Radio Girls(31)

“Ah, Miss Matheson,” Reith greeted them, scowling warmly. “Mrs. Reith wanted to pass on her congratulations about . . . well, some ladies’ program. I can’t recall which. Last week, I believe.”

Maisie wondered if it was on home renovation or dressmaking or keeping fit. Possibly Mrs. Reith never listened to any of the broadcasts at all.

“That’s very kind of her. Please thank her for me,” Hilda said.

“Yes, yes. Now, I’m afraid there is a bit of unpleasant business.”

“Oh dear.”

“It seems you have a woman presenting Odd Jobs Around the House? Didn’t you say that referred to mending small electrics and other such tasks?”

“Absolutely. It’s very—”

“Isn’t it awfully dangerous to suggest women take up tools? If they were to injure themselves, they could register a very strong complaint against us.”

“Mrs. Fisher is making it clear that these tasks are quite simple. Anyone with a bit of common sense can do them. After all, sir, many women do live alone—”

“Poor creatures,” he grumbled, shaking his head. He looked miserable, and Maisie wished she could get him a cup of tea. “It’s a bad pass we’ve come to, Miss Matheson, very bad.”

“Of course, it’s very hard on those who wish to marry but can’t,” Hilda agreed, “but it’s also rather exciting for women to have the chance at some independence.”

“Too much independence is not healthy,” he boomed. Maisie tapped her pencil in quiet agreement. She was convinced she’d be healthier in a state of warm dependence.

“I suppose it’s different for everyone,” Hilda said. “But what do you say I bring Mrs. Fisher to come and meet you before her rehearsal? I think you’ll find her a very respectable, decent woman simply trying to help save women a little money by doing these things themselves.”

“Taking work from handymen, too,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Well, all right. I’m sure she is a very fine speaker. You’ve done well with them. We just do need to be mindful, is all I meant. Tread with care. You understand me.”

“Perfectly so, Mr. Reith.”

“Marvelous.” He looked relieved, or as much as Maisie could tell, but she was learning to read his scowls. “Now, looking towards autumn, I very much like—”

The phone rang, and they all glared at its presumption. Maisie wished Miss Shields wouldn’t answer so they could instead hear what Reith liked.

Miss Shields looked as though she wished she hadn’t answered either.

“The Selfridges transmitter is having trouble again. We’re switching to 2LO for the rest of the day,” she reported in the tone of a nurse telling a man his leg would have to be amputated.

“Well, that’s a rum bit of business!” Reith exploded, seizing a cigarette. Hilda edged away from the flame. “Where the devil’s Eckersley?”

Miss Shields was already ringing the Engineering Department—people rang the fire brigade with less urgency. Hilda nodded to Maisie, and they sidled out of the room.

As soon as they were out of earshot of Reith’s bellowing, Hilda sped up.

“Look sharp, Miss Musgrave. This is a great chance!”

“Pardon?”

“The 2LO, it’s just up the Strand, at Marconi House. Will take us four minutes at a good clip. Don’t you want to see our transmissions in action?”

“I . . .” Maisie had never really thought about the connection between the microphone and the machine that sent broadcasts into wirelesses around the nation.

“Everyone who works here ought to see a transmitter at least once,” Hilda said, in that way she had that made you feel stupid for arguing.

So they hurried up the road to the Marconi House. Everyone there recognized Hilda—Maisie was pretty sure Hilda would be recognized if she walked into a meeting of the Ancient Order of Hibernians—and they were promptly ushered into an airy room where the 2LO transmitter was still housed.

Despite having made possible the first-ever words broadcast in Britain: “This is 2LO calling,” the 2LO transmitter was an unholy relic, kept only for these occasional days when the newer, smaller, more powerful transmitter in Selfridges went down.

“Always good to have a contingency plan,” Hilda murmured.

“Oh, hullo.” Eckersley greeted them with a hunted expression. He was circling the transmitter, making minor adjustments, readying it to spring to life again. “I suppose the DG is baying for blood? It’s nothing to do with us engineers, I’ve told him, but he can’t seem to understand that.”

“Of course it’s not your fault,” Hilda agreed soothingly. “Never mind, Mr. Eckersley. Have you met my secretary, Miss Musgrave? I thought she’d like to see a transmitter at work, and I’m afraid your misfortune is her great gain.”

“I’ll say one thing for the dear old dinosaur, Miss Musgrave. You can see the workings far more clearly than on the new beast,” Eckersley told her, giving the transmitter a fond pat. “Come on, then, and touch the heart of the matter. But don’t you dare actually touch it,” he warned.

The heart of the matter. A battered anatomy book once taught Maisie that a human heart was the size of a fist. She liked that. Her own heart, always fragile, was bruised and shrunken after Cyril—a dandelion gone to seed; another blow and it would simply scatter. A fist, though, pounding away inside her chest, was much less likely to be crushed. It meant that somewhere inside her she was strong.