Radio Girls(117)

“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.”