Radio Girls(120)

“Your first failure, little lady, and you’re out,” Siepmann hissed.

“Good job I’ve got no intention of failing,” she assured him.

In fact, she’d just scored a success. He called me a lady, not a girl. Before he knows it, he’s going to stop calling me “little.”




Lady Astor fought hard to have Hilda appointed to the BBC board of governors, but Hilda declared herself sick of broadcasting. At least for a while.

“You know, Lady Astor’s coaching me to stand for office,” Phyllida confided as Lady Astor was giving her broadcast. Her new role as Lady Astor’s political secretary had bought her a tweed suit and attaché case, but she was still her pretty and pugnacious self. “Bit tricky, as I’ve been living down here, I want to represent the North properly, you see.”

“You always have,” Maisie said, but her voice was shaking. She would have rather Phyllida had stayed at the BBC a little longer.

“None of that now, you dozy cow,” Phyllida warned, though her voice wasn’t as steady as it could be. “We’ll still have lunch three times a week at least, and larks at the weekend. Onwards and upwards, remember?”

“Onwards and upwards.”

“And anyway, not all change is bad, is it?”

“No. No, it’s not.”





EPILOGUE




1932

Hilda leaned back in the chair and smiled around the pretty pub back garden.

“I can’t believe I thought life would be more restful after the BBC, but here I am, traveling all over Africa with Lord Hailey, and oh, did I mention? A publisher is interested in the little book on broadcasting, so it’s back to that as well. I’m doing revisions now.”

“I suppose you don’t need a typist?” Maisie asked. Hilda laughed, shaking her head.

“A producer at the BBC, a columnist for the Listener, and how many magazines have you written for now?”

“Five.”

“Yes, I can just see you making time to type my notes for me.”

“Also I’ve probably forgotten how to read your handwriting.”

Hilda laughed again.

It was really too early in the year to be sitting outside, but it was a bright day and the pub garden was very pleasant and they had it all to themselves. It had been several months since she’d met with Hilda, and Maisie was pleased to see her looking so happy. Besides doing work on the African Survey with Lord Hailey, and some work in independent radio—so much for being sick of broadcasting—and the book, she was also involved with Dorothy Wellesley, the Duchess of Wellington.

“Seems it’s you who has the taste for the aristocracy more than I ever did,” Maisie teased her.

“Yes, I’m quite the social climber,” Hilda agreed, raising her eyebrow.

She asked, so Maisie told her about Broadcasting House, where they were about to move, and how Siepmann was still upset because the Talks director’s office had been designed to Hilda’s specifications, down to the furniture, and no one would give him the money to change it.

They were still laughing when a distant church bell rang.

“Goodness, I’m afraid I have to get on,” Hilda said. They each looked at their watches—Hilda smiled to see Maisie still had the lilac one she’d given her.

“I have almost an hour before I’m meeting Cyril,” Maisie said.

“Ah. He grew up nicely, didn’t he?”

“Well, we’ll see,” Maisie said, but she was smiling. This was only their third proper date. She didn’t count the one from 1927. She had told him not to get any ideas about her, and she had come a long way from being the marrying kind. He said he’d take her company however he could get it.

Hilda paid the bill, waving away Maisie’s money.

“Stay and have another drink. I know you. I know you don’t relax enough.” She squeezed Maisie’s shoulder, dropped a green folder on the table, and was gone.

Maisie stared at the folder. She knew Hilda was still involved with MI5. Was it a lead, maybe? Maisie was constantly chasing stories these days. It was always nice to have one handed to her.

She opened the folder and read.

“Musgrave, Edwin. Born 1881, Selby, Yorkshire. Died 1915, Belgium.”

He had immigrated to Canada in 1900, worked as a painter in the theater. Which must have been how they met. “Married Georgina Allen, 1902. Issue: Maisie Edwina, born 1903.”

Edwina? Georgina had always told Maisie to be grateful enough just to have one name. Edwina. For her father.

“Divorced: 1904. Returned to England: 1904.”

A year. Or less. He had been there that long. Known her. But maybe not. It only opened up more questions.

Worked as a joiner. And joined the army, even though he was thirty-three and could have done his bit from a safer locale. And died before she’d joined the VAD and was stationed to the hospital in Brighton. Died in Belgium, so she wouldn’t have seen him anyway.

There was a photo. Rare, in those days, for a man to have his photo made. Had it been for Georgina?

He was young, with stick-straight hair and Maisie’s prominent nose. His eyes were solemn, chin pointy. His expression was appropriately placid, but there might be something behind his eyes that suggested he was interested in hurrying off to do something else.