Radio Girls(25)

“And warn everyone that if I hear the phrase ‘Turkish Delight’ they’ll get a hose turned on them.”

Maisie picked up the phone, though she could barely keep it steady, and asked the operator to connect her.

Maybe no one will answer anywhere.

But someone did, and she had to speak.

“Er, hullo. Um, this is Miss Musgrave calling from the BBC Talks Department, and, er . . . I . . . That is, we were hoping you might be able to assist . . .”

The voice squeaked and crackled—it would have rained fuzz through the airwaves. But the words got out. And Maisie hadn’t reckoned the effect of “BBC.” The man on the other end didn’t know she was Mousy Maisie, Invisible Girl, dogsbody extraordinaire.

“Yes, Miss Musgrave, what can I do for you?”

She’d never heard anyone address her so deferentially.

“We’re preparing a Talk on Turkey, and we’re a bit pressed for time—” Was that really her voice, gaining confidence and competence by the syllable? This man deeply regretted not being able to help, and meant it. Maisie thanked him politely and soldiered on.

“This is Miss Musgrave of the BBC Talks Department.” The voice was getting crisper and more commanding, with a mixture of warmth and politeness. “We are looking for a knowledgeable person to speak about Turkey for a program that’s come up rather suddenly and were hoping you might be able to assist us.”

Maisie reported it all: the restaurant managers who thought maybe, perhaps, could they ring back? The expert in Byzantine history who insisted the capital be referred to as Constantinople, even though it had been renamed Istanbul in 1923. (“I’m all for adding controversy,” Hilda said, “but he doesn’t sound like someone who can be bullied into decorum in a timely fashion.”) The diplomat who wanted to pontificate on the successful eradication of the Ottoman Empire and the proven brilliance of the Sykes-Picot Agreement. (“Practically begs the imperialists in the Turkish embassy to march on the BBC with torches and pitchforks. Certainly good for publicity, but a nuisance for the fire brigade and awkward if we want lunch.”)

The phones rang in—Hilda had sent telegrams to “a few Foreign Office chaps I know.” The representative of the Turkish consulate was glad to speak to Miss Matheson if she was a friend of Mr. Winters, but was concerned the BBC was making light of his nation.

“Nothing of the sort,” Hilda insisted. “We want listeners to gain a real understanding of the Turkish nation, not just its history, but what its people are really like. If you can send over a few notes this afternoon, we can turn it into a script and send it back for your approval.”

“That seems satisfactory,” came the grudging, but also eager, response.

“Thank you so much!”

“I’ll get on looking for musicians,” Maisie offered.

“No need,” Fielden announced with grim smugness. “I’ve found us a trio, Miss Matheson, who play instruments called a ‘saz,’ a ‘sipsi,’ and a ‘darbuka.’ I suppose we can’t expect Bach.”

“I should jolly well hope not!” Hilda crowed gleefully.

“They probably won’t fit in the lift.” Fielden sighed, stumping out of the room.

“I expect they’ll have a remarkable sound,” Hilda told Maisie. “The engineers will be run to exhaustion, which should render them ecstatic. You did very well, Miss Musgrave. Thank you. I’ll give you a note for Miss Shields to explain why you’re a bit late getting back there.”

Cripes, I forgot all about the executive offices. She came in expecting the worst, but Reith was locked in a meeting and Miss Shields only gave her a withering glance as she scurried to her typewriter. The in-tray was invisible under the weight of correspondence.

Maisie concentrated hard, fingers barnstorming over the keys, steadily reducing the mountain of replies requested, but couldn’t help looking up when Reith’s door opened. She got a little thrill on seeing him, breathing in the power he emanated. He walked out with yet another man in a black bowler hat saying that Reith must dine with him at his club the next week.

“I should be delighted. Miss Shields will be in contact with my free days. Cheerio, then!”

Clubs were where important men gathered to talk about important business. Maisie couldn’t imagine what it must entail, but she thought how wonderful it would be to find out, just once. To be part of the life of a man who lived this way.

She brought the correspondence to Miss Shields.

“You look a bit melancholy, Miss Musgrave,” Reith observed, sending her spirits soaring. She loved when he singled her out. “I hope there isn’t anything troubling in that.” He indicated the letters.

“Oh, no. Not at all, sir. I think we get busier every week.”

“That is the idea,” he answered, pleased. “Bringing culture and education to all Britain, isn’t that right?”

“I should think so, sir,” she answered reverently.

Miss Shields handed him a report. He glanced at it, lit a cigarette, and scowled back at Maisie.

“I do worry about you young girls, left all on your own after that nasty war. Rum business, having to work during prime marriage years.”

Maisie didn’t dare look at the ageless, but perhaps not prime, Miss Shields.