Radio Girls(14)

A sharp intake of breath from Miss Shields, even as she dutifully continued to take the minutes.

“Hm,” Reith said again, passing the square back. “Bit of rum nonsense. I’ll phone him; due for a coffee anyway. Miss Shields, you’ll make the arrangements?”

“Of course, Mr. Reith,” she replied, her voice so warm and deferential, Maisie looked up to be sure it was the same woman.

“That’s very good of you, Mr. Reith,” Hilda said.

“All in it together, eh, Miss Matheson? And if the Talks keep going as they’ve been just in the last few weeks, or so I gather from these correspondence reports, you should have less and less trouble beating down dragons.”

“Onwards and upwards, yes, indeed! But in the meantime, I shall continue to be my best St. George,” she assured him.

“Good, good.” He nodded seriously. “Now, about Christmas. You’ve put in far too many suggestions—it’s not as though we broadcast twenty-four hours a day, and even then we wouldn’t have time.”

Hilda’s laugh bounced off the leather folios.

“I suppose I got a bit carried away, though you did ask that I give you a lot to choose from, this being my first time arranging our holiday broadcasts.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Reith agreed, tapping his pen along the typed list. “Important we do well, nothing inappropriate. Though Miss Warwick tells me it was your suggestion the Drama Department do a specially designed performance of A Christmas Carol. A jolly good thought; should be most entertaining.”

“Ah, thank you. Yes, I am afire with anticipation,” Hilda said. “They’ve secured a marvelous cast. Mr. Hicks, you know.” Another minute sniff from Miss Shields, though whether for Dickens or actors, it was impossible to guess.

“Hicks, yes,” Reith murmured, eyes on Hilda’s list. “Rather hard to choose.”

“I ought to have tried to edit more,” Hilda said, cheerfully unapologetic, “but we can always make use of extraneous ideas for another time. And you know, the holidays might be a time to press for more broadcast hours, what with—”

Reith made a noise like a bull sneezing.

“More hours, indeed. You’ve never been to a meeting of the governors. What a rum lot.”

“I would be happy to join you at one, if you would like?”

His scowl crinkled upward.

“Perhaps one day, if it can be managed.” He sounded so fatherly. Maisie’s throat constricted.

“Well, if we’ve only got the hours we’ve got, let’s give this a bit of a thrashing, hm?” Hilda consulted her copy of the Christmas list. “So let’s see, something to accompany the Dickens broadcast, obviously, a Talk about the traditions, the tree. I’ll ask Peppard at Cambridge, and do let’s have a Talk about gift giving. Gilbert at the V&A should do, and Nellie will be game for a decorating Talk. She’s at Home magazine now—”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Mr. Reith broke in, nodding vigorously and marking the list. “And then this and this, yes, yes, and what do you reckon to the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“He does fine work, I hear.”

“Pardon?”

“Just a jest, hopeless habit. He should be grand for a reading if he isn’t fully booked. Would you like to send the letter, having met him, or shall I?”

Reith had met the Archbishop of Canterbury. And here was Maisie, serving him.

“I’m happy to make the request, yes.” Reith made a final tick on the list and slid it back to Hilda. “Very, very good, Miss Matheson. You’re doing splendidly. Exactly why I was pleased to hire you.”

“Begged me to come aboard, as I recall it.” Hilda pealed with laughter again. Miss Shields did not sniff, but the scratch of her pencil spoke volumes. “Lady Astor had quite a job convincing me. Still, she succeeded, as of course she always does, and I am very pleased indeed.”

“Yes, well.” Reith turned over another set of papers. “It was a good show of you, not to want to leave your employer.”

Maisie looked up from that shorthand mark. Even with her scant interest in British government, she knew the name “Lady Astor.” Everyone did. But to Maisie, she was an object of glorious inspiration that had nothing to do with being the first woman elected to Parliament. Nancy Astor had been born and raised in Virginia, and managed to marry a British nobleman. She was one of Maisie’s personal goddesses.

“I think the chaps at the Radio Times could be making a better show of writing up the Talks programs,” Reith went on. “Perhaps you can give them more specific notes?”

“Certainly,” Hilda said. “Though we are always very clear. The fellows seem to have this idea that they add pizzazz, I think.”

“But if you can write things up for them more exactly, that will be of use.”

“Having Miss Musgrave will be a great help in that regard,” Hilda told him.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He gave Maisie a pleasant nod, and she blushed.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Reith,” Miss Shields broke in, “but it is nearly half past two.”

“Is it?” He consulted his watch to confirm. “Ah. Well, we can discuss plans for next year later in the week. Thank you, Miss Matheson, and do keep on with the fine work.”