Radio Girls(18)

Maisie was the one left breathless after this one-sided exchange.

She was quick to drop Invisible Girl whenever she saw Cyril, and was pleased to be rewarded by his grin.

“Well, New York! I’d heard you were a Talks fixture now, and here it is true.”

“Oh, no, the Talks only have me part-time,” she corrected him.

“Until Matheson comes to like you, I’ll warrant. Massive apologies for not setting you straight on her your first day. Rotten of me. What say I apologize properly someday and you tell me all about speakeasies, hm?” He seemed to take her blush as agreement. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, and loped away, which spared Maisie’s having to either admit ignorance of speakeasies or ask how particular he was about the truth.

Phyllida and a minor contingent of the typists chose that moment to walk by, smoking and chatting. They went silent on seeing Maisie, glanced at her sideways, then dissolved into whispers and giggles once she was behind them. Maisie was suddenly contemptuous. Had any of them lied about their age to join the war effort? They had probably grown up in loving families, who didn’t begrudge them food or education or upkeep. Or existence.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve spent my whole life not having friends. I’ve gotten good at it. And that’s not why I’m here.

She was still uneasy around Hilda. It was one thing to have had Sister Bennister as a superior. That was comprehensible. The world of nursing was emphatically female. This world wasn’t, and Hilda’s comfort with it unnerved Maisie that much more. Hilda was friendly to her, but she was friendly to everybody. Georgina always said, never trust a friendly woman. She herself was always friendly, to anyone who wasn’t Maisie, and Maisie certainly never trusted her.

According to the Savoy Hill buzz, Hilda had not exaggerated—Reith had indeed begged her to leave her post as Lady Astor’s political secretary (how did she get these jobs?) and come to the BBC to head this, the most important department in the company, and it was Lady Astor, not Reith, who had convinced Hilda.

“That Matheson knows everyone,” Billy, one of the engineers, pronounced to a shiny new boy as they wheeled equipment along the third floor. “Brings loads of ladies in to broadcast. Between her and that Miss Warwick in Drama bringing in the actresses, you get to see some of the finest in the land. And if you need to adjust the sub-mixer during broadcast, you can get an up-close of their legs.”

So much for the glory of the new technology.

“Managing all right?” Hilda asked, seeing Maisie waver over some filing.

“Oh, I, yes, thank you,” Maisie muttered.

“Excellent. I hope you’re feeling robust. I’ve got a few revisions for you to type.” She handed Maisie another script sagging under the weight of red writing. “Tell me, Miss Musgrave. I’m bursting to know. What sort of Talks do you like best?”

Maisie tried to remember the last time anyone had asked her personal opinion. Hilda liked answers, so Maisie pondered. She felt the most affinity for the morning Talks, considered the purview of women and primarily focused on household issues. The afternoon and evening Talks were more taxing in comparison, though she liked the book reviews and discussions. But a bluestocking expected a more intellectual response.

“Er, well, I . . . They’re all different, aren’t they?” she asked, opting instead for diplomacy.

“I certainly hope so. But you needn’t fear being marked up or down. I’m merely interested in your opinion.”

Maisie also liked Talks where great men spoke of great things in a great way. And you really can’t say that to a bluestocking.

“I really can’t say.”

Disappointment tinged the edge of Hilda’s eyes. “I hope you’ve seen that I encourage free speaking around here, Miss Musgrave. It would hardly be the Talks Department otherwise.”

“I don’t understand,” Maisie said, although she had a feeling she did.

“I prefer when everyone is open and honest. Makes for far pleasanter conversation, and more efficient, too,” Hilda explained. “Mind you”—a grin teased around her lips—“an enigmatic conversation is not without its enchantments. One does enjoy a challenge.”

There was a ream of things Maisie hated. Umbrellas that turned inside out. Newspaper ink on her fingers. Plays featuring Georgina. Hunger. And being made the subject of a joke. That was Georgina’s favorite trick. The nurses had picked it up as surely as if they had been sent instructions. And now Hilda was teasing her.

“Speaking of challenges,” Hilda went on, as though Maisie wasn’t inching toward the door, longing to escape to the typewriter, “we must arrange for you to be here more frequently. You’ll be worn to ribbons in a month, otherwise.”

“Please don’t rush on my account,” Maisie said, horrified at the thought of spending more time in this quarter of the BBC. “I can manage just fine.”

The grim head of Lionel Fielden swooped around the door.

“Mr. Bartlett for his rehearsal, Miss Matheson.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” She turned to Maisie. “I assume you can take notes whilst being discreet?” She didn’t wait for Maisie’s answer. “Of course you can. Come along! It’s high time you saw our studios properly.”

“I hope your shoes and hands are clean,” Fielden muttered into Maisie’s ear.