“Yes, I am sorry about that.” Hilda laughed, not sounding sorry at all. “Never had much of a neat hand. But I’m sure you’ll soon decipher it and be raring away. You’ll get used to me in time.”
Maisie settled herself before the typewriter.
I’m not so sure about that.
THREE
“Tremendous congratters. Knew you’d land it, but I miss us gadding about during the days,” Lola mourned, as though there’d ever been any gadding. Maisie knew she was only missed as an audience to the drama that was Lola’s ramshackle—and indeed, often entertaining—life, and that as soon as Lola was cast in a show again, she would disappear, and Maisie would be forgotten.
Maisie embraced her new routine with all the ardor of a new bride. Up at seven, washed and dressed, all in the space of fifteen minutes. The length of a Talk. This efficiency, she decided, marked some small advantage to being poor. With so few clothes to choose from, getting dressed was no quarrelsome effort. It was almost an argument for not acquiring more blouses and skirts, jumpers and jackets, else how much time would be lost in dividing and conquering them? But she still sighed as she buttoned herself into her blue serge dress, the dullest of her three outfits. She lined her shoes with fresh paper and went down for breakfast.
Though inflexible on points like acquiring a wireless, Mrs. Crewe was admirable about breakfasts. There was porridge and toast, cornflakes and coffee, with the boarders free to use as much treacle, butter, and cream as they wished. Maisie craved eggs and bacon, but it was a lovely porridge. And the other girls’ desire to be fashionably slim meant she could be even more extravagant with the cream and butter.
After breakfast, she put on her coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. Her handbag, empty save for a handkerchief, two pennies for lunch, and emergency sixpence, went over her wrist, and she hoped her rickety umbrella could stay folded.
She was one of the lucky ones, as it took her only one tram to reach the Strand, the street above Savoy Hill. The ride was long and she had to stand, but she didn’t mind. The car had a rhythmic sway, the bell tinkled happily, and one never knew when a sudden screech or thrust would disrupt the song, jolting them all out of their morning meditation. It was a kind of jazz, the only kind she could afford, and so she embraced the fizz of cigarette smoke, the lingering smell of coffee, and the crinkle of newspapers that added to the hum and percussion. It wasn’t stealing to read the paper over a man’s shoulder, gleaning nuggets of the world and enjoying the smell of Palmolive shaving cream. And she watched London unfold before her.
The dark rows of unloved terrace houses gave way to streets wide enough to encompass history, close enough to wrap that history around you and make you feel how fleeting and finite you were within it. Maisie exulted in the oldness of the buildings, their grandeur and glisten, stoically gazing down on the throng of people and trams and buses and cabs and horse-drawn carriages, with a snake of private cars looping in, men encasing their wealth in sleek metal and leather and wire wheels. Women, too, occasionally, nearly always driving open-top cars, bursts of impertinent sunshine in beaded cloches, cherry-red lips widespread in ecstatic smiles, eyes fireworking from behind their motoring goggles. Racing their way somewhere they no doubt called important.
Maisie turned from them and held her breath, waiting for the entrance onto the Strand, this last mile of the marathon. So many magnificent buildings to pass on the way, the Royal Courts of Justice, the charming and appropriately antique Twinings tea shop, and then at last, the Savoy Hotel, an almost-palace on a street that once boasted palaces. She alighted at the corner of Savoy Street and revolved once on the spot, drinking in the day before measuring each step down the hill to Savoy Hill House, home of the BBC. The pub on the left, the Savoy Tup, was still shuttered at this hour. It and the Lyceum, just up on the Strand, were popular lunch spots for the denizens of Savoy Hill. Until she was paid, Maisie confined her lunches to an apple and a bun, but the Tup had been the purveyor of the sandwiches Hilda ordered that first day, and so Maisie hailed it with respect.
She hadn’t yet visited the decrepit Savoy Chapel, just outside the BBC, but knew it was the subject of many jokes, its location considered ideal for the days when one’s entire department was imploding (at least once a week) or as a hiding place from Mr. Reith when he was on the warpath (at least once a day).
No less worthy of worship was the Thames, at the foot of the hill. Maisie stopped outside the BBC’s door and looked down at it. Some bright day, it would be the height of bliss to eat a sandwich and cake on the Victoria Embankment.
The BBC shared its home with the Institute of Electrical Engineers, who, being more than fifty years the senior, showed its scorn for this damp-eared upstart by designing the carved-out space so that the two entities never met. The IEE commandeered Savoy Hill’s majestic entranceway on the Embankment, and it was said they had a good laugh whenever some grand person came to broadcast and had to use the BBC’s unprepossessing entrance at the side of the building. Maisie thought that since the BBC was the natural and rather exciting outgrowth of the IEE’s work, they should be hovering like proud mothers. Instead, each organization went about its business as though the other didn’t exist.
And indeed, once through that wooden door, nothing else did exist.
It was easy to maintain her status as Invisible Girl as she whizzed back and forth between the executive offices and the Talks Department. Maisie had a long experience of listening to many conversations at once and gleaning anything that might be useful, and information flew through the narrow corridors of Savoy Hill at a speed Lindbergh would envy. Thus, as the week progressed, she learned that Cyril Underwood-not-typewriter worked in the Schools Department, where they produced broadcasts heard in schoolrooms throughout Britain, considered a daunting task. Scores of complimentary letters from teachers and heads did nothing to allay the staff’s horror of a scalding letter, or even worse, negative commentary in a newspaper. They soldiered on, both pets and prodigals under Mr. Reith’s watchful eye. There was a woman producer there, too, a Mary Somerville, apparently hired through “an old girls’ network, who knew?” and quite brilliant. The curvy, curly blonde in the typing pool was Phyllida Fenwick, the de facto head of the consortium by dint of being the tallest and loudest. The proprietress of the tearoom, her temperament both leonine and motherly, was Mrs. Hudson. Then there were those who simply announced themselves, like Beanie.
“It’s Sabine, of course, Sabine Warwick, not of the Greville side—wouldn’t want to look after that pile anyway—but baronets just the same. And new creations, but 1780, so well entrenched in Debrett’s. Bit scandalizing, me working, but Mama thinks I’ve not got the stamina, so must prove the old dear wrong. Pater’s pleased for once. Thinks it shows moral fiber, good example to the ordinary folk, and very modern. Keen on being modern, he is. Bought some of the West End theaters in his wilding days, and proud to be a patron, don’t you know. So here I am in our mouse hole of a Drama Department! The DG thinks I bring refinement, and Pater is bursting his buttons, contemplating all the edifying drama I’m bringing to the poor wretches who never saw a play. Great good fun, really.”
Maisie was the one left breathless after this one-sided exchange.
She was quick to drop Invisible Girl whenever she saw Cyril, and was pleased to be rewarded by his grin.
“Well, New York! I’d heard you were a Talks fixture now, and here it is true.”
“Oh, no, the Talks only have me part-time,” she corrected him.
“Until Matheson comes to like you, I’ll warrant. Massive apologies for not setting you straight on her your first day. Rotten of me. What say I apologize properly someday and you tell me all about speakeasies, hm?” He seemed to take her blush as agreement. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, and loped away, which spared Maisie’s having to either admit ignorance of speakeasies or ask how particular he was about the truth.
Phyllida and
a minor contingent of the typists chose that moment to walk by, smoking and chatting. They went silent on seeing Maisie, glanced at her sideways, then dissolved into whispers and giggles once she was behind them. Maisie was suddenly contemptuous. Had any of them lied about their age to join the war effort? They had probably grown up in loving families, who didn’t begrudge them food or education or upkeep. Or existence.
It doesn’t matter. I’ve spent my whole life not having friends. I’ve gotten good at it. And that’s not why I’m here.
She was still uneasy around Hilda. It was one thing to have had Sister Bennister as a superior. That was comprehensible. The world of nursing was emphatically female. This world wasn’t, and Hilda’s comfort with it unnerved Maisie that much more. Hilda was friendly to her, but she was friendly to everybody. Georgina always said, never trust a friendly woman. She herself was always friendly, to anyone who wasn’t Maisie, and Maisie certainly never trusted her.
According to the Savoy Hill buzz, Hilda had not exaggerated—Reith had indeed begged her to leave her post as Lady Astor’s political secretary (how did she get these jobs?) and come to the BBC to head this, the most important department in the company, and it was Lady Astor, not Reith, who had convinced Hilda.
“That Matheson knows everyone,” Billy, one of the engineers, pronounced to a shiny new boy as they wheeled equipment along the third floor. “Brings loads of ladies in to broadcast. Between her and that Miss Warwick in Drama bringing in the actresses, you get to see some of the finest in the land. And if you need to adjust the sub-mixer during broadcast, you can get an up-close of their legs.”
So much for the glory of the new technology.
“Managing all right?” Hilda asked, seeing Maisie waver over some filing.
“Oh, I, yes, thank you,” Maisie muttered.
“Excellent. I hope you’re feeling robust. I’ve got a few revisions for you to type.” She handed Maisie another script sagging under the weight of red writing. “Tell me, Miss Musgrave. I’m bursting to know. What sort of Talks do you like best?”
Maisie tried to remember the last time anyone had asked her personal opinion. Hilda liked answers, so Maisie pondered. She felt the most affinity for the morning Talks, considered the purview of women and primarily focused on household issues. The afternoon and evening Talks were more taxing in comparison, though she liked the book reviews and discussions. But a bluestocking expected a more intellectual response.
“Er, well, I . . . They’re all different, aren’t they?” she asked, opting instead for diplomacy.
“I certainly hope so. But you needn’t fear being marked up or down. I’m merely interested in your opinion.”
Maisie also liked Talks where great men spoke of great things in a great way. And you really can’t say that to a bluestocking.
“I really can’t say.”
Disappointment tinged the edge of Hilda’s eyes. “I hope you’ve seen that I encourage free speaking around here, Miss Musgrave. It would hardly be the Talks Department otherwise.”
“I don’t understand,” Maisie said, although she had a feeling she did.
“I prefer when everyone is open and honest. Makes for far pleasanter conversation, and more efficient, too,” Hilda explained. “Mind you”—a grin teased around her lips—“an enigmatic conversation is not without its enchantments. One does enjoy a challenge.”
There was a ream of things Maisie hated. Umbrellas that turned inside out. Newspaper ink on her fingers. Plays featuring Georgina. Hunger. And being made the subject of a joke. That was Georgina’s favorite trick. The nurses had picked it up as surely as if they had been sent instructions. And now Hilda was teasing her.
“Speaking of challenges,” Hilda went on, as though Maisie wasn’t inching toward the door, longing to escape to the typewriter, “we must arrange for you to be here more frequently. You’ll be worn to ribbons in a month, otherwise.”
“Please don’t rush on my account,” Maisie said, horrified at the thought of spending more time in this quarter of the BBC. “I can manage just fine.”
The grim head of Lionel Fielden swooped around the door.
“Mr. Bartlett for his rehearsal, Miss Matheson.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.” She turned to Maisie. “I assume you can take notes whilst being discreet?” She didn’t wait for Maisie’s answer. “Of course you can. Come along! It’s high time you saw our studios properly.”
“I hope your shoes and hands are clean,” Fielden muttered into Maisie’s ear.
“Was there something else, Mr. Fielden?” called Hilda, already at the stairs. Maisie, pad and pencil pressed to her chest, scuttled after her, eyes fixed on her shoes.
A sign on Studio Five’s door warned against bringing in any outside dirt. Vernon Bartlett, MP to the League of Nations, was obediently attempting to brush what looked like half of London off his hat.
“It’s very nasty out,” he apologized. “It would take an industrial Hoover to make me suitable.”
“Quite all right, Mr. Bartlett. The sign is ultimately a suggestion. Only don’t tell the engineers I said so,” Hilda confided, sweeping them all inside.
“Oh!” cried Maisie, an outburst that would result in a string of demerits from Miss Jenkins. Billy, busy with something or other at the big black boxes with all the intriguing buttons and dials, squinted at her and turned away, smirking.
She hadn’t expected such a friendly space. Presenters sat in a pale green upholstered chair, comfortable enough to feel relaxed, firm enough to remind one of the gravitas of the event and thus remain regally upright. Beside the chair was a stuffed bookcase. Notes and elbows rested on a writing desk. And at the top of the desk was the microphone.
The microphone was oblong, tapered inward at the top, not unlike a tiny coffin, which seemed inauspicious. It bore the legend BBC, a presumably unnecessary but highly photogenic label. Maisie longed to touch its mesh exterior, run her fingers over the wires. Take it apart to see what was inside. She had to force herself to turn to Bartlett and take his hat and coat.
He gave Maisie a polite nod. Like Reith, he had a fatherly quality. Unlike Reith, Bartlett’s rumpled suit and impish grin gave him a cheerful, rather than imposing, mien. He was the type to give hair an affectionate tug and feign surprise at the discovery of a peppermint in his coat pocket. He eyed the microphone with nervous amusement. “I really can’t fathom how I’ve let you talk me into this,” he said to Hilda.
“Because you’ll be marvelous and you know it,” Hilda answered. She had a way of saying something that made it sound patently obvious, with further argument impossible. “People want the horse’s-mouth view from the League, if you’ll excuse the rather rank-sounding metaphor.”
“I think the six people interested in the League are the sort to prefer a newspaper,” he pointed out.
“Scores of people are interested and don’t know it. That’s where we come in. And anyway, not all the papers would print your columns. This is going to be far more riveting, trust me. After a good rehearsal, of course.”
Rehearsals for Talks were one of Hilda’s new policies. Maisie had heard Miss Shields sniffing about the “waste of time.” But as Mr. Bartlett ran through his first attempt, in a tone both prattling and ponderous, leaning so close to the microphone he was in danger of swallowing it, she could see where a rehearsal might be useful.
“A very fine first attempt,” Hilda said, sounding sincere.
“That’s what you said about this script you rewrote three times,” he said, laughing as though they were old friends. Which Maisie realized they might be.
“I meant it, too!” Hilda grinned. “Now, the easy part is to mind the mike—get too close or make any sort of noise like coughing or even rustling paper and you deafen all our listeners. And then those afraid of technology are allowed to be smug, and we can’t have that.”
“Oh, co
me.” He laughed again. “Since when do you indulge in hyperbole?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Billy broke in. “But Miss Matheson’s quite truthful, sir. It creates a dreadful bit of interference that’s a nasty thing to hear.”
“Almost as much as ‘there’s a bit of trouble with your taxes,’” Hilda added.
“It’s why we keep the room so clean, sir,” Billy went on. “Got to control dust.”
“Sensitive little device, isn’t it?” Bartlett observed.
“But powerful,” Hilda said, smiling fondly at the mike.
“All right, so not too close and no paper rustling. What’s the tricky bit?”
“The actual reading. Because you don’t want to sound like you’re reading, you see?” (He didn’t, as far as Maisie could tell, and neither did she.) “No one likes a declamation. Turns them right off. I’ll bet the best speechmakers in the League sound as though they’re extemporizing—am I right? Think of yourself as speaking to a friend. They’re genuinely curious and want to know all about the work of the League and its goings-on. Try addressing yourself to Miss Musgrave here, if it helps.”
Maisie almost fell off her chair. She just caught sight of Billy shaking his head, sneering at the idea that looking at her could ever help anyone.
“That won’t make you uncomfortable, Miss Musgrave?” Bartlett asked.
Desperately! Horribly! Completely! I’d rather eat this pencil, type a thousand pages of Miss Matheson’s writing, ask Miss Shields for a pay raise!
“No, not at all, Mr. Bartlett,” she murmured.
So he began again, looking right at Maisie. “‘We know it’s shocking to consider an ongoing slave trade in 1926,’” he told her, “‘but the traffic in human lives is a tragedy still occurring in some areas of the globe. The League’s successful treaty to end this shame once and for all begins implementation in March. This is how . . .’”
Radio Girls Page 6