Radio Girls(103)

“No,” she said. She wanted to walk, clear her head. “No, that’s all right.”

“I promised the lads a drink tonight, but will we have dinner tomorrow?”

“I’d love that,” she said, hardly registering either of their words.

“And what else do you love?” His eyes were teasing, and so warm. So honest.

“You,” she told him, kissing him again. “I love you.”

But I have no idea who you are.





NINETEEN




Maisie walked slowly down Eversholt Street. All around her was the pulse of early-morning life. Dustmen, milkmen, postmen. And boys, newsboys, delivery boys, shoeshine boys. But not Tommies. Not anymore. No more war. They had fought, and won, and now the former enemy was subdued and come to heel and peace reigned.

And I’m the Queen of Sheba.

Maybe it all meant nothing. It might. She looked around her. It was later now. The street was full of the working and middle classes, all heading to different jobs, none as important as her own. Because she had power, didn’t she? She was part of something that was doing something. She was . . . She was on the verge of running late.

She was hot and flustered when she reached her desk, and slammed her coat and hat on the rack. She stared at her neat piles of paper. There was a great deal to do. Letters from assorted experts in fields, hoping to be considered for broadcasts. Scripts to revise. Letters to draft.

Phyllida hissed in her ear, “You look hellish. Are you feeling all right?”

Maisie just nodded.

“Rubbish. Can I get you some tea? Or bicarbonate of soda?”

Maisie burst out laughing. If only, if only she were nursing a hangover! What a marvelously fashionable, mundane ailment that would be.

“Oh, there you are, Miss Fenwick,” Fielden said. “I made the mistake of looking for you at your own desk.”

“What luck Miss Musgrave’s desk is less than twenty feet away. Otherwise I’d feel dreadful about your having to trek so far.”

“I don’t know how the pair of you aren’t making a fortune in the music halls,” Fielden said, including Maisie as part of the great comic duo. “Can you type these, please? And we’ve got to reschedule Mr. Jennings from Lloyd’s.”

“We need more broadcasting time.” Phyllida sighed, looking at the schedule.

“We need more everything time,” Fielden agreed, glad to have company in his complaints. “More time, more space, more staff.”

“Maybe when the new building is ready,” Maisie said automatically. The already designated “Broadcasting House” was well under construction and on schedule for 1932, but seemed like Arcadia, something not to be reached.

Almost as if she were listening, they heard Hilda cry from her office, “But we haven’t space as it is!”

Then they looked at each other, alarmed. When did Hilda ever raise her voice?

They crept to the edge of her door, as near as they dared. Reith was there, arms folded, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“No, you misunderstand me,” he said, his voice calm and singsongy. “It’s just a bit of departmental rearranging. A better use of all our best resources.”

“You cannot be serious.” Hilda was standing, white-faced, her eyes wide and glassy.

“You’ve said you need more staff, that you are all at full pressure. Everyone knows you in Talks work later than everyone else. It’s too much for just one person. And I am not taking away your title, far from it. I do think you’re getting a bit hysterical. Really, you should be grateful.”

“Grateful? You are telling me I am incapable of running this department.”

“Now, you see? That’s the hysteria talking. My dear Miss Matheson, I am including you as one of those best resources I mentioned, and I doubt there is any man in Britain who doesn’t know of your brilliance in running this department. This little change—”

“Little!”

“—will allow you to focus on the Talks you like best. Everyone can be more carefully designated, without so much mishmash. Focused minds, focused work. And you and Mr. Siepmann are doing such similar work anyway. It makes sense to consolidate your mental acumen, no? Miss Somerville will head up the Schools Broadcast herself—she’s delighted to do so—and you and Mr. Siepmann can divide the spoils here and thus bring more to Talks overall.”

“Mr. Reith,” Hilda said, licking her lips, “I do appreciate what you are attempting to do, truly, but whilst I do need more staff here, my hope was for some more fine producers and one or two additional administrative staff. That’s all. I think if you talk to my staff as stands, they will assure you that I am a very good director. If you add another director, however much you may pretend he is doing different work, it will only add confusion. You are a man of great experience. You know that’s true. Would you have had a second captain serving with you in the trenches?”

“To help me manage a thousand troops? Absolutely. Now, my dear Miss Matheson, I know this all seems a bit of a shock, but try to take it as the compliment it is. You have done a great deal in building up this department, and now it is simply too much for one person to handle all on her own.”

Maisie was on her way in to tell him just how wrong he was, but she couldn’t move. Fielden’s arm was encircled around her waist, holding her with surprising strength. To push back would create some very undesirable contact; to pull forward risked toppling into the office. He was infuriating, Fielden, but damned clever.