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.”
TWENTY-TWO
“You 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 jo
b 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?”
“I will not be spoken to like this!” Reith was bright red. “Why can’t you comprehend that there are a great many people who must be guarded, who depend upon their betters to guide them to the sort of culture that will be pleasing and comforting but not taxing—most people cannot manage with being challenged—”
“So then they leave those books aside!”
“No, because they might be damaged with even just a little reading! These are delicate people, and the world is really far more dangerous than a girl like you can understand—”
“I beg your pardon?”
“—and we have a solemn duty. You will go to your poofy little friend, and you will tell him that whatever he does in his own life, his bandying about with his aristocratic ‘wife’ and all their estates and travel and importance, and then all that time he really spends with men, doing just as he wants, with no judgment upon him, and no consequence, just living like a hedonist, all that pleasure . . .”
Reith was as scowling as ever, but as his words folded over and over one another, Maisie stared at the contours of his face, his eyes, enraged, but full of . . . Was it pain? Was it envy? Was it both? Her glance slid briefly to Hilda, and it was clear she saw it as well. There was almost a flash of pity in Hilda’s eyes. Bits and pieces of Reith’s actions and words over the last five years tumbled through Maisie’s brain. His obsession with men’s morality. His unreasonable rage when someone was having sex outside marriage. And the way he smiled and fawned over Siepmann. He had a wife. He had children. He had been given honors and had worked his way into immense importance. But there was something else he really wanted, and perhaps he hated himself for it, or hated everyone else who got to have it. And it colored absolutely everything else he did.
It made Maisie speak to him with more sympathy than she otherwise might have.
“Mr. Reith, of course we understand your concerns, but Harold Nicholson is awfully well considered and respected, and think of how many times you’ve had a similar worry and it’s all come to nothing, really?”
He ignored her.
“Miss Matheson, you will instruct Nicholson to remove the offending passages from his script if he wishes to broadcast. What’s more, you will now vet every last one of your speakers and their scripts with me and submit to all my direction.”
“I will do no such thing. Not one last bit of it.”
“Perhaps we can compromise?” Maisie suggested.
“Miss Musgrave!” Reith shouted. “I have been more than tolerant with you from the beginning. You are no one and nothing, and you’ve risen quite high. I insist you retype the script
to my specifications. But if you back Miss Matheson in this folly of hers, I will have your employment terminated.”
The words were on Maisie’s lips. She was quite ready to tell him she wasn’t going to submit to threats or blackmail or censorship. But she caught Hilda’s eye. Hilda did not move a muscle, but her expression told Maisie she could do more with staying on.
“I’ll adjust the script,” Maisie whispered.
“Thank you, Miss Musgrave. Perhaps you might be elevated to producer rank after all.”
“Mr. Reith,” Hilda said, her voice very plain and casual. “You have made yourself very clear, and there is nothing else for me to do other than to submit my resignation.”
“No!” Maisie cried, unable to stop herself. But neither of them seemed to notice her.
“Miss Matheson, that is being a bit extreme.” Though he looked pleased. “I am hardly asking you to leave, and I do think the BBC will be somewhat diminished without you.”
“For a while, perhaps. But what is sure is that this entire venture is lesser for submitting to such diktats. I’ve never heard of open censorship of literature leading to anything good, and I will not be seen to tolerate it. I shall deliver my formal letter of resignation in the course of the afternoon.”
And that was that.
The carriage clock was packed last, nestled lovingly into straw. Up until that moment, Maisie had thought for sure there would be one more reprieve.
“Cheerio, all. Onwards and upwards!” Hilda cried, sauntering out of the office.
As soon as she was gone, Siepmann turned to Maisie.
“I’ll have you know I expect total loyalty. This department is due for a shaking up, and I don’t know that we need quite so many girls running around.”
“I do understand.” Maisie nodded gravely. “I might be better off writing a massive exposé on the inner workings of the BBC and how staff is reorganized.”
Radio Girls Page 36