Radio Girls(11)

And now she had seen the interoffice envelope, addressed to the director of Talks.

“Ah!” she cried, catching it up and opening it.

Maisie was galvanized. “No! That’s for Mr. Matheson, Miss Shields said.”

“I know of two Mr. Mathesons, and neither are here.” The woman grinned. She had the air of an infinitely patient teacher.

Maisie had the horrible sense she was being set up for a joke. That any second, Cyril, Beanie, Rusty, and the boys were going to swarm around the door and laugh at her. That the story would fly through the whole of Savoy Hill and follow her wherever she ran, even if she fled to deepest Saskatchewan.

“You . . . Are you . . . the director of Talks?” Maisie whispered, hoping everyone waiting to laugh wouldn’t hear.

“I am,” the woman announced with a pleased nod. “Hilda Matheson. Miss. And you are?”

“Maisie Musgrave.”

“Aha!” Hilda pumped Maisie’s hand, her eyes snapping with delight. “My new secretary! Or as much as Mr. Reith and Miss Shields are willing to spare you. Thus far. Marvelous! Now, don’t you mind me sitting on the floor by the fire. It’s a grand way to think and just one of my quirks.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You most certainly did, and don’t you apologize for it. It was glorious.” Hilda laughed. Her musical laugh was very unlike Beanie’s. It was boisterous, rolling, and deep—Maisie found it a touch alarming.

“I expect you thought I was a secretary,” she went on, not waiting for Maisie’s embarrassed nod. “Wouldn’t I get into the hottest water for such impropriety? Well,” she added, eyes twinkling with an unsettling roguishness, “I might anyway at that. But it is chilly and one must stay warm. I appreciate your looking after me, Miss Musgrave, though I might suggest in future moderating your tone just a nip.”

Maisie could hear an echo of that laugh.

“Of course, Miss Matheson,” she whispered.

“That’s going to the other extreme. But quite all right. It’s always useful to try a few possibilities. Else how can you be sure what’s right?”

“I . . . I don’t know, Miss Matheson.”

“Well, we try, try again. Now, are all these for Talks as well?” she asked, indicating the folders.

“Er, yes, but I’m afraid . . .” Maisie squeezed her eyes shut, both to avoid seeing this exacting woman too closely and to stop the tears from spilling more freely than the papers. “Oh, Miss Matheson, I’m so sorry, but I’d already dropped them, even before now. They’ve got to be put all back together and I don’t know—”

“Folders dropped twice, and on your first morning, no less! That is a feat. You don’t make a habit of tossing paper thither and yon, do you?”

“Oh, no! No, I was . . . Well, I ran into a tuba.”

“Occupational hazard in Savoy Hill. But you’re all right? Good. Now, let’s have at these papers and see how quickly they submit to order.”

Could she possibly be facetious? Maisie thought with yearning of Miss Shields’s disapproving candor, which was at least comprehensible. She gazed, fascinated, as Hilda organized the papers, small neat hands flying through them, nails manicured, left finger brazenly unencumbered by a wedding ring, a silver-and-enamel Mido watch clamped around her wrist.

“There!” She patted the neat folders with satisfaction. “I shall let you in on a little secret I’ve unearthed, having been here only since September myself. Few of these papers are of the earth-shattering consequence they’re considered by some. It’s all about what’s going to happen, Miss Musgrave, not what’s already been and done. Which isn’t to say I don’t like to keep very complete and tidy records. That is something I do expect, along with a strict attentiveness to all that goes forward. But I daresay Miss Shields and Mr. Reith wouldn’t have approved you if you weren’t sharp.”

At the moment Maisie had no idea why she’d been approved. Miss Jenkins at the secretarial school always withheld from giving her full marks. “You’re the most technically proficient and capable, Miss Musgrave, but the best secretaries have brio, dear.” Does anyone ever use the word “dear” when they aren’t insulting you?

Maisie was grateful to Miss Matheson, who in any case was a good deal more pleasant than Miss Shields, but now, the emergency over, she felt deflated. She’d been expecting a man. A clever, charming, well-spoken man who would intimidate and dazzle her. Under his influence, she would learn how to behave in such a way that would allow a man’s genius to flourish. Such skills would hopefully attract another clever and exciting man (dark blue eyes and freckles came to mind) who might be enticed to become her husband.

But a woman. As director of Talks. That seemed to be taking the BBC’s audacious modernity a bit too far.

“We have some time before the meeting,” Hilda announced. “Let’s discuss the department. I’ll detail what we’ve been doing here and some thoughts I have towards the future and how to implement some plans. We’re very small as yet. You’ll meet us all by tomorrow. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my junior, Lionel Fielden, very good at his job but rather willfully bad-mannered—you’ll get used to him. He’s handy, but it’s not the same thing as having an energetic, clever young woman to really organize things and keep us all well oiled.” She studied Maisie, assessing those oil reserves. “We’re a bit short on time. What say we be wild and I send out for some sandwiches? Anything in particular you’d like?”