Radio Girls(39)

She took the mimeographs and headed back to the department, leaving Maisie to think dark thoughts about enigmatic statements.

And wish she were the clever reporter she needed to find.

How would they start, anyway? The library, I guess. And then a banker, maybe, or someone in finance? Someone like that Mr. Emmet we had in. He’d be easy enough to get on the phone or meet with. And then maybe talking to someone in the Labour Party, asking about—

Oh.




One universal instruction Maisie had always been given was not to break rules. Her one great moment of disobedience was her lie—the false age that had brought her here, to her father’s homeland, far away from Georgina and to work that seemed worthwhile. Despite the success of the venture, Maisie, unwilling to tempt fate, remained reluctant to try rule-breaking again. Certainly, no one else ever encouraged her to do so.

Neither had Hilda, or not openly. But the unanswered question pushed her past all the mountains of work she was meant to do and reaching into the wastebasket for discarded paper, which she sneaked into the lavatory with her to make a few notes in privacy.

Siemens. What was Hilda wondering about Siemens? They’re German, they’re big, and they’ve got a huge operation here. All perfectly right as rain. Maisie chewed on her pencil. That man Hoppel had said something to Reith, something Maisie wanted to hear, because she liked when people thought highly of Reith. Something about being right-thinking. An alliance, with the BBC. And some sort of meeting.

Two secretaries came in, chatting. The pencil fell out of Maisie’s mouth. How long had she been in there? She flushed the toilet and ran back to the office, shoving the papers into her sleeve. Please let Miss Shields be away from her desk. Please let Miss Shields be away from her desk.

Miss Shields was at her desk. She looked up as Maisie entered, glanced at the clock, and made a notation in her pad.

Maisie rolled paper and carbons into the typewriter. She typed, she filed, she took dictation, she typed some more. But her mind wanted to think, to ask and answer questions. That fist in her chest swelled through her skin, pushing a grin onto her face.

She was typing: “I do not think Schools is managing to achieve its full potential as of yet. There is far more we can do to inform the youth of Britain,” when something Hoppel had said sprang into her head. She yanked the papers from her sleeve and scribbled: “Right-minded man, making sure the country runs as it ought.” Funny thing for a businessman. Or is it? I suppose the right-minded should manage things, anyway. But who says what’s right-minded? I suppose someone thought Nero . . .

“What exactly are you doing?” Miss Shields asked. She stood over Maisie, arms folded, nose in full declension.

Maisie yelped, and the pencil cartwheeled out of her hand.

“Nothing. I—”

“Yes, I can see that. You certainly aren’t finishing that memo. What is this you’re writing?”

One arm unfurled and extended to its full length, palm full of expectation.

“It’s just personal—” Maisie began in a squeak.

“Personal?” Miss Shields repeated, making the word seven syllables long.

“No! Not . . . That is, I mean, it’s for Miss Matheson, but . . .” She trailed off, remembering too late that “being for Miss Matheson” was a graver offense.

“I see. Something for Miss Matheson. Even though you are on executive duty at this time. To which you have been late returning from Talks eight times this month. I have kept track.” The arm was still extended. The fingers gave one insistent twitch and Maisie, defeated, surrendered the paper. Miss Shields glanced at the shorthand notes and sucked in her breath. “Who are you to be giving opinions about Mr. Hoppel?”

“I wasn’t. It’s not—”

Miss Shields raised an eyebrow, then turned and marched into Reith’s office.

That fist inside punched all the way up Maisie’s throat and nearly leaped out of her mouth. Damn her, damn her, damn her. A curse that worked for both Miss Shields and Hilda, with whom Maisie was equally furious. How dared she get Maisie interested in anything beyond the strict parameters of her work? How dared she . . . ?

“Miss Musgrave? Come!” Miss Shields barked.

Maisie walked slowly, feeling like Anne Boleyn on the way to her execution. She finally stepped inside Reith’s office, and he nodded to Miss Shields.

“Thank you, Miss Shields. If you would close the door, please? Leaving Miss Musgrave and myself alone, I meant,” he clarified, when Miss Shields tried to stay inside. Maisie refused to turn and see her expression, merely waited for the footsteps to fade and the door to click shut.

Her first instinct was to plunge to her knees—Anne Boleyn’s last pose—and beg for clemency. But she stayed upright. “Sir, I can explain—”

“Sit down, Miss Musgrave.” Reith waved her to the club chair with a flourish of his cigarette. “Miss Shields informs me you have committed a series of minor infractions, and all against your duties to this office, which is to say, to Miss Shields and myself. Infractions are not acceptable for someone so low on the ladder as yourself. I am most strict about duty and tasks, as you know, and I am quick to remove anyone unable to conform to these standards.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. I really am. But they said, in one of the Talks meetings, it might be interesting to have someone who manufactures radios give a Talk. And I remembered Mr. Hoppel. It just came to me so suddenly. I had to make the note. I couldn’t wait. I knew Talks wanted a right-thinking, right-minded sort of person to speak, someone who understands about managing things, and who would be better than someone intimate with yourself?”