Radio Girls(49)

“Would Nestlé have anything to do with Germany, do you think?”

“I’m sure they sell their foods wherever anyone’s willing to pay for them,” he said in surprise, not expecting basic capitalism to be beyond her grasp.

“No, that’s not what I meant. You see, Miss Matheson had a pamphlet, from a German political party—”

“Oh, that. Yes, she wanted me to sound out the German League ambassador about those Nazi chaps ages ago. Mussolini-style Fascists, I told her, the usual lunatic fringe. We can’t get hetted up about every crank with access to a typewriter and a mimeograph machine. We’d never get anything done.”

“But some of those men, a lot of them, they were the ones who tried to commit that coup, in 1923,” Maisie persisted. Thank you, British Library.

“There are always going to be crackpot parties, even here,” Bartlett snorted. “Especially here, to be frank. But that’s what democracy’s all about, and rule of law sorts them out as well. The little Hitler fellow and his friends went to prison, and Germany’s in the League, so no need to start picking away at them.”

He absently reached for his cigarettes and Maisie snatched them from his hand, just saving him from Billy’s flying tackle. Smoking was death to a clean studio.

On the tram ride home, Maisie wrote Bartlett’s comments on one page of her notebook. Then she doodled a chocolate bar. On the facing page she wrote: “There’s no point in getting aerated over short hair anymore. Women love its style and practicality and the look is here to stay.” She stared at the words for several moments. Then she looked back at all the paragraphs that preceded them. Then she shrieked, “That’s it!” creating airspace between several passengers and their upholstered seats.

“So long as you’re sure, dear,” her solicitous neighbor murmured, patting her hand.

Now I just have to submit it.





NINE




Bert rolled his eyes up to her from the carefully typed pages.

“Bit of a screed, isn’t it?”

“I hope not,” Maisie demurred, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “It’s just a supplement for our Talk this week. I thought, perhaps, at least for the women’s stories, something written by a woman would be . . . useful.”

“No, we can’t have girls writing articles. That would be—”

“There aren’t any bylines!” Maisie burst out.

“What does that have to do with it?” Bert asked, blinking in surprise.

“Well, only that, if it’s good enough, no one should care who wrote it.”

Bert gaped at her, whether overcome by her logic or struck dumb by her ignorance, she didn’t dare guess.

“I only thought you might consider it,” she amended, softening her tone. “Of course I didn’t expect you’d necessarily take my first submission.”

“I am awash in relief,” Bert drawled. “Now, then, I suppose if you were capable of writing to our standards, a small interview, something nice and light, with one of the lady broadcasters, might be something I could consider. One of the prettier actresses, so we can do more photos. Oh, and mind the suffragette-y tone. Readers don’t like it.”

“But there are some women voting now. Why—”

“This is why I don’t allow girl writers. Never take direction, always these questions, awfully tiresome. Are these the listings?” he asked, pointing to the sheets in her hand, his finger under the heading “LISTINGS.”

“They are indeed, Bert,” she told him. “And thank you,” she added, because it was expected. In fact, she wanted to cry, but though they were tears of anger, not misery, he wouldn’t know the difference and he was another man who wasn’t getting her tears.

I’ll just have to try again.




Her words, that was what she wanted. An interview didn’t seem the same at all. But why should I get anything, even in the Radio Times? I’m not a writer. Except maybe . . .

She put aside the vacillations and took out her pencil for Hilda and Reith’s weekly meeting. Writing shorthand wasn’t what she meant at all, but at least she was stellar at it.

“I suppose you’ll be pleased to know the governors have reviewed your proposal and decided to lift the ban on controversial broadcasting,” Reith informed her, with a sigh sharp enough to peel paint from the ceiling.

“Glorious news!” Hilda bellowed, thumping Reith’s desk so hard, his decorative mallard swam the length of the ink blotter.

“Yes, well, let’s remember our decorum,” Reith advised, sliding the duck back into position.

“It’s a great triumph, Mr. Reith,” she crowed. “Onwards and upwards.”

“Some might say you have been thwarting the ban all along,” he pointed out.

“Oh, not thwarting,” Hilda assured him. “More like nudging the bounds.”

Reith’s scowl smiled, but Maisie could see it was perfunctory. In fact, it sometimes seemed to her that he was starting to dislike Hilda. But Maisie was sure she was wrong. More than two million households had found ten shillings for the BBC license fee to bring radio into their homes, with any number of listener letters expressing their pleasure in the Talks, and the newspapers regularly extolled Hilda’s taste and original thinking.