Radio Girls(20)

Maisie realized she hadn’t registered anything he’d said during his first reading. Now that he was talking to her, she was fascinated and full of questions, many of which he answered as he went along. But more kept cropping up, questions that had nothing to do with his script. You couldn’t have something like the League before, could you? Gather people from around the world in one place and talk about things? If we’d had it before, would it have prevented the war? What . . . ?

“Very well-done, Bartlett,” Hilda crowed, treating him to a small applause. Even Billy nodded in approval. “Do you want to try once more for luck?”

He did, and was so engaging this time, Maisie had to bite her tongue to stop herself from entering into dialogue. I’d look an imbecile besides getting sacked. What’s wrong with me?

After Bartlett left, Hilda commanded Maisie’s attention.

“I think that went rather decently. Didn’t have to bully old Bartlett too badly, did I?”

“Er, I don’t think so?”

“You should have seen his original script, dear, oh dear.” Hilda shook her head. “As if some people couldn’t happily ignore the League enough. Very sporting of you to act as audience. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, certainly,” Maisie said.

“Some of them will insist on declaiming. You’d think they were doing Euripides in the Parthenon,” Hilda mused. “Mind you, the worst ones are usually the actors.” She drew several neat lines down interoffice memos to indicate they were read and handed them to Maisie. “DG-bound, these. What say we go through some fresh scripts this afternoon, shall we? You can get your first glimpse of the sausage ingredients at their most raw!”

“Er, well, I don’t think I’m really, that is—”

“Not so much fun typing up revisions if you don’t see from whence they began. And that’s the best way to learn how to help make them better. Oh I know, that’s not in your job manifest, but I like all my staff to have opinions and feel free to air them.”

“But I don’t know how—”

“Not yet, certainly, but you’ll learn. Onwards and upwards! And on up to the DG for now.”

“At one of those rehearsals, were you?” Miss Shields sniffed when Maisie entered the office a few minutes later. More points for the Savoy Hill buzz. “Rehearsals!” Miss Shields went on. “Give that woman an inch and she takes the entire British Isles. Honestly, just because reviews of Talks have been so good, she thinks she can dictate terms. What, pray tell, was the subject?”

“Mr. Bartlett was talking about the work of the League of Nations.”

“I see. Well, I suppose someone must like that sort of thing.”

Maisie was hard-pressed to imagine what sort of thing Miss Shields would like.

“Dull, was it?” Miss Shields asked hopefully.

“Well, I, er, I don’t think so, actually. I mean, I sort of thought—”

Miss Shields sniffed again and pointedly turned back to her desk. Maisie scuttled to her own little table. She rolled fresh paper and a carbon sheet into the typewriter and got to work. She didn’t miss a key, even as her mind was roving through other Talks scripts, wondering what was in them. It seemed so odd, Hilda suggesting she should do anything more than type and file and take dictation.

Maybe I really did look interested? Good grief. I think I am.




Saturday morning. A half day. The end of her first week.

Maisie stirred sugar into the cup of tea she was clutching tightly enough to absorb via osmosis. Sometime today, she was going to be paid. The bottom was not going to be hit. The floor would not be fallen through. The abyss was not going to have her to swallow. Not today.

Three pounds. Five shillings. These would be counted among her possessions this evening. Her room, her board, her lunches, pennies toward shoes, some small savings. All hers.

Lola swanned into the kitchen, carrying two dresses.

“Another audition today! I can’t decide between the green and the yellow. I don’t know if I should look refined or sultry, you see.”

“The green,” Maisie advised, not sure which category it fell into.

Lola gave the green an approving pat and helped herself to tea.

“Ooh, end of your first week. You’re getting paid today!”

“I suppose I am,” Maisie acknowledged. “I’ve been too busy to think of it.”

“We’ll get a celebratory drink if the audition doesn’t run too late,” Lola promised.

“That sounds super,” Maisie agreed, cringing at the thought of what sort of Armageddon must be befalling them if an audition of Lola’s didn’t run late.




An hour later, as she was hanging her hat on the rack, she realized she had no idea when, or where, she was to collect her pay. Rusty must have told her on their breakneck tour, but no friendly syllable of “salary” came to mind.

“Miss Musgrave, I do hope you’re planning to start soon. I know that many Americans don’t work on a Saturday, but here we are keen on being industrious.”

She hadn’t planned on asking Miss Shields anyway.

It will be in the buzz. It must be.

Saturdays had a lighter broadcasting schedule. Apparently, it was bad form to think that people might use their increased leisure time to listen to the wireless. Or maybe the idea was not to encourage them. Maisie wasn’t sure.