“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hilda purred, stroking Torquhil’s red head. “He was a gift.”
“Um, he’s very nice,” Maisie muttered, avoiding the dog’s eye.
“Don’t you worry,” said Hilda. “Torquhil can’t even do damage to a chewing bone.” She scratched behind his ear and crooned, “If a man were trying to have my bag off me, he’d just sit there and look for a biscuit, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?” She stood and studied him. “Or am I maligning your character? Many apologies, if so.” She turned to Maisie and grinned. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me I’m off my nuts?”
“I was thinking of saying more like you’re barking mad.”
Hilda threw back her head and laughed.
“Well, there’s no directive against bringing in dogs, and the DG did say he wanted us treating family well. Now that Torquhil’s trained, no need to keep him at home all day, so here he is.”
Her eyes were bright and challenging. Maisie wasn’t sure who would be more displeased, Reith or Samson.
Phyllida came in with a green interoffice envelope. “Good morning. This just came. It’s marked ‘Urgent.’ Oh, hallo!” She saw Torquhil and he, recognizing a friend, nudged her hand for a pat. “New Talks assistant?”
“Excuse me?” Maisie asked.
“Oh, good Lord, please no,” Hilda moaned as she read the interoffice memo.
Maisie and Phyllida exchanged alarmed glances.
“Not another tour of inspection by the governors?” Maisie asked.
“Worse,” Hilda replied in a hollow voice. “We’re to have a Sports Day.”
SEVENTEEN
It wasn’t quite a Sports Day in fact, but rather a Savoy Hill–wide picnic, in the countryside, featuring games, amusements, dancing, and loads of food. All in all, a grand day out.
Maisie hopped off the bus Reith had hired for them, wearing borrowed brogues, a georgette ocher frock, and a straw hat, and carrying the good wishes of her whole boardinghouse. It was a startlingly warm day, and the park chosen for the event was a lush expanse of green lawn ringed by very fine oaks and shrubbery.
“Ah, the Hundred Acre Wood!” Phyllida cried. “Lord, the whole thing is rather tidy, isn’t it? Bet it belongs to some landed gent, raking in a few extra shillings. They still have their names and houses, but the cash is running down. Excuse me whilst I weep.”
Marquees stretched over tables groaning with food, and Maisie was second only to the messenger boys in making her first strike. She took her food and settled herself on a blanket, happily working her way through a cold collation and salmon aspic as she watched a rather brutal game of field hockey, with Hilda as one team captain and Beanie as the other. Maisie had long since reconciled herself to her lack of schooling, though she still felt a twinge at not being able to join this melee. Even Phyllida could play a little, applying brawn whenever there was a small lapse in her knowledge of the rules.
“Go, go, go!” Beanie shouted, a general leading a cavalry raid. “What do you call that?”
“Good form, troops, good form. Now move in, strike!” cried Hilda, equally militant.
“What a bother I can’t join!” Mary Somerville said, coming to stand beside Maisie. She had married last year and was now six months pregnant. Not only did she still prefer to be called “Miss Somerville” at the BBC, but the rumor was she was intending on returning to work some months after the baby was born and had asked Reith for what she called “maternity leave.”
“You could be goalkeeper for Miss Matheson’s team,” Maisie suggested. Though Beanie’s team put up an impressive fight, the goalkeeper had not been much challenged.
“I think I’ll go watch the cricket. It’ll be more soothing,” Miss Somerville decided after a particularly vicious attack.
Maisie watched her stride along the grounds, her gait only just becoming ungainly. That’s who I could be. In Simon’s last letter, he’d written, “I do admire you, my darling Miss Musgrave, working so hard as you do, devoted to your cause, and rising.” He was a modern man at heart, and proud of her. He wouldn’t mind her staying on, still being Miss Musgrave, still rising.
“Aren’t they supposed to be the weaker sex?” Billy’s voice sounded above her as Hilda performed a complex dribble, charging through half her opponents, sending them reeling, and launched an enormous thwack that tested the strength of both stick and ball and knocked poor Vera, keeping goal, to her knees.
“That’s why generals avoid putting weapons in their hands,” Cyril answered. Maisie glanced over at him and Billy, but they were too enthralled by the match to notice her. “So, whose knickers are you hoping to see here?”
“Oh, I’m not bothered. But I say, Underwood, look at that Matheson woman. Can’t help admiring her. Is there anything she can’t do?”
“Don’t let the DG hear you say that. Speaking of, we’d best push on. We promised to join the cricket.” Cyril’s voice was heavy with martyrdom.
“Now, lads, we can’t play anything so coarse as football,” Billy said, in an eerie imitation of Reith’s voice. They laughed as they trudged away.
Maisie took advantage of a time-out in the hockey to make her second assault on the food tables. While there, she thought she might as well examine the cakes, in the manner of a general’s studying the movements of the enemy before he plans attack.
Siepmann was being served a Pimm’s cup at the bar, and Maisie ducked behind a pyramid of peaches and plums, hoping he wouldn’t see her. She was in no mood to hear his observations on her industry or littleness.
“Ah, there you are! Coming to watch the cricket, old man?”
Maisie was rather surprised Reith came to fetch his own drink. She would have thought he’d have someone tending to him. But possibly he wished to be seen as one of the staff. The lads, specifically, to judge by his straw boater and linen jacket. He looked alien in light colors, a bear without its skin.
“Lord, yes,” Siepmann replied. “I just needed a drink after watching the girls go at it. I know sport is meant to be healthy for them, but it’s quite unfeminine.”
“I know, I know, but I would have been lambasted if I hadn’t allowed them some sort of game. I’d certainly rather they play hockey than take up some of that ghastly dancing people persist in these days. I won’t have any BBC girls behaving like that, not on my watch.”
“You know Miss Warwick goes to those parties,” Siepmann said.
“But she was properly brought up, so we trust she knows how to behave.”
“Did you see Miss Matheson leading the fray?”
“I rejoice to say, I did not.”
“Our Miss Somerville would have given some back, I’d think, but for her condition. Awfully decent of you to keep her on. And the fact is, she’s really very good at the job. So much so that if what we’re talking about comes to pass—”
“Yes, yes, precisely. I can’t pretend to understand her marriage at all. That Mr. Brown of hers must be a strange fish if he has no quarrel with her retaining her father’s name. But she’s married, she’s going to be a mother, and she’s a very regular sort of woman, quite moral and decent. She won’t try to impose advanced fare if she agrees to replace you.”
A replacement for Siepmann! Maisie wanted to run, skip, turn cartwheels. If he was leaving the BBC, that would be worth one hell of a party.
“A very good choice, I think,” Siepmann remarked with only a hint of oleaginousness. “If it must be a woman, she has certainly proven herself.”
“As have you, Siepmann, as have you.”
“I’m only thinking of what’s good for the BBC.”
“That’s what makes you such a fine man. And arguably, Miss Matheson does think much the same way, but whatever the governors say, she just seems more and more like a woman who oughtn’t have quite so much influence. Those damn unreasonable demands.”
“Bu
t she’s extremely popular.”
“Yes. She’s done well, certainly. Ah, let’s not spoil the day with the same old chat, shall we? Come, let’s see how the lads are getting on.”
Fortified, they walked over to the cricket pitch, and Maisie stood there, eyes locked with the bored bartender, who professionally hadn’t heard a single word. She mindlessly crammed cake into her mouth, the heavy plate in her other hand quite forgotten.
Hilda would say it was her foray into investigative journalism—or espionage—that was making her see conspiracies in what was just churlish grousing. But there was no way, no way she was wrong. Those sleek-groomed heads had stuck together to plan the clipping of Hilda’s wings, for no reason other than that they didn’t want to keep looking up as she flew by.
Even if Hilda had heard the whole exchange, she would likely only shrug. Unsurprised that there were those who sought to take some wind from her sails, she would carry on charting her waters. Phyllida would point out, with infuriating reasonableness, that Siepmann couldn’t be promoted to Talks until Hilda left and she wasn’t going to and Reith could never justify sacking her. The governors would sooner dismiss him.
But Phyllida didn’t know about Vita. And Siepmann might. And if Reith ever found out . . .
I need to talk to someone who has some muscle. The sort of cynic who wouldn’t be surprised . . . Where’s Fielden?
It was important to look as meandering and dreamy as possible, just one of the girls, enjoying the novelty and the buffet. She wandered with increasing impatience, almost despair—was he even here? He had to be. This holiday jaunt was mandatory.
Her plate was nearly empty by the time she found him, perched under an umbrella, watching the sound effects crew play a highly querulous game of croquet.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fielden! May I join you?”
“I know the DG considers this a social gathering, Miss Musgrave, but we don’t need to humor him beyond a nod. Do please feel free to finish off the buffet instead.”
Since there was nothing to be gained by breaking the plate over his head, she sat down as if she’d been invited, or at least not discouraged. It would be so preferable to talk to Beanie! Both as an aristocrat and an adept of an elite school, she must know everything about shifting allegiances and how petty quests for greater personal power must operate. But Beanie was very deliberate in her avoidance of trouble at the BBC, and very loving of gossip. Fielden might not like Maisie, but he didn’t like anyone, except Hilda. So there it was.
He looked at her a long moment, as if trying to ascertain that she really was sitting there and not moving.
“I suppose the geese are watching from the shrubbery, and if you trouble me long enough, you win some sort of prize?”
“Er. No. What?”
“Direct and clear-spoken as ever.”
“Mr. Fielden.” She cast a nervous glance around her to be sure they couldn’t be heard. Then again, there was little chance of being heard over the shouts of the sound effects men. It seemed inadvisable to let them handle wooden mallets. “What would happen, do you think, if someone in Savoy Hill was thinking of disrupting the Talks Department?”
His eyebrows shot up. She wouldn’t have guessed his features could be so animated.
“Seen a bad play, have you?” he asked, though it was clearly just to maintain form.
“A multitude,” she agreed. “But that’s beside the point. I overheard a discussion I wasn’t meant to hear—”
“That’s what ‘overhearing’ generally is, Miss Musgrave.”
“—and it made me think there is an effort to elevate . . . a certain person . . . in a way that would, er, affect our department.”
“Ah. Siepmann,” Fielden stated.
“What have you heard?” Maisie demanded.
“Only what you’re failing to tell me in worthwhile detail. But the DG’s fading enthusiasm for Our Lady is legion enough that it may as well have been broadcast, and who else could he connive with within the ranks to try to splinter us? He’s not going to pull from outside, not these days. Strictly an earn-your-way-up man, save where himself is concerned.”
“We’ve got to do something.”
“We can’t do something against nothing. We couldn’t even if it were something.”
The whole of the BBC opined that A. A. Milne had modeled Eeyore on Fielden.
“We’ve got to warn Miss Matheson,” Maisie insisted. “There must be a way to do it without upsetting her.”
“There is. We say nothing, but rather double our efforts in producing brilliant Talks. We support the genius of Our Lady and of course be sure that there is no chance of the Dear Generalissimo missing a single positive response, either from listeners or the press. Whatever he thinks of Our Lady, his greatest love is for the BBC itself.”
“Can’t help feeling sorry for his wife,” Maisie said.
“For so many reasons. My point is, he’s not going to interfere with the growth of his child, even if one of its godmothers irks him. He’s far too pleased with his nose to cut it off.”
“But the thing of it is, Mr. Fielden, we do a top job already, and if he’s thinking—”
“You don’t really know what the Dire Gargoyle is thinking, and he could simply be letting Siepmann know he has faith in him.” Fielden hid a faint smile in his drink. “Thinks he’s good enough to do a woman’s job.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Maisie snapped.
Fielden looked surprised. “Do they not have jokes in your homeland? Or is the entire dominion of Canada joke enough in itself?”
His head was saved by a shout from Fowler and an errant croquet ball crashing into the table between them. Fielden pulled his drink to safety but jerked too hard and half of it landed on his summer tweed.
Maisie seized the ball and pitched it back to Fowler so hard he yelped.
She sat back down and handed Fielden her napkin. “You needn’t always be so nasty,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “But I generally prefer it to the alternative.” He suddenly drew close and conspiratorial—she could see all the droplets of gin fizz in his mustache. “No one in Savoy Hill is better at what they do than Our Lady. Some are just as good, maybe, but no one is better. The DG knows it. And he knows the logic of it. Where does a brilliant person go but up? And where else is ‘up’ for Our Lady?”
Oh. The fantasy. Hilda as DG. And if Fielden left, perhaps Maisie could . . .
“That’s lovely but ridiculous,” Maisie snapped. “The governors like us modern, but they know perfectly well that the BBC wouldn’t be seen as serious if it were headed by a woman. Besides, I don’t think Miss Matheson would want the job.” But even as she said it, she thought of all the meetings between Hilda and Reith and how Hilda had a stronger sense of audience and technology and content and Reith knew it and hated every bit of it.
Fielden gazed mournfully into his empty glass.
“Whatever else the Deathly Ghoul is, he wants the BBC to be admired. Siepmann hasn’t the imagination to do better in Talks than Our Lady. So they can grumble all they like, but speaking as a master of grumbling, I can assure them it doesn’t tend to come to anything.”
It was strange, Fielden being more optimistic than her. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun.
At least he knows to be on the lookout. And I’m not going to let anything happen to Miss Matheson—that’s for damned sure.
Another croquet ball flew toward her and she caught it and stalked away, tossing the ball up and down, to a harmonized chorus of disapproval.
As the afternoon melted into evening, the staff was encouraged toward the marquee stretched over a temporary dance floor. Despite a host of grumbling, the small band held firm to their instructions and played no dances from later than 1921.
“I suppose we should be grateful it’s not minuets,” Phyllida
said.
Maisie, nibbling grapes, was determining where she could drag Phyllida to tell her what had happened when a voice sounded beside them.
“Enjoying the day, Miss Musgrave?”
Cyril. She glanced at him, and took her time finishing chewing and swallowing before she answered.
“Very much, thanks. You?”
“Copacetic.”
“Now who sounds like they’re from New York?”
He laughed, the sun glinting off his hair and all those freckles standing out on his cheeks, and she couldn’t help it—she smiled back.
“Maybe you’ve been a good influence on me,” he suggested.
“That’s debatable,” she said.
“Is it? Can you have it be a Talk, perhaps?”
“Now, now, Mr. Underwood. Some of our subjects are arcane, I’ll grant you, but never inane. You hear the difference?”
“Clever. I don’t suppose you’ve ever read Latin, Miss Musgrave?”
“I’ve never even read Pig Latin.”
“Do you know what ‘pax’ means?”
“Well, yes, I am a moderate disciple of Mr. Bartlett’s, you know. He’s fond of any word that means ‘peace.’”
“Well, then. Pax?”
She studied him. Two years had passed since their fraudulent date. Not only did she continue to keep her head up, but she had risen through her department and was on the brink of becoming a producer. His equal. And she had an absent but still fond young man. She stuck out her hand.
“Pax.”
“Thank you. I don’t suppose you’d like to dance?”
Maisie gulped and glanced around the venue. Phyllida was being guided in a very expert fox-trot by Billy. Hilda was across the marquee, having a deep tête-à-tête with Mary Somerville.
“You don’t have to,” Cyril said hastily, tossing his head to hide his embarrassment at her silence. “I was only—“
“No, it’s all right,” she broke in. They’d made peace, after all. “But I’m a spectacularly lousy dancer.”
Radio Girls Page 29