Radio Girls (44 page)

The men were meeting at the Ritz, which must chafe at Simon's affection—or perhaps it was just affectation—for Bohemia.

Maisie was alone in the lavatory. She combed her hair and applied mascara and a lipstick lent by Vita. She slid her hat—new, a rosy pink with a mulberry trim—over her hair and gave herself a battle-ready smile.

As Vaughn was attending them, he waited at Hilda's car and Hilda herself chose a position near the front door of the Ritz so as to be nearer at hand if a distraction was needed. “Or something of that sort.”

“I'm still not entirely sure what I'm going to do or how,” Maisie confessed.

“Yes, that's the general way of espionage,” Hilda said. “Journalism, too. Life, certainly.”

So Maisie threw back her shoulders and went upstairs.

The Ritz might have been the most beautiful hotel in the world—though probably not—but Maisie saw nothing of it. She walked with steady purpose to the bar and scanned the leather and wood and
consequence until her eyes rested on them. Hoppel had joined the party, creating a genteel circle of hostility. He wasn't German, any more than Grigson was Swiss. Why were they ultimately so happy to twist and bend Britain to make their companies more money? But perhaps they saw their own personal swelling bank balances as a sort of patriotism, and the rest was fluid.

Two other men, leaning against the bar and smoking, looked at her, impertinent grins and unmasked sneers. A woman in a place of men, she wasn't allowed to expect anything else. She fixed her eyes forward and crept toward her quarry.

“No, it's we who are grateful to you,” Grigson was assuring Simon, his gravelly voice simultaneously toady and condescending. “I believe this will be a most fruitful alliance.”

“Ooh, my goodness, is this another marriage you're making?” Maisie asked, approaching Simon and laying a hand over his, the ring he'd given her glinting in the somber lighting.

Either Simon was an actor to flatten Barrymore, or he was genuinely delighted to see her.

“Most clever dearest! How on earth did you know to find me here? I'm just closing a contract that will do more for me—for us—than even I could have imagined.”

His companions evinced no delight at all—quite the opposite. Simon came in for his share of glares once he started to speak.

“Oh no, gentlemen, let's not get any silly ideas. This is Maisie Musgrave, my fiancée and a very bright girl. She will be a most able assistant in this venture if I can tempt her away from the BBC.”

“What a lot of papers!” Maisie exclaimed, attempting to bely Simon's assertion of her cleverness. “What's in all of them?”

“Complicated bit of business, beloved. Nothing that need worry you too much.”

“BBC?” Hoppel interrupted, gaping at Maisie. “Brock-Morland, I appreciate your industry, but you didn't have to compromise yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Simon asked. “Maisie's all right. I liked
her even before I knew she was so beholden to a beast.” He turned to Maisie and winked. “And once we're married, you'll be beholden to another, you know.”

“Simon,” Maisie said, looking into his eyes, trying to read him. “You haven't signed these yet, have you?”

“Of course I have. We have plans, far bigger than anything in any storybook you've ever read. We'll get married and I'll tell you all about them.”

“You.” Grigson was staring at Maisie. “You are one for papers, aren't you?” He breathed slowly, lips twisting in a sour smile.

Simon turned to Grigson in surprise.

Maisie had hoped to use more elegance, but she saw the recognition in those oily eyes and there was no more waiting. A long contract, a letter. She slapped her hands over both, snatched them to her, and ran.

The men yelped and shouted, busily untangling themselves from the table. Maisie zigged and zagged through the bar and into the lobby.

A hand latched around her wrist, jerking her almost to the floor. It was one of the men who had sneered at her as she came in.

“Well, well. I think you'll be giving those papers back now, won't you?”

“No!” She twisted away from him and this time made it out the door and almost to Hilda. The man's companion was there, sneer on full display, and a nudge of his jacket displayed a pistol as well.

Maisie curled the papers more tightly in her fist. There were so many people around. He couldn't possibly think he could do her real harm in so public a place?

“Put the papers in your bag, then, and let's go for a little stroll,” the other man whispered behind her. “Make it look all very natural.”

She did as he suggested, hoping Hilda could see all of it. This was something they hadn't rehearsed. The men didn't even touch her, just flanked her almost politely and walked with her around the corner, into an alley.

“Maisie, what on earth are you doing? My friends seem to think you're in league against me.” Simon had caught up to them.

“Your ‘friends' are out to amass fortunes to surpass the king and don't care what they hurt along the way,” Maisie told him.

“No, you don't understand,” he said. “They're giving me the opportunity I've always wanted, to really help the ordinary man and restore Britain to its greatest glory. Strengthen the empire—people think it's waning, but we'll prove otherwise.”

“You are a Fascist,” she breathed in sudden recognition.

“I prefer not to use labels, Maisie. You must know that,” he said.

One of the sneering men yelped and fell to the cobbled ground—hit by a rock.

“Run!” Hilda shouted.

And Mousy Maisie burst through the gang of street thugs and into the light.

Not that they were giving up easily. Hoppel, it seemed, was not such a gentleman that he couldn't give chase. He went after Hilda, while the other sneerer, the one who had so politely indicated his pistol, pursued Maisie. She could hear it, even as she vaulted over a pair of Yorkshire terriers, a cheetah in double-strap heels, and tore along the pavement. The click, ready to hurt her and anyone else, all to get these papers back. But she was well ahead of him.

Hilda could run hard herself. She was barely ahead, but ahead nonetheless.

Hoppel reached out. He grabbed her by the neck—and a shower of onyx stones shot into the air and fell in black rain on the concrete.

Vaughn saw them and had the presence of mind to hop in and start the engine. Maisie dove into the backseat and Hilda vaulted over the door, yelling at Vaughn to move over. He did, and Hilda slammed her foot on the accelerator.

Her eyes were flaming. She shot them through the traffic as though they were thin as an arrow and fifty times as fast.

“Does this car run on rocket fuel or something?” Maisie screamed.

“It's a very good car,” Hilda yelled back, swerving around a corner.

They bulleted down a narrow road. Faint blurs of shocked faces and surprised, frightened cries bounced once and disappeared.

Another tight swerve and they were bearing down on a traffic stop.

“Miss Matheson!” Maisie squeaked.

But Hilda had it well in hand. She pulled up the brake with gentle ease, as though they'd simply been going on a Sunday drive.

Maisie panted. Sweat was pooling in her shoes and dripping from under her hat. Hilda was as cool as if she were ice-skating. But she was also a coiled mass of eager tension, a mongoose ready to spring on a snake. Maisie knew that as soon as they were clear of this intersection, the mad dash would begin again.

“Where did you learn to drive like this?”

“Italy.”

The way was cleared and they jumped past two cars. Angry honks chorused after them as they rounded hard, plummeting down to the Embankment with a fury that had Maisie wondering if they were going to end up in the Thames. She wouldn't be surprised if Hilda would simply propel the car along the water, primarily through force of will.

Maisie cast a quick glance behind them.

“I don't think we're being followed. I think we lost them ages ago.”

“We did,” Hilda agreed, a half smile playing on her lips. “But we're behind schedule.”

Maisie dug in her bag, flipping over the notebook, and wrote, attempting to keep her hand steady as Hilda wove in and out of cars.

Maisie leaped from the car as Hilda pulled up before Savoy Hill and pelted through reception, knocking through a waiting choral group like ninepins.

“I say!” one of them exclaimed in delight. “It really is the jungle they say it is in here.”

The cheetah soared up the stairs, two at a time, Hilda just a few steps behind her.

Beanie was waiting for them, eyes wide and mad as if she, too, had torn halfway across London bearing a story fit to shock the nation. Phyllida was there, too, prepared to guard the door.

“Is the script legible?”

“We'll write it as we go,” Hilda promised.

“You'll what?”

Cyril came out of the studio, escorting his broadcaster. He stared at the deputation in astonishment.

Maisie seized him. “Is Siepmann still here?”

“Yes, but—”

“Get him into a meeting. Give him any old story. We only need ten minutes.”

His mouth opened. Then something seemed to click and she saw a spark in his eyes, something that reminded her of the day she came for her interview, a lifetime ago. He nodded and ran off.

“Go!” Phyllida yelled.

Billy watched with great interest as Beanie settled herself to the microphone.

“This isn't exactly a planned broadcast, is it?” he asked, grinning.

“No,” Maisie told him. “And yes. Give it your best, Billy.”

He grinned and gave her a big thumbs-up.

Hilda was scribbling the whole time. She set the first of the pages before Beanie.

Beanie leaned forward and began to speak.

And this, Maisie thought, was the purpose of the aristocracy. Beanie's voice could pitch deep, and those plummy tones, round and sharp, warm yet brisk, were effortlessly commanding. Beanie was young, but she sounded like a woman who had sat upon the throne for twenty years. She was awakening something atavistic in the nation's core, even among the staunchest republicans. To not listen to her might mean decapitation. But it wasn't fear. Not really. It was reverence.

“The BBC has discovered action and business that we felt the public ought to know and understand.”

Hilda selected passages from Grigson's letter to Simon and wrote copy for Beanie, while Maisie tried not to be sick.

“The British Fascist Party, though of course small and of every right to its existence, seems willing to turn to dirty tricks in an attempt to make known its distaste for unions and Communism and even, it seems, the free press, while also attracting adherents. But in particular, we have found that men representing two great corporations, Siemens and Nestlé, have colluded in an attempt to go further. We have proof they secretly purchased the
Daily Express
and plan to buy several more newspapers, all in an attempt to print only that which they think is worth the public knowing. We ask, is this the way of a democracy? Is this the British way?”

Beanie was not outwardly editorializing, of course, but the disgust in her voice was unmistakable.

“But print is not enough for them. The British Fascists also intend to overtake the BBC. Not only would they remove all women from its ranks. They would suppress any programming that does not adhere to their narrow view. Beyond the BBC, they intend to cut wages, to roll back rights, and education. All this, so as to consolidate fortune and power, for corporations and a few select individuals. Their progress is such, they have forged an alliance with the Brock-Morland family to bring credibility to their mission.”

Beanie's eyes flicked once toward Maisie, but she went on reading.

“We know the media baron is not such a new thing. We know of Mr. Hearst in America. But newspapers sponsored by corporations and corporations supporting political movements that seek to upend cherished liberties, all for the sake of greater profits? This is, we think, something of which the public should be aware and be wary. The BBC is, we hope, able to speak to the whole of society and present every point of view, however unpalatable, all so the public can further understand the world around them and think critically, so that each
listener can be a well-informed citizen and thus the best possible Briton. The BBC is itself objective, but it will always be a strong proponent of the greatest freedom of the press and is sure the public is strongly in agreement thereof. Thus we feel it our duty to reveal this very well-planned attempt to undermine that freedom. You may be sure that these documents will be printed in full in all the newspapers—yes, the
independent
newspapers—for citizens to read thoroughly and determine their own opinion. That is, after all, what a democracy allows. Thank you, and we now return to our scheduled programming.”

Billy cut the mike and Beanie leaned back and grinned.

“Well. That was a jolly good show, I'd say.”

“Y
ou two are looking a bit all in. Stay a moment and collect yourselves.” Billy was shockingly courteous. Maisie didn't need to be asked twice. Her head dropped straight onto the desk. Hilda patted her back.

Someone had passed on the word that the broadcast had been heard by Reith at his club, and he returned, breathing fire, only to be met by Beanie, who insisted that the whole affair was primarily her doing. “I'm well aware of what a number of my so-called compatriots have been involved with, and I don't like it,” she said, and tendered her resignation. Which, as she said, was the perfect Act Three finale.

Maisie was gutted. “But you love your job, and you're so good at it!”

“It was about to happen anyway,” Beanie said with a shrug. “The chickens have come home to roost and roost I must. I'm getting married, tra-la!” She wiggled her long fingers, showing off a new diamond.

“Oh,” said Maisie. “Congratulations. But . . . but look at Miss Somerville. You're a producer. You can carry on working so long as you want, even if you have a baby.”

“Goodness, you are modern. But no, not for my sort. The fun
has been had. The real work begins, as Mama says. Duty calls. I cannot shirk!”

“The BBC will be the lesser without you here. And so will we.”

For a moment, again, there was a twitch in Beanie's eye. But she was too well trained to show regret, and she laughed her musical laugh and seized Maisie's hand.

“We'll have the most marvelous weekend house parties, and I'll invite any number of interesting people. You will have to attend! Everyone will love to hear your stories. And of course we can have luncheons and things when I'm in London. So we'll still see absolutely loads of each other and be great friends.”

“We will. That all sounds copacetic.”

When she was alone, Maisie wiped her eyes. She wouldn't be surprised if she never saw Beanie again. But it would be nice to be wrong.

There was a certain amount of amusement, kept silent, at Reith's contorted efforts to hide his blind rage, because not only did the newspapers treat the story as an epic Christmas gift, but each one was also quick to credit the obvious brilliance of the BBC. Everywhere Reith turned, he was thwarted in his desire to punish. Two days later, the
Listener
ran a long article “by Maisie Musgrave” as a companion piece to the story, with extra details and so much wit, papers said: “It's almost as if the author were part of the action.” An editorial in the
Telegraph
congratulating Reith on his selection of excellent staff forced him to retract his outstretched claw.

“I'm glad. The place wouldn't have been the same without you,” Cyril told Maisie. “And you can really write, too. I mean, you're really very good. You should keep it up, but you'll stay here, too, won't you?”

“I hope so. I've got a lot of stories to tell, you know.”

He nodded. The conversation seemed finished, and Maisie grabbed a notebook to go attend a rehearsal.

“Miss Musgrave!”

“Hm?”

“I just wanted to say, also, you don't need any powder.”

“Er, what?”

Cyril turned bright red. “That Brock-Morland . . . when I delivered that letter for you. He said you needed powder. But you don't. You look really . . . swell . . . without it. Just as you are.”

Maisie felt herself returning Cyril's blush. They stared at each other, trying to find something to say. The phone rang, breaking the spell.

The story went on for days. Hoppel and Grigson resigned, and their respective corporations insisted they were mere rogue operators, and safeguards were in place to prevent such occurrences again. But that didn't stop the newspapers from writing more and more. They didn't even complain when it was announced there would be no further restrictions on the BBC's news reporting. They had proven they could do fine independent journalism, so no reason not to let them keep on doing it. Especially if it helped the papers, too.

“But we haven't really changed anything!” Maisie complained to Hilda one lunchtime, as they walked Torquhil on the Embankment. “Why can't they all be prosecuted?”

“Fear of entrapment, apparently. Good countersuit.”

“Who cares?”

“The rule of law. But we've spoken the truth and gotten results, and the rallies are right 'round the BBC. The British Fascists have lost half their numbers, the unions are emboldened, and there's a sense that being worried about Russian spies is perhaps a waste of energy. And Nestlé is doing poor business. I like Rountree's chocolate myself. That Nestlé stuff is like sugary chalk.”

Maisie kicked a pebble. “And Simon's gone.”

His family's estate was ruined and they'd all fled. The papers were full of rumors as to where they might have gone, but no one knew for sure. Maisie hoped she would never find out. She had posted the ring back to him, and it was returned to sender.

“It's like ill-gotten goods,” she fretted.

“Ach, you more than earned it,” Phyllida said. “Think of it as a nest egg. I bet Miss Matheson can advise on investments.”

Maisie put the ring in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Provenance notwithstanding, it was nice to feel cushioned. Georgina wrote an almost plaintive letter, detailing the difficulties of finding a new sponsor and a new job as the Depression set in and asked if Maisie might think of “coming home.”

“I am home,” Maisie wrote back. But she enclosed twenty pounds.

She couldn't seem to stop thinking about Simon, about those strange final moments, trying to make sense of it and succeeding only in disturbing her sleep.

“He probably meant it, you know, that bit about making Britain great again.” Hilda said as they strolled the Embankment. “Fantasists usually do.”

He might really have loved her. She was both the things he wanted—clever, with the capacity to be pliable, though that last was changing apace. And as to the suddenness of his return and proposal, she need only bear in mind that a wife couldn't testify against a husband.

“Not that I think he expected to be caught, but might as well hedge the bet. The whole family seems to have gone a bit mad after the crash. I'm inclined to agree with Vita. You can do better.”

“I don't want to get married until I'm sure I can keep working.”

Hilda's answer was lost with the arrival of Nigel, the new messenger boy, who'd come running to find them and chivvy them back to Savoy Hill, where there were twenty new crises to contend with.

Maisie allowed herself to believe that peace would reign in the BBC, despite the presence of Siepmann. He was so determined to make his own work superior, he primarily left Hilda's team to its own devices. Besides which, there was so much excitement about the rapidly rising new Broadcasting House and the steady expansion of operations that there was far less time for petty squabbles. But Reith
won a strange battle. Someone, somewhere, agreed that content should be controlled in these more difficult times. More conservative, more measured, more quiet. More music, more light entertainment, much less to challenge tired listeners. It meant almost daily battles for Hilda, who was starting to look pale and drawn.

And there was nothing the rest of them could do about it.

Harold Nicholson—of all people—was set to come in to broadcast about James Joyce's
Ulysses
. Hilda and Vita had gone their separate ways, but they all remained good friends.

“Who the devil does that woman think she is?” Reith spluttered to Siepmann as they were climbing the stairs to the executive suite just as Maisie, having delivered a set of proposals for upcoming debates, was going down them. She shot back up the stairs and attempted to melt into the wall.

“I've said no Joyce, no
Ulysses
. All disgusting stuff. Bonfire's too good for it, and that poofter Nicholson! Nicholson! By God, she lives to provoke, and I won't bear it another minute.”

“I think if you just delete a few lines in the script, it should be all right,” Siepmann said in his oily, soothing tones. “I've marked the most offending passages.”

“They are all offending,” Reith insisted, but Maisie could hear the scratching of a pencil even from up the stairs, which they were still climbing. She cast her eyes around desperately, edging herself along the wall.

Reith and Siepmann came up the stairs just as Maisie closed the nearest door behind her—the door to the men's lavatory, which was thankfully unoccupied.

“Shall I go and give her the revised script?” Siepmann asked, hopeful.

“No. I'll ring her and tell her to come and get it herself,” Reith growled. “Get me Matheson, will you?” he shouted to his secretary.

Maisie listened hard. She could only get the gist, but it was enough. Hilda must be shouting back just as vigorously as Reith. And Siepmann, that worm, was enjoying all of it.

She peeked out the door. The corridor was empty. They were all in the office. Hilda had taught her well; her footfall was silent as she ran down the stairs and all the way back to Talks.

Hilda hadn't gotten far, only halfway down the corridor. She saw Maisie but didn't break stride.

“Miss Matheson, please. It's just his insane vendetta. It'll burn out eventually, and all the criticism about how Talks aren't as good as they were will force his hand. And it's Siepmann, you know, that spider on his shoulder. We just need—”

“Miss Musgrave, they've won at nearly every turn. I want to work, not battle. And I will not work in a place that advocates censorship.”

“No, of course, but you can't face him like this.”

“I bloody well shall.”

Maisie tried again to stop her, but they only ended up going into Reith's office together.

“What do you mean by this?” Reith demanded. “That Harold Nicholson is a poof, and his lady just as unnatural, and that repulsive Joyce novel is banned! How dare you allow such a thing to be discussed?”

“Who are we to be banning books?” Hilda shouted. “My God, you moralists are such a pack of hypocrites. You decry Communism, screeching that it forces all its peoples into the narrowest of strictures, and then impose much the same in a presumed democracy! Why can't any man, woman, or child try to read
Ulysses
if they wish to? And if they like it, grand, and if they don't, fair enough, and if they find it disturbing to their morals, they can soothe themselves with some appropriate balm, and if they find it a stimulant to mind and heart, then they will carry that with them all their days and be always seeking out new books to treasure, and isn't this the whole point of the society we supposedly fight for and value?”