Radio Girls(43)

“No, Miss Shields,” Maisie murmured.

“Mr. Reith isn’t here yet, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” She knew his schedule better than he did.

Later that morning, he was interviewing a candidate for a Schools producer. Charles Siepmann was not exactly handsome, but he had a dashing quality that drew both Maisie’s and Miss Shields’s eyes. He had a slight acquaintance with Reith already and could afford a measure of familiarity.

“Nice to be waited on by two girls, I should say,” he said when he arrived, laughing as he and Reith shook hands.

“I did warn you, we’re very modern here.” Reith laughed, too. “You’ll find a girl producer in Schools, Miss Somerville. Capable little thing, quite clever.”

“And of course that girl you have running Talks. Most bold of you indeed, sir.”

“Very modern girl, Miss Matheson. Clever, certainly, though does tend to be a bit radical. Some of that poetry—if one can even use the word—she selects for broadcast is frankly shocking, but we try to understand current tastes.”

“I deeply admire your broad-mindedness.”

Reith gave his impression of self-deprecation and indicated for Maisie to take the minutes of the interview. Whether Miss Shields was aggravated or relieved, Maisie couldn’t tell. Probably both.

Siepmann rabbited on about his education (Oxford, after having served in the army), which Reith already knew, his facility for the Schools broadcasts, and his general interests. He took out a cigarette case.

“The girl doesn’t mind?” He jerked a thumb in the vague direction of Maisie.

“Hm? Oh, please go ahead.” Reith gave a magnanimous wave of his hand.

“Ah, yes, modern girls.” Siepmann chuckled, pleased with his own urbanity.

Maisie was surprised he remembered she was in the room.

“There are two questions I always ask of potential senior men,” Reith said. “Are you a Christian, and do you have any character defects?”

Maisie expected Siepmann to laugh, but he didn’t. He leaned forward, his look so serious that even his hair seemed less wavy.

“I am a proud member of the Church of England. And my greatest character defect is no doubt ambition, though perfectionism might also be rated a deficiency, as it can give me a warm temper, especially when others don’t share the quality to at least some extent.”

“Well?” Miss Shields asked Maisie, after the men left the office. “Will he get the position?”

“Most certainly,” Maisie answered.

Ambition and perfectionism, my eye. As though half the BBC doesn’t have one or the other. One person did possess both, though the ambition wasn’t personal, and she’d never be so gauche as to parade either of them to score points.

I wonder if this Siepmann fellow even knows what perfectionism is?

She’d already made up her mind what she wanted to do in her own journey onwards and upwards. Now she just needed to go through with it.

“Ah, Miss Musgrave, wonderful,” Hilda greeted her. “Five new scripts and we’re rehearsing those fascinating people from the Chinese dance society—I don’t know what I was thinking, but in for a penny now. People should adore the music, anyway, and the one fellow describes the dances awfully well. Incredible-sounding place, China. Wouldn’t you just love to travel there?”

She wouldn’t know the language, food, customs, clothes, or climate.

“I might, I think.”

Though maybe not. Did they really bind women’s feet there?

“I wrote up the notes on a Talk by Miss Mitterand,” Maisie said. Her mind was still on Chinese women’s feet. How did they walk? Or maybe that was the point. That they couldn’t.

“Excellent!” Hilda said, skimming Maisie’s notes. “Possibly too controversial, and of course we’d have to gauge Miss Mitterand’s interest in sharing any of her biography. I propose we ask Drama to bring her in to perform, and if she does nicely, we’ll be well positioned to invite her to give a Talk.”

Maisie nodded, steeling herself, though she didn’t know why.

“Miss Matheson?”

“Yes?”

“I, er . . .” Her eyes slithered to the carriage clock, ticking over a new minute.

“You know, Miss Musgrave, dead silence kills us.”

“I . . . wanted to ask . . .”

Hilda set down her pencil to give Maisie her full attention. Which managed to be more disconcerting.

“One straight thrust, Miss Musgrave, a killing stroke,” Hilda advised.

“I want more responsibility here. In the Talks Department. Please.”

Looking at Hilda’s face, Maisie realized she had never given anyone so much cause for pleasure. Georgina had been pleased to wave her off at the dock, but that hardly compared.

“Well killed,” Hilda congratulated her. “Now we’ll just have to see about arranging it.”




Maisie, not being privy to the machinations involved in such arrangements, spent the next few days as jumpy as the typewriter keys she was currently abusing.

“He wants to see you at once, and he’s very cross,” Miss Shields said, eyes bright with triumph. Maisie leaped up, leaving “pursuant” only a mere “pursu.” She paced her steps to be firm but obeisant as she entered Reith’s office and sat down.