Radio Girls(100)

She wanted to. She wanted to be with him. Feast off him. Feel everything she’d only ever dreamed about and wondered and hoped. But the suddenness of it, the popping up of him, a jackrabbit in spring . . . Her head was too distorted. Somewhere in the din, she heard Phyllida’s firm advice, reminding her to keep her head, at least, if she couldn’t keep her heart.

“No,” she whispered. “Not at your flat. Somewhere in Soho or Chelsea.”

“I’m longing to be alone with you, darling,” he murmured, stroking the exact spot on the back of her neck where he always made her tingle. She leaned into him, feeling that melting sensation. Just go. Just let go. Just let yourself have this.

“No,” she said, and saw his brows jump at her firmness. “No, it’s too soon, after all this time. No. We’re going for a meal and then I’m going home.”

He looked startled, then smiled and was more gallant than ever, whisking them into a cab and soon after a bistro. And they talked, and ate, and laughed, and she wondered if she saw something in his eyes, some sort of unease, but decided that was the peril of journalistic pursuits. She was always looking for something more in things, creating a danger of seeing things that weren’t there.

I must work on that. Can’t be devoted to the truth if I’m living in even half a fantasy.




For all that some people decried the Marie Stopes clinics as hives of immorality, only married women were officially allowed to partake of their wares. Maisie felt more of a fraud wearing one of Lola’s more understated rings as a wedding band than in a wig and heavy makeup. She tried not to fidget with the ring as the reception nurse was asking her a few rudimentary questions and taking her through to a little examination room.

What she really wanted was a pencil. So many questions, a long story to write, asking about the numbers of women who came in, their ages, their backgrounds. Were they excited? Desperate?

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Simon,” the rosy-cheeked young midwife greeted her. “I understand you want a diaphragm?”

She had a firm, Mary Poppins sort of voice, and Maisie wanted to ask her to come broadcast. She listened to the midwife’s brisk explanation of the device and instructions, hearing the voice rather than the words and thinking how useful this would be for their female listeners. Then she heard what Reith’s response would be to such a proposed Talk.

“Yes, it really is that easy,” the midwife said, mistaking Maisie’s smile for a response. “Now, just relax and take a few deep breaths. It won’t hurt, but it’s not terribly comfortable, I’m afraid.”

It wasn’t. The midwife was professionally gentle, though the word “manhandling” came to mind.

“It’s easy to get nervous giggles, but do try to just relax and breathe steady. It’ll be much quicker,” the midwife ordered. “There! You are now wearing a Dutch cap.”

“Can you fit me with wooden shoes, too?”

The midwife chuckled.

“How many of the women ask that?” Maisie wanted to know.

“Only a few,” the midwife assured her. “Any questions?”

A thousand. But none that the midwife meant.

“No. I think I’m all right.”

“Well, any discomfort or concern of any sort, you come straight back to us. Don’t feel awkward.”

Considering where the midwife had just had her hands, Maisie thought it was past time to mention feeling awkward. But she only said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Simon. Good afternoon.”




“Well-done,” Phyllida congratulated Maisie after the whispered confession in the tearoom. “Though after all this time, I’d keep him waiting a month at least.”

“I don’t want to.”

“No. I suppose you don’t. Well, here’s hoping you’re a producer soon and that saves you from the Marriage Bar.”

“And you’ll be Talks assistant.”

“I will, won’t I?”

Their delight was tempered by the reality of Reith. His deep chill toward Hilda escalated the more popular Talks became.

“You’d think instead he’d hire four strapping lads to carry her on their shoulders wherever she went,” Phyllida said.

“Or keep us drowning in sandwiches and cakes all day long,” Maisie countered.

“Or meet us every morning to bow thricely and wish us maximum productivity.”

“Do you girls really have to giggle so much?” Fowler said, looking up from his Chelsea bun. “It’s highly distracting.”

“Just trying to inspire you with sound, Mr. Fowler,” Maisie assured him.




And so here she was, sitting down to a supper she could barely eat in Simon’s “awfully bourgeois flat” in Primrose Hill. “But it’s part of the family pile and a lovely view of Regent’s Park,” he said, both introducing and dismissing the place.

They were served with an excess of deference by “my man, Trent. He’s all right. Aren’t you?” He looked dyspeptic, actually.

The room was almost overbearing in its insistence on masculinity, with heavy, dark furniture and drapes. A walnut bookcase was stuffed with leather-bound books, and Maisie counted two rolltop desks, one closed, the other with a typewriter peeking out between piles of papers and vases full of bouquets of pencils.