“Then you must call me Hilda.”
“Good! Now, I’m absolutely longing to see the studio and get to work.”
Maisie tagged behind, watching them. Hilda was always delighted to greet a speaker, but there was something different in her reception of Vita. She was radiating warmth and excitement, more than usual, but that wasn’t quite it.
She almost seems nervous.
Hilda was never nervous. So it had to be something else.
The rehearsal was hardly needed. Vita was a born speaker. She had of course been given elocution lessons, but plenty of actresses weren’t as readily engaging as she was. She simply understood at once what it was to give a compelling broadcast and employed her warm, elegant tones to perfection. She was someone who had expected to be listened to her whole life, and so spoke with total ease, knowing attention would be paid. And of course it would. No one who heard her would turn away from the broadcast. Hilda was tap-dancing on the ceiling again.
Rather than the usual bullying—or teaching, as Maisie preferred to call it—Hilda focused on making Vita as comfortable as possible. Which seemed unnecessary. The woman could be comfortable on an ice floe. But Hilda fussed to be sure her script was laid out so the pages would move with even more seamlessness than usual—she seemed to feel Vita should not have to handle her script herself. The great lady felt otherwise, and laid a steadying hand over Hilda’s, holding it there while she assured her that such ministrations weren’t needed.
“You are very kind, Hilda, but truly, these reviews are my honor.”
“I think, Vita, we shall have quite a set-to deciding who is doing whom the greater honor.”
“I suspect you might be the loser there. I’m quite a bit bigger than you.”
“Ah, but I’m small and scrappy.”
Vita’s throaty laugh would have made the sound effects men swoon.
“I knew we should be great friends.” Vita grinned at Hilda. “Miss Woolf said you were quite the tyrant, perhaps not realizing I appreciate a bit of tyranny. Well, I’m glad you think my efforts are up to scratch. I do hope you’re not withholding any criticism due to some ceremony or other.”
“Not a bit of it. Miss Musgrave can tell you there’s little I despise more than a terrible broadcast. I won’t have it, not on my watch. And I certainly won’t have it from my friends, for my sake or theirs.”
“Exactly as I would have thought of you. If I don’t disgrace the BBC after my broadcast, you must come to dine. Will you?”
“You shan’t disgrace us, so we may consider it a date.”
“Jolly good!”
When Maisie stood to show Vita out, Hilda waved her aside.
“I’ll escort our reviewer, Miss Musgrave, thank you.”
Hilda often walked the more important broadcasters, or the ones she really liked, back to the main door. Which meant nearly all of them.
But she’s never done so blushing.
“How did the great and powerful Vita Sackville-West get on?” Fielden asked gloomily when Maisie returned to the Talks Department.
“She was superb,” she raved. “People will just have to read whatever she recommends.”
“Aristocrats. They still want to be dictators.” Fielden sighed, shaking his head.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Maisie snapped.
“I did,” he said, with a shrug. “Did Our Lady bully her a good deal?” he asked in a more hopeful tone.
“Not a bit,” Maisie said, rolling in a sheet of fresh letterhead and typing with extra force to drown him out. It was always nice to disappoint Fielden, and if he thought she was the type to tell that sort of story, he didn’t know her at all.
Which was also nice.
“I don’t suppose the Radio Times would like a little story on Vita Sackville-West’s upcoming broadcast?” Maisie asked Bert when she dropped off listings.
“I don’t suppose we would, no,” Bert said, not bothering to stifle a yawn.
So she took her overflowing energy to the library, the place it had always found relief.
Neither the stack of books on Germany nor the backlog of newspapers distracted her from chewing on her pencil and staring at the ceiling. A passing librarian glanced at her.
“You’ve been in the exact same position over an hour,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
“How might someone in England get a piece of German propaganda not meant even for the general public in Germany to see?” Maisie asked, though she hadn’t realized that was the question that had been plaguing her.
The librarian’s black eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“Ooh, that’s a tricky one! I would think he must be German himself, with close ties to whoever generated the work,” she began. “He might be serving in an advisory capacity. Or he got it via an underground network, if he is engaged in some form of espionage activity.”
“You mean a German spy? Here?” Maisie’s stomach turned over. The unthinkable thought, the fly that had buzzed in her brain and eluded smacking. Hilda, so dedicated to informing the British, the world, about everything—it couldn’t be a lie, could it?
“Not necessarily,” the librarian saved her. “I daresay German spies exist, silly idiots, and Russians, too, but your man might well be in MI5 or MI6.”
The intelligence agencies. Maisie had read about them. Spies, yes. But for Britain.
“How would someone know if a person was in one of those, though?”
“I should hope they wouldn’t!” The librarian laughed at the idea—a totally silent laugh, mostly in the eyes. “A secret agent is hardly secret if people know who he is.”
“Could she . . . he . . . He would have to have another job, wouldn’t he? So no one would guess?”
“A man employed by MI5 might, perhaps, as that’s the domestic agency. Must keep up appearances at home,” the librarian agreed. “We have some books if you’d like—”
“What sort of person works for MI5?” Maisie interrupted eagerly. “She, er, he couldn’t be too ordinary, could he?”
“I really couldn’t say. All sorts, most likely. But a good agent would have to be enormously clever, know a great deal about the world, probably speak a few languages—”
“And care about the truth,” Maisie murmured.
“As much of it as he’s allowed to disseminate,” the librarian warned. “Which I imagine is not a great deal.”
But Maisie wasn’t listening. She knew what she had meant. She knew, too, that if Hilda got that propaganda via MI5, it must have even greater implications than Maisie had thought.
And she’s trusting me to be a small part of this.
The ambition of writing for the Radio Times was, Maisie now decided, silly and embarrassing. She had wanted to prove to herself that there was something she could do without Hilda’s hand at her back, but why not quietly help answer the question of what giant companies like Siemens and Nestlé were up to? Why should they be invested in Germany’s “road to resurgence” as led by a fringe would-be political party?
Ridiculous thing, the Radio Times. Who cares if all the writing in it is virtually illiterate? Who cares if—
“Heigh-ho, no trampling of the broadcasters!” Beanie’s cry brought Maisie back to the corridor, and the mortifying discovery that she’d nearly trod on an actress. A sleek, beautiful actress with chocolate-brown eyes and skin. Wisteria Mitterand, from Lady Astor’s salon.
Hilda had brought the idea of a Talk by Miss Mitterand to Reith, who had duly—and very fluently—shot it straight down. But given the hint that Miss Mitterand would be a fine performer, Beanie had sought her out. And lo, here she was.
“Miss Mitterand!” Maisie grinned, shaking her hand. “How lovely to see you again.”
“Goodness, Miss Musgrave,” she said, smiling. “I hardly recognize you. In the best way. You’
re absolutely blooming.”
“Do you know,” Beanie broke in, studying Maisie, “it’s true. You’re no Gainsborough, but you’re not as Picasso as you were. All those harsh lines,” she added helpfully. “Isn’t that extraordinary?”
“It is,” Maisie answered, which pleased Beanie. Maisie turned back to Miss Mitterand. “I wish I could come see you broadcast, but—”
“Maisie is quite the slave to the Talks Department,” Beanie blithely informed her, with no thought for what that word might mean beyond her own idiom. Miss Mitterand’s expression didn’t vary by so much as a twitch, and Maisie thought again how excellent it would be to have her give a Talk. “But we must dash. Come along, come along.”
“Glad to see you, Miss Musgrave,” Miss Mitterand said, meaning it.
Maisie watched her go, wondering if her elegance was natural, like Beanie’s, or if she had learned it from observation, like Georgina.
“What did her hand feel like?” Billy moved from his customary stance of hugging the wall when he spotted Maisie and into her circle of vision, curiosity overcoming his discomfiture.
“I beg your pardon?” Maisie wondered if Billy had developed a fixation about hands, after having injured his own.
“It’s just, I’ve heard that Negresses’ skin feels different, as well as being black, and I was wondering. Oh, but she was wearing gloves.” He answered his question in crushing disappointment.
Mr. Eckersley may expect all his engineers to be clever, but that doesn’t stop them being appallingly ignorant.
An hour later, Maisie was in the midst of a telegram flurry with John Maynard Keynes, whom they wanted for a series and whose schedule was making even a single broadcast impossible to set up. The economist was more popular than Charlie Chaplin. It was infuriating, both because she wanted to ask him about Germany and because she had to meet the man who had said: “Words ought to be a little wild, for they are the assault of thoughts on the unthinking.”
“We should emblazon that around the office, shouldn’t we?” Hilda said.
“He’s so clever and seems charming. Why do you suppose he’s not married?” Maisie asked, risking presumption for curiosity.
Fielden, overhearing, doubled over laughing. Hilda looked a little amused herself.
“Possibly he’s married to his work. Anyway, here’s luck. Alexander Fleming’s agreed to a series of interviews. That will be fun, won’t it?” Hilda said. “Bit different.”
Interviews. Maisie’s fingers froze on the typewriter keys. A nice little interview, with one of the prettier ladies.
She bolted from the office and ran at top speed all the way down to reception. Miss Mitterand was just shaking Beanie’s hand.
“Miss Mitterand!” Maisie gasped. “Are you free for a drink later?”
There it was, in the next issue. Shiny and bold and bright. And a lesson in one of the pitfalls of ambition: Even getting something you wanted might not be satisfactory.
“Bert certainly likes to edit. It’s half the original length, and I think only every third word might still be hers.” Maisie sighed.
“Quite an achievement for a first effort,” Hilda told her firmly. “But you obviously have a touch, Miss Musgrave. You ought to try again. And then again.”
“And more after that,” Maisie agreed, returning to her desk with a kinetically imperfect but emotionally exuberant pirouette.
TEN
“You ought to let me buy you a drink tonight. Say you can,” Lola begged.
“I’ve got to work late,” Maisie said between bites of toast. “We’re so busy.”
“But it’s your birthday!”
“It’s nothing to fuss about,” Maisie muttered. If Georgina had her way, her daughter wouldn’t even know her birthdate. As it was, May first always rendered Georgina defensive, embarrassed at having any child at all, but particularly Maisie, whose insistence on growing was beyond vexing. But once, in one of her occasional fits of communicativeness, she told Maisie her name derived from her birthdate, a choice that seemed fraught with romanticism and so must have come from her father.
Her father. In a blue cardboard box under her bed was the long-awaited letter from the General Register Office, a terse response to her query about Edwin Musgrave’s birth and life, informing her that if she could provide a place, or at least an area, or an exact year of said birth, they might be able to assist. She couldn’t, so they couldn’t.
“You work too much,” Lola scolded. “I never see you anymore, and now I’m going on this European tour and won’t see you at all for who knows how long!”
Even though Maisie knew that Lola wouldn’t give her another thought from the moment she stepped on the boat at Folkestone, her throat tightened. Lola was always so kind to her, and while it was the benevolence of the worldly who adored the dark opposite, it was still kindness, and genuinely meant.
“I’m sorry,” Maisie said. “Let’s do meet up after your show. A drink would be swell. And we’re toasting your soon-to-be-diva status in Europe, too!”
Lola struck a dramatic pose. “What do you think? Constance Worth? A prettier Gracie Fields, maybe?”
“Your own unique self, wherever you are,” Maisie insisted.
Lola smiled broadly. “Here. Happy birthday.” She handed Maisie what looked like a folded handkerchief and proved, on unwrapping, to contain a white silk rose on a slide, for her hair.
“Oh, Lola! It’s perfect. Thank you!” She set it in place before the hall mirror, blinking hard and regretting the decision to apply her new mascara. Lola reached over and adjusted the rose. It looked better. Maisie blinked at her reflection. Brighter eyes blinked back from a rounder face. She hadn’t known her hair and skin could shine. Even her nose and chin seemed interesting, as opposed to just oversized. She was never going to be the sort who was called “pretty,” but that didn’t matter. Even she could admit that she now had a quality which might be called “striking.”
“I thought that would look well.” Lola nodded approvingly. “See you tonight!”
Hilda was at a breakfast with Lady Astor and “a few other political women; I wanted to bring you, but they’d already booked the table to bursting point.” A year ago, the prospect of joining would have chilled Maisie to the bone. Now she was disappointed not to be there.
“Morning, Miss Musgrave,” Alfred trilled, wheeling in the correspondence as Maisie hung her hat and coat on the rack. “Good Lord, is that all for you?” He stared at the gargantuan iced cake on her desk, which was doing battle for space—and dimension—with the typewriter.
“Er, I think Miss Matheson might have left it for me,” Maisie said. She barely managed to snatch the fork and napkin lying in the in-tray before Alfred tossed in the morning’s first haul. It was a beautiful cake. That mascara was definitely a bad idea.
“If it’s not awfully impertinent for me to say so, miss, you look rather well today,” Alfred complimented her. “Hardly recognize you from when you started.”
“Gosh. Thank you, Alfred,” she replied, touched.
She was about to offer him some cake when he continued. “Never imagined you’d last, working in the DG’s office and all. You’re more suited here.” He nodded and wheeled away, whistling the tune of a song Maisie had heard emanating from some of her local pubs—the one about a late-blooming girl and where she bloomed. Maisie dug into the cake (butter and vanilla cream sponge with lemon icing) as she worked through the correspondence.
The morning took a decidedly less pleasant turn when Fielden, feeling his power with Hilda away, and finding no page immediately at hand, ordered Maisie to take an interoffice memo to Miss Somerville in Schools. It was a place she tried to avoid, as it contained Cyril—but she had no choice. She strongly suspected Fielden had arranged this on purpose.
“Ah, thank you, Miss Musgrave,” Miss Somerville said. “Bit beneath your posit
ion, doing the deliveries, isn’t it? Awfully good of you, though,” she amended, so as to be clear no offense was meant.
“It’s nothing, Miss Somerville,” Maisie said. She hadn’t realized the woman knew her name. She ducked out, pleased to have evaded Cyril, and ran headlong into Charles Siepmann.
“Oh, you!” he said, adjusting his glasses to study her more intently. “Thither and yon! You’re quite the industrious little thing, aren’t you?”
She longed to observe that she wasn’t so little, but Siepmann was quite senior in Schools, deeply admired by Reith, and described by the rest of Savoy Hill as an eel, “only more slippery.”
He smiled. Damn, he could look awfully attractive. Unpleasant people should look unpleasant.
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“Yes, and making an effort to look pretty, too, which is also your job. Bright flowers, that’s what you girls are, and don’t think we gents don’t appreciate it.”
Oh, lucky us.
“I’m only concerned with doing well for the Talks Department, sir,” she told him, with as much asperity as she dared.
“Just Talks? Not the whole BBC?” He smiled again, but there was a hiss, a whetstone preparing for the knife.
“I—well, of course the whole BBC,” she stammered, hoping he didn’t see her gulp. His eyes were dancing. Was he teasing her or testing her loyalties? She remembered how much Reith liked him and was suddenly cold. “I’m the Talks secretary, though, so of course I want to do well there,” she said, hoping to paper over any mess. “Doing well by one is doing well by all, isn’t it?”
“Ah, that’s nicely said, dear,” he complimented her. A host of not-nice comments paraded through her brain as she stalked back to her typewriter. Only Hilda’s pointed cough roused her from her assault upon the poor Underwood.
“Oh, excuse me, Miss Matheson. I didn’t realize you’d be back.”
Radio Girls Page 17