Radio Girls(119)

“I will not be spoken to like this!” Reith was bright red. “Why can’t you comprehend that there are a great many people who must be guarded, who depend upon their betters to guide them to the sort of culture that will be pleasing and comforting but not taxing—most people cannot manage with being challenged—”

“So then they leave those books aside!”

“No, because they might be damaged with even just a little reading! These are delicate people, and the world is really far more dangerous than a girl like you can understand—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“—and we have a solemn duty. You will go to your poofy little friend, and you will tell him that whatever he does in his own life, his bandying about with his aristocratic ‘wife’ and all their estates and travel and importance, and then all that time he really spends with men, doing just as he wants, with no judgment upon him, and no consequence, just living like a hedonist, all that pleasure . . .”

Reith was as scowling as ever, but as his words folded over and over one another, Maisie stared at the contours of his face, his eyes, enraged, but full of . . . Was it pain? Was it envy? Was it both? Her glance slid briefly to Hilda, and it was clear she saw it as well. There was almost a flash of pity in Hilda’s eyes. Bits and pieces of Reith’s actions and words over the last five years tumbled through Maisie’s brain. His obsession with men’s morality. His unreasonable rage when someone was having sex outside marriage. And the way he smiled and fawned over Siepmann. He had a wife. He had children. He had been given honors and had worked his way into immense importance. But there was something else he really wanted, and perhaps he hated himself for it, or hated everyone else who got to have it. And it colored absolutely everything else he did.

It made Maisie speak to him with more sympathy than she otherwise might have.

“Mr. Reith, of course we understand your concerns, but Harold Nicholson is awfully well considered and respected, and think of how many times you’ve had a similar worry and it’s all come to nothing, really?”

He ignored her.

“Miss Matheson, you will instruct Nicholson to remove the offending passages from his script if he wishes to broadcast. What’s more, you will now vet every last one of your speakers and their scripts with me and submit to all my direction.”

“I will do no such thing. Not one last bit of it.”

“Perhaps we can compromise?” Maisie suggested.

“Miss Musgrave!” Reith shouted. “I have been more than tolerant with you from the beginning. You are no one and nothing, and you’ve risen quite high. I insist you retype the script to my specifications. But if you back Miss Matheson in this folly of hers, I will have your employment terminated.”

The words were on Maisie’s lips. She was quite ready to tell him she wasn’t going to submit to threats or blackmail or censorship. But she caught Hilda’s eye. Hilda did not move a muscle, but her expression told Maisie she could do more with staying on.

“I’ll adjust the script,” Maisie whispered.

“Thank you, Miss Musgrave. Perhaps you might be elevated to producer rank after all.”

“Mr. Reith,” Hilda said, her voice very plain and casual. “You have made yourself very clear, and there is nothing else for me to do other than to submit my resignation.”

“No!” Maisie cried, unable to stop herself. But neither of them seemed to notice her.

“Miss Matheson, that is being a bit extreme.” Though he looked pleased. “I am hardly asking you to leave, and I do think the BBC will be somewhat diminished without you.”

“For a while, perhaps. But what is sure is that this entire venture is lesser for submitting to such diktats. I’ve never heard of open censorship of literature leading to anything good, and I will not be seen to tolerate it. I shall deliver my formal letter of resignation in the course of the afternoon.”

And that was that.




The carriage clock was packed last, nestled lovingly into straw. Up until that moment, Maisie had thought for sure there would be one more reprieve.

“Cheerio, all. Onwards and upwards!” Hilda cried, sauntering out of the office.

As soon as she was gone, Siepmann turned to Maisie.

“I’ll have you know I expect total loyalty. This department is due for a shaking up, and I don’t know that we need quite so many girls running around.”

“I do understand.” Maisie nodded gravely. “I might be better off writing a massive exposé on the inner workings of the BBC and how staff is reorganized.”

Siepmann fixed her in a hot glare, and she smiled back, placid and almost bored.

“You’re not only angling to stay, but you want to be a producer, don’t you? Do you think I’d let you on anything other than The Week in Westminster?”

“‘Let’? No, but I think I’ll earn my way onto more shows.”

“And I suppose you want that Yorkie girl as your Talks assistant.”

“Miss Fenwick? I would, but Lady Astor has just engaged her as her new political secretary and protégée, despite their being of wildly different parties. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she sees that Lady Astor still has plenty of time to come and broadcast for us. You know how popular she is. The Talks Department will start getting good press again, I’m sure.”