Radio Girls(110)

“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.