Radio Girls(40)

Reith took a long drag of his cigarette, and as he exhaled, she was overjoyed to see his warmer scowl behind the smoke.

“I had a feeling it was something like that,” he assured her. “And I daresay Hoppel will be glad to broadcast should his schedule allow. You may tell Miss Matheson so. But remember, each of your duties belongs in its own place. And . . .” He paused, pondering his cigarette before looking deep into Maisie’s eyes. “I might warn you—not that you need it, I should think—but working for a girl like Miss Matheson, Bloomsbury type and all that, you might start thinking you’d like to do something more than just secretarial work.”

Maisie hoped he didn’t see her gulp.

“I don’t object to girls writing nice little stories, of course, although you’re hardly . . . Well, you will always remember what your real duty is, yes?”

There was only one answer, and she gave it.

“Good!” He nodded. “Now, then, I think docking your pay this week will be sufficient punishment. Don’t you, my dear?”

“What?” she shrieked. Too late, she clamped her hand over her mouth. Miss Shields had gotten her reward.

“Just a shilling,” Reith clarified. “That compensates for your lateness. Even minor infractions cannot be allowed to go without punishment, or where would we be? Besides, you’re a young girl, and unprotected. You need to be guarded against your weaknesses. Ambition is a dangerous thing in a girl like yourself. And it has a dreadful tendency to lead to rule-breaking. I should be very sorry to see that.”

The words “just a shilling” zinged through Maisie’s head. A shilling was nothing to Reith, casually lost in his trouser pocket. To Maisie, it was twelve pennies, precious armaments toward the new dress that would demonstrate her heightened respectability. She looked down at her knees, the overly mended stockings covered by the blue serge dress that bore a patch under the arm and was growing shiny in the elbows. Just a shilling. And she was lucky. There were families in her road for whom the loss of a shilling would mean the choice between having supper that week or losing their home.

“I’m only looking after your interests,” Reith said. “Now, off you go, then, back to work.”

Maisie nodded. She knew she should thank him for his benevolence, but couldn’t get the words out. She breathed carefully as she measured the steps to the door. By the time it opened, her face must be neutral.

Miss Shields was at her desk, upright and efficient as ever, but her eyes sparkled with cold triumph. Maisie stood before her, ramrod straight and yet apologetic.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in any way, Miss Shields.”

The secretary simply looked at her, an unhurried, untroubled stare mindfully designed to make Maisie feel more uncomfortable.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Musgrave. Mr. Reith sees you as a pet, which is lucky for you. You should maintain that so long as you can. He has nothing to do with the hiring of the girls, and so he can’t see that you don’t belong here. You’re a good enough worker and sharper than you look, but you lack—”

“Brio?”

“The right sort of manner,” Miss Shields countered.

“I’m sorry. I do try, you know.”

“Yes. But the BBC requires someone who doesn’t need to try.”

“I understand you,” Maisie said, meaning it. “And I am sorry. But I’m not sorry I’m here. I know I’m not the sort of girl you want as your deputy, but I’m working on being the best sort for the BBC I can be.”

“Much luck to you,” Miss Shields said, with more amusement than acidity. “If I were you, I’d start with catching up on your typing.”

Maisie returned to her typewriter. She hadn’t needed this incident to tell her Miss Shields didn’t want her here. But there were any number of people in Savoy Hill whom she wanted to see the back of, and when Maisie considered who was first on that list, she decided it wasn’t a bad list to be on at all.




Despite the honor of the list, Maisie resolved to put aside equity drops, German propaganda, and anything else that wasn’t strictly within her job parameters.

At the next meeting between Hilda and Reith, there was no mention of wireless sets or Hoppel. Reith didn’t seem to notice, being too overwhelmed by Hilda’s laundry list of plans and thoughts, several of which required vast technical improvements, until he interrupted her with a dry chuckle and said, “Miss Matheson, do try to restrain some of this unbridled ambition. It’s not an attractive thing in a girl, you know, even at your age. You have to be patient, my dear.”

“Certainly, Mr. Reith,” Hilda conceded, a flap of her hand smacking patience aside. “But at least in so far as our content and its nature, there’s a great deal we can—”

“Our content’s exactly what it should be. You see how the papers compliment us. It’s edifying and entertaining. What more could we possibly achieve?”

“We’re doing well, certainly, but think of the opportunity for deep connection—”

“For what?” He turned pink around the edges, and Maisie thought he must have misheard something very rude.

“Connection,” Hilda repeated, with a transcendent smile. “That’s what people really want, you know. They want the feeling of immediacy, someone actually there and sharing an experience. A voice in the wilderness of the mind.”