salmon mousse and stuffed mushrooms and retreated to a corner, perfect for watching Hilda chat with each person in turn, that curious manner just enough on the edge of self-deprecation to make them feel how much of a favor they would be granting were they to come broadcast.

“Oughtn't you to be at her side?” A voice sounded suddenly, making Maisie jump. Her accoster looked a lot like Josephine Baker, only with darker skin and a more cynical eye.

“I'm observing,” Maisie explained. “And she said I should eat something.”

“You're American,” the woman said, her enormous brown eyes glistening with interest. “I am, too. New Orleans,” she clarified proudly. “Wisteria Mitterand.” She held out her hand.

“Jeepers, that's a gorgeous name!”

“I'm glad you like it. I tweaked it for effect,” Miss Mitterand said, with a wink.

“I'm Maisie Musgrave.” (A name like a bland pudding.) “Are you an actress?”

“I am, and doing far better here than on Broadway.” Miss Mitterand laughed.

“Broadway can be a little shortsighted, I know. My mother acts there.”

“Oh. Will I have seen her in anything?”

“I'm afraid you probably have.”

“Ah. Yes. I've acted in some of those shows myself. London theater's far more exhilarating.” She lit a cigarette, not bothering to point out that she had a chance here to play something more than a maid. No wonder she looked so gleeful.

“Would you want to come and broadcast, do you think?” Maisie asked. Now that Maisie was in a position to advocate for friends, Lola was too busy onstage—or offstage—to come broadcast. But this woman, with her voice and story, might be a real coup.

Miss Mitterand raised a slim eyebrow. “It's not for you to invite me, is it?”

“Well, no, but I could—”

“You're very kind. But I suspect I might be a bit . . . racy . . . for BBC Drama.” She chuckled. “But thank you. Truly. I'd love to chat more, but I must put myself back in circulation. I've got to secure a dinner date for the next few months or so.”

“Sorry?”

“Steady work or no, I need to pad my income. And maintain appearances. I am the exotic creature here. Don't look embarrassed; it's just true. A few months of dinners are good for business. And
maybe diamonds. They always love how diamonds look against my skin. Silly, hmm? Well, cheerio, as they say.” She waved an elegant finger to Maisie and sashayed into the middle of the room. And was indeed soon surrounded by men.

“How have you got on?” Hilda asked, materializing like a genie and enhancing the legerdemain with a plate of tiny cakes.

“I think Miss Mitterand could give a very interesting Talk.”

“Excellent. Write up your thoughts for my review Monday.”

“Me? Isn't that a bit out of my—”

In the limelight of Hilda's merry, challenging eyes, Maisie's mouth snapped shut.

Hilda insisted on sending her home in a cab. Neither the luxury nor the pilfered cakes she'd wrapped in a cloth (also, she realized, pilfered—oops) distracted her from her thoughts. Miss Mitterand could tell stories of her working life, and why she was in London, and those stories might make people uncomfortable. Which would be most interesting, as Hilda would say.

She ate a cake. The jolt of joy that burst through her had nothing—she was pretty sure—to do with the excess of butter.

Maisie was still in the sitting room past midnight, her fingers black with pencil smudges, when Mrs. Crewe insisted she turn off the lights or else pay the entire gas bill. What did she need to write so much for, anyway?

“I don't know. I just do.” There was some question as to who was more surprised—Mrs. Crewe, at receiving an answer, or Maisie, at the answer she gave.

“Early, are you?” Miss Shields sniffed, seeing Maisie stamping the correspondence. “It hardly compensates for all the times you're late getting back from Talks.”

“No, Miss Shields,” Maisie murmured.

“Mr. Reith isn't here yet, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” She knew his schedule better than he did.

Later that morning, he was interviewing a candidate for a Schools producer. Charles Siepmann was not exactly handsome, but he had a dashing quality that drew both Maisie's and Miss Shields's eyes. He had a slight acquaintance with Reith already and could afford a measure of familiarity.

“Nice to be waited on by two girls, I should say,” he said when he arrived, laughing as he and Reith shook hands.

“I did warn you, we're very modern here.” Reith laughed, too. “You'll find a girl producer in Schools, Miss Somerville. Capable little thing, quite clever.”

“And of course that girl you have running Talks. Most bold of you indeed, sir.”

“Very modern girl, Miss Matheson. Clever, certainly, though does tend to be a bit radical. Some of that poetry—if one can even use the word—she selects for broadcast is frankly shocking, but we try to understand current tastes.”

“I deeply admire your broad-mindedness.”

Reith gave his impression of self-deprecation and indicated for Maisie to take the minutes of the interview. Whether Miss Shields was aggravated or relieved, Maisie couldn't tell. Probably both.

Siepmann rabbited on about his education (Oxford, after having served in the army), which Reith already knew, his facility for the Schools broadcasts, and his general interests. He took out a cigarette case.

“The girl doesn't mind?” He jerked a thumb in the vague direction of Maisie.

“Hm? Oh, please go ahead.” Reith gave a magnanimous wave of his hand.

“Ah, yes, modern girls.” Siepmann chuckled, pleased with his own urbanity.

Maisie was surprised he remembered she was in the room.

“There are two questions I always ask of potential senior men,” Reith said. “Are you a Christian, and do you have any character defects?”

Maisie expected Siepmann to laugh, but he didn't. He leaned forward, his look so serious that even his hair seemed less wavy.

“I am a proud member of the Church of England. And my greatest character defect is no doubt ambition, though perfectionism might also be rated a deficiency, as it can give me a warm temper, especially when others don't share the quality to at least some extent.”

“Well?” Miss Shields asked Maisie, after the men left the office. “Will he get the position?”

“Most certainly,” Maisie answered.

Ambition and perfectionism, my eye. As though half the BBC doesn't have one or the other.
One person did possess both, though the ambition wasn't personal, and she'd never be so gauche as to parade either of them to score points.

I wonder if this Siepmann fellow even knows what perfectionism is?

She'd already made up her mind what she wanted to do in her own journey onwards and upwards. Now she just needed to go through with it.

“Ah, Miss Musgrave, wonderful,” Hilda greeted her. “Five new scripts and we're rehearsing those fascinating people from the Chinese dance society—I don't know what I was thinking, but in for a penny now. People should adore the music, anyway, and the one fellow describes the dances awfully well. Incredible-sounding place, China. Wouldn't you just love to travel there?”

She wouldn't know the language, food, customs, clothes, or climate.

“I might, I think.”

Though maybe not. Did they really bind women's feet there?

“I wrote up the notes on a Talk by Miss Mitterand,” Maisie said. Her mind was still on Chinese women's feet. How did they walk? Or maybe that was the point. That they couldn't.

“Excellent!” Hilda said, skimming Maisie's notes. “Possibly too controversial, and of course we'd have to gauge Miss Mitterand's interest in sharing any of her biography. I propose we ask Drama to bring her in to perform, and if she does nicely, we'll be well positioned to invite her to give a Talk.”

Maisie nodded, steeling herself, though she didn't know why.

“Miss Matheson?”

“Yes?”

“I, er . . .” Her eyes slithered to the carriage clock, ticking over a new minute.

“You know, Miss Musgrave, dead silence kills us.”

“I . . . wanted to ask . . .”

Hilda set down her pencil to give Maisie her full attention. Which managed to be more disconcerting.

“One straight thrust, Miss Musgrave, a killing stroke,” Hilda advised.

“I want more responsibility here. In the Talks Department. Please.”

Looking at Hilda's face, Maisie realized she had never given anyone so much cause for pleasure. Georgina had been pleased to wave her off at the dock, but that hardly compared.

“Well killed,” Hilda congratulated her. “Now we'll just have to see about arranging it.”

Maisie, not being privy to the machinations involved in such arrangements, spent the next few days as jumpy as the typewriter keys she was currently abusing.

“He wants to see you at once, and he's very cross,” Miss Shields said, eyes bright with triumph. Maisie leaped up, leaving “pursuant” only a mere “pursu.” She paced her steps to be firm but obeisant as she entered Reith's office and sat down.

Reith not only sported a single eyebrow; it was so compressed the edges barely extended past the bridge of his nose.

“Well, Miss Musgrave, it appears Miss Matheson wants you all to herself.”

“Yes, sir.” Maisie exhaled. She didn't dare say anything else.

“I don't object to her having a full-time secretary. It's become necessary and speaks well for the Talks Department.”

Was he pleased? Perhaps she should smile.

“But I'm afraid I'm not convinced that
you
should be that secretary, and I told her so.”

She had never been more relieved not to smile.

“I know the department quite well, sir. Surely it would be inexpedient to engage a new girl at this time?”

A few threads of eyebrow arched upward.

“Well, you've learned something of good business. I appreciate that. But really, Miss Musgrave, do think this through. I know Talks brings in all sorts of literary men and the like. Very exciting for an impressionable young girl, I'm sure. But in my offices, you have the opportunity to meet the best sort of people.”

Not “meet,” she could point out. See them. Perhaps take their hat or bring them tea. Be rewarded with a nod or a word. Which was as much as an old-fashioned girl of no prospects should hope for and enjoy. Reith couldn't imagine her wanting more. Surely she should honor her love of the Old World by adhering to its strictest strictures, living and loving according to rules that even Maisie knew were growing mushy around the middle, a collapsing soufflé.

The new rules were being remade by the hour. One had to wonder what purpose there was in playing by them.

“Miss Musgrave, be straight now. Do you wish to work solely for Talks?”

She swallowed hard, lest her thoughts—ideas for Talks, for stories, for something—tumble out of her and spill all over the desk.

“Sir, I am more indebted to you than I can possibly say. But if this is what's best for the BBC, then yes, it's what I want.”

His face remained impassive, but she knew better than to trust it. Reith tapped his pen against his lip.

“Miss Matheson is a girl of peculiar taste. I cannot say as I agree with her often. But she does seem to be doing well. So if she believes you are suited to be her permanent secretary, then I suppose I must acquiesce. And it is expedient. But if I see any faltering coming from Talks, I will insist she replace you at once.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm very indebted to you, sir. Again. Still.” Maisie breathed, sucking in her cheeks to keep the smile from breaking free.

“Yes. I'm glad you realize that. I'd thank you not to forget it.”

The smile sank into her throat.