“Goodness,” Hilda marveled. “It was a productive journey.”
“Unfortunately,” Maisie agreed with a sigh.
“You really have a fine girl here, Stoker,” Vita pronounced, caressing Hilda’s neck.
Stoker???
“You have no idea,” Hilda agreed.
Maisie agreed to have lunch with Simon to try to allay suspicions. She had explained that the season of Christmas and New Year’s was a particularly busy time at the BBC and so it was harder to get away.
“Even at night, darling?”
Part of her still tingled and melted when he looked at her. That face, that body. The smile, the laugh, the brilliance. She badly wanted to sleep with him again. Again and again. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She still hoped he had no idea what Grigson really wanted, and that the whole deal was just about the cacao, not the newspaper, but until she was sure, she couldn’t be alone with him anymore.
“My family’s having a massive gathering, the classic bourgeois Dickensian Christmas. I was hoping to introduce you properly,” Simon went on, spinning the fantasy of her welcome, her entrance into the great house and the ancient name.
A house that, if Beanie’s information was correct, they were currently clinging to by their fingernails. Maisie might have more money in her own bank account—her own account, in her own name; it still felt like a miracle—than the Brock-Morlands had left in their fortune.
But maybe he believed it. Maybe he believed he loved her.
I hope so. Because that would be nice. Because otherwise no man ever has.
“Care for a pudding?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
You can’t think how I want to believe it’s all at the behest of your father, saving the family name and fortune. And you’re just being his errand boy—or are you an errant boy? But I’ve got to stop you. I hope you don’t see what you’re doing. I’ll show you.
“Say you’ll come to the house. The BBC can spare you a little while, can’t they? It’s only the most bourgeois frothy programming over the holidays, surely?”
On the other hand, I would rather eat live entrails than hear the word “bourgeois” again . . .
“We’ve got such a lot of planning to do,” she said, shaking her head.
“Ah. Planning. I say, do tell your Miss Matheson that her goal for 1930 should be a bit more fair-mindedness in broadcasting, what?”
“What?”
“Well, one only need look at the listings to see there’s a great deal in favor of Labour and such-like. I hear that Bolshie economist Keynes has been on a great many times.”
“And he’s brilliant. But we have people who disagree with him, too.”
“And there, you see? That’s the trouble with your BBC, throwing around all those opinions, confusing people.”
“No, that’s not it at all. People are understanding more all the time. It’s the best thing there is, Simon, and growing and changing and getting better, and I’m a part of it, and—”
He seized and kissed her. And for the length of that kiss, she was his girl again, cleaved to him and would fly with him over the whole of the world.
“I always said I loved your passion, Maisie. You’re quite the rare specimen—you know that?”
“Do you mean that?”
“Of course I do, darling.”
“Thank you,” she said. Meaning it. But she still didn’t go home with him.
Maisie had also meant it when she said how busy they were and how much planning was under way. There were new series being prepared with all-encompassing titles like Points of View and People and Things. A veneer of polite banality that masked the heady politics beneath. Hilda vented her rage, both with Reith and the world economy, by exploring more controversy than ever and seemed to be daring anyone to stop her.
Siepmann, heady with victory and busy arranging his new offices to suit his exalted position, didn’t seem to notice the programming. He did notice Torquhil, though.
“And here I thought he was an innovative broadcaster.” Siepmann patted the tolerant dog, who glanced at him suspiciously before returning to his pride of place by Hilda’s fire.
“He is very nice,” Cyril said, watching Torquhil trot away. “I like having a dog about the office. Makes things friendlier.”
“So glad you think so,” Phyllida drawled, barely beating Fielden and Maisie to the same line.
It was all their triumph, though, to see Cyril bow his head and return to the arrangement of his desk.
The newspapers were curiously quiet about the change to Talks, perhaps because it had been presented to them so as to look like the triumph of Hilda’s good work that Reith insisted on saying it was, even within the BBC. It was only Maisie’s determination to keep Hilda from reproach that stopped her leaking the truth to the press.
“Er, Miss Musgrave?” Cyril again, twisting his hands together. “I hate to trouble you for the Week in Westminster files, but—”
“Yes, of course,” Maisie said, in a tone she decided sounded breezy. “They’re all here in this drawer.” She indicated said drawer. “Do you wish to move them closer to you?”
“Oh, no. No, you can still store them. You’re still Talks assistant on the program.”
“How smashing for me, thank you.”
“Smashing for me, actually, or I’d be quite at sea. Er, I don’t suppose you’d like to go over programming for the next year—perhaps over lunch . . . ?”
“Dreadfully busy today. Can’t manage, I’m afraid.” She couldn’t put off a meeting forever, but she certainly wasn’t giving him her free time.
“What are you working on now?” he asked, with polite curiosity.
She couldn’t resist giving him a sly smile.
“I’m booking a Miss Rachel Klay of the Fabian Society for Points of View. Subject: Do the Fascists Want to Control Our Information? Last-minute replacement. We’re airing it next week.”
“That, er, sounds rather incendiary,” he said, his tone both quavering and admiring.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s only an opinion piece. Nothing for anyone to worry about,” Maisie said with a shrug. But she didn’t stop smiling.
“If you wanted to break into files, why didn’t you ask me for picklocks?” Ellis demanded when Hilda and Maisie showed him the takings from Maisie’s espionage.
“Because if she were to be searched, a nail file is an expected thing for a woman to possess. Picklocks tend to raise eyebrows,” Hilda pointed out.
“They could be a prop, or used for radio sound effects, and they don’t leave evidence,” Ellis rejoined. “Really, Miss Musgrave, you could be done for burglary now.”
“Gosh, thanks,” Maisie said.
“Oh, never mind that!” Hilda snapped. “Look at this mess. Look at what people are saying, about unions, women, media, Jews, homosexuals, books, music. They would probably stop science if they didn’t think it was a moneymaker. The talk is only growing, Ellis—look at it.”
“Whispered, Matty. Whispered on fringes, the way people always have. No one’s ever liked Jews, homosexuals, or women who make noise—you can’t get aerated about all history.”
“I bloody well can,” she retorted. “And I’m going to see them exposed.”
“The trouble with you sort in media,” said Ellis, lighting his cheroot, “is you think there’s great power in printing things. It never really changes anything, you know.”
“It does, though. Knowledge is power. Why else do you think they want to control media? Apparently this man Goebbels is quite the acolyte of American advertising. His writing is brilliant in its simplicity. If only he were using it to sell washing powder.”
“It’s just a load of tosh, shouting in the wind.”
“No, it’s really good propaganda. If they can keep capitalizing on it, the
y won’t stay marginalized for long. Look, just look at this contract. These Nazis have promised that if they come to power, they’ll give Nestlé a government contract. Nestlé can supply all the chocolate for the whole German army.”
“Well, that will make the soldiers rebel for sure, and that will be the end of it.”
“Stop it!” Maisie screamed. Then she clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . Actually I did, but not quite so—”
Hilda put a hand on her shoulder and turned to Ellis.
“Miss Musgrave speaks for us both.”
“I do apologize,” Ellis said, for once meaning it. “There is so much happening just now, it’s hard to spare energy for suppositions about the future. And you must admit, it all looks like angry little boys playing at silly adventure games.”
“Everyone thought it was an adventure in 1914, too,” Hilda said.
Ellis sighed heavily and slugged down half his brandy. “You haven’t many options when you want to stop something before it starts. You need better proof than photographs, for one thing. Anyone can swear they are faked.”
“They’ll do that anyway,” Maisie said. “But I can get the contract they’re planning to give Simon. I don’t know if it’s illegal, but it’s got to be unethical.”
Ellis looked at her with deep admiration. “Good. And this is everything you have thus far? You had better leave it with me now. I can be sure it’s properly managed and analyzed. If anything proves to be beyond the usual ethical flexibility of business, I can arrange for further steps to be taken.”
“All we need, I think, is to embarrass them,” Hilda said, running a finger along the papers. “If it’s obvious they’re wishing to upend the BBC, it’s possible people might choose not to purchase anything made by Siemens or Nestlé. As much as a business might hate a union, bad publicity that affects their bottom line is a different circle of hell altogether.”
“Yes,” Maisie agreed. “And I’ve been wanting to tell them to go to hell for such a while now.”
Maisie and Phyllida took their lunch to the chapel—a good enough place for a confession. Maisie felt guilty, breaking her promise to Hilda, but she felt worse keeping such secrets from the only real friend she’d ever had. And Phyllida, to her credit, was far more appalled by what was going on than the fact that she was so late in hearing it.
“D’ye know,” Phyllida said, lighting a cigarette, “they’re not wrong. We should bring back some sort of feudalism or what have you. Something where treason’s punished by being burned at the stake. Or is it drawing and quartering? I always forget.”
“It’s not treason, exactly, I think.”
“Near as, damn it. Useless mongrels.”
“He asked me to marry him, Phyllida. He gave me a ring, said he loves me. And I’m stupid enough to still want it to mean something.” Maisie drew up her knees under her chin.
“Eh, it probably does. But, Maisie, go on. If even half of this is true, you can’t have any softness for him now. You can’t. You know that.”
“I do.”
“And your life isn’t without love. You know that, too.”
“I do.”
“Good. So that’s sorted.” Phyllida ground her cigarette in the baptismal font. “I never liked him anyway.”
“You never met him.”
“I didn’t have to.”
For once, it was hard to concentrate on her BBC work. Maisie’s mind kept wandering to Simon. Was it really possible he would take steps to compromise Britain’s press, its whole democracy, just for money? Money, and to feel his power as an aristocrat? Whatever Phyllida said, it just didn’t seem right. It couldn’t be. The times had changed too much. He had to accept that, surely? The questions ping-ponged about in her brain as she brought a script to Hilda to examine.
“Miss Musgrave, what is this?”
“A script, for the competitive bridge players you hated so much.”
“No, this. Are you awake?”
It was the sharpness of the tone rather than the words that snapped Maisie back to attention. She couldn’t think how, but one of the photographs was in Hilda’s hand, rather than Ellis’s safekeeping. The photograph of Grigson’s letter indicating the intent to remove women from the BBC, along with all the most popular programming.
“Ellis was going to analyze this. No paper can print it without verification. And we haven’t much time.”
“I can’t think what happened,” Maisie said, staring at the photograph as though it was an unexploded grenade.
“Post it to Ellis now, tonight.” Hilda said. “Here, I’ll write up an envelope for you.”
“Maybe you should take it to him in person?” Maisie was suddenly panicked.
“I think at this juncture it’s safer going through the post. If you get it by the seven o’clock and send it express, it might even reach him tonight.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Matheson. I can’t think how I—”
“It happens, Miss Musgrave. But it’s the sort of thing you can’t ever let happen again.” She sealed the envelope and slipped it back between the pages of the script.
“Go.”
She knew. As soon as the BBC’s wooden door shut behind her, she knew that the man on the corner was looking for her. There must be hundreds of people in every building on Savoy Street, but she knew. He was looking for her.
She glanced up the street. She didn’t have far to walk. And it was a perfectly innocent thing she was about to do. Anyone could mail a letter.
She’d been seen. She couldn’t be Invisible Girl even if she wanted to be.
She walked, strutted, actually. Go on, try something. I dare you.
But the fist inside her was heaving and hawing like a ship’s bellows. This had all become suddenly, achingly real.
“Hallo. You’re leaving almost early, aren’t you?”
Cyril and Billy joined her on the path, heading for the American Bar. It was very strange to be happy to see them.
“Why don’t you come along?” Cyril urged. “Have a bit of a chin wag about the old pile?”
“That would be super,” she said, grinning with relief. “Only I’ve got to get to the post office first, a letter to go express. You know how Talks business is. Care to walk with me over there first?”
The men were just agreeing when they were joined by someone else, coming the other way.
“Is that my girl, strolling down the street with two other chappies?”
Simon. And she wasn’t wearing the ring.
She pretended to be even more flustered and fidgety than she was so that the men took over the task of introductions. The ring was in her bag, in the mirror pocket. She slipped her hand in and worked the ring on, blessing the British traditions of proper introductions and polite nothings that gave her time. Her hand clasped around the envelope in her bag.
“I rang your office and the Yorkie girl told me you’d be leaving about now. I thought I’d come and surprise you,” Simon said.
“I’m so happy to see you,” she cried, throwing her arms around Simon. She caught Cyril’s eye over Simon’s shoulder and glanced at the envelope in her hand. Too surprised to do anything else, Cyril took it. She nodded in a way that she hoped told him to run and post the letter without thinking about the address and to not let Simon or Billy see. But there wasn’t too much one could convey in a nod. Cyril tucked the envelope inside his jacket, staring at Maisie.
“My goodness, such ardor!” Simon cried. “And, darling, you’re rather excessively glowing. Some powder, I think.” He took her bag and opened it. “Only a lipstick! Tsk. Let’s get you to Selfridges. You need a few girlish treats.”
She took his arm, not knowing what else to do. She knew Cyril and Billy were staring at her, and hoped Cyril would hurry to the post office.
TWENTY-ONE
“No, I’m all right. Thank you. Very good of you to post that letter for me. I just, er, didn’t want Mr. Brock-Morland to know about it,” she finished lamely.
“I rather got that idea,” Cyril said dryly, nodding. “He seems an all-right sort of chap?”
“Unfortunately, I think ‘seems’ is the word of choice these days.”
“Do you, er, need any help?” he asked.
His eyes were serious, but she was sure she caught the whiff of a boys’ adventure tale.
“That’s very good of you, Mr. Underwood, and I’ll keep that offer in mind, should I get in a scrape.”
She nodded and he nodded back.
“Coming, Underwood?” Billy called from the studio. “We’re ready for broadcast.”
“Yes, coming,” he said, still looking at her. He went inside and the light flashed red. Broadcast in progress; enter and perish.
Maisie was just turning the corner back to the Talks Department when Hilda strode out, a file in hand, Torquhil at her feet. She nodded to Maisie and jerked her head. Maisie fell into step and they walked, silently, all the way to the Sound Effects Department.
Hilda threw open the door, and all the men jumped up to shout at the interloper, but went quiet and respectful on seeing who it was, joining in a rather harmonious, “How do you do, Miss Matheson?”
“Good day, chaps. I’ve got a speaker coming in to Talk about winter sport, and some sound effects might be nice. Can you have a think on it?”
“Certainly, Miss Matheson.” Fowler nodded, eyes gleaming. “Does your dog bark?”
“Only when provoked. Or when he’s playing.”
“May we try recording him?”
“Certainly.”
Someone produced a large rope and tested Torquhil on his tug-of-war skills, while someone else paid attention to all the cheerful growls. Within minutes, the sound men being what they were, the usual noise had the improvement of Torquhil’s leaps and barks and all the men and dog scrabbling about in a game without rules.
Radio Girls Page 34