Radio Girls(5)

“Most of my nursing was after the war,” Maisie explained, truthfully enough. “I left because we had discharged enough men that I wasn’t needed anymore.”

“And you didn’t seek a job with another hospital?”

“I . . .” Wanted to stop washing blood off my hands. Wanted to be part of the living world. “I wanted to do something a bit different.” And she hadn’t been much of a nurse anyway.

“So you went to secretarial school.” Miss Shields nodded briefly at the certificate. “And in New York, it seems.”

“Yes. I, er, I . . . returned there for a short while.”

I was penniless, my grandparents wanted nothing to do with me, and Georgina wanted to show off her generosity to her newest sponsor. She is always so happy when I fail. Though in fact Georgina had called Maisie her niece, not her daughter, and it was the sponsor’s money that paid the way.

“I see,” said Miss Shields. “And where did you work after completing your course?”

“A number of offices, but they were only short-term assignments, I’m afraid.”

Everyone wanted secretaries to be glamorous and bubbly and modern.

“I see. When did you return to Britain?”

“Last year. My mother, er, knew I was happier here.” And she and Georgina were both happier with an ocean between them. “I am indeed very happy in London and hope to stay, provided I can secure a good job.” Maisie kept her tone prim.

“Mm,” was the sole reward. “Now, aside from your nursing and secretarial training, where did you go to school?”

And we’re at that question.

It was a question asked in American interviews, too, for formality’s sake. Maisie’s single criticism of the British was that they were inordinately obsessed with education, even for girls. Or at least, girls who interviewed for the sort of jobs she wanted.

Oh, just lie! she scolded herself. One more can’t hurt. Make up a name. They’re not going to write somewhere overseas just to confirm it. It’s so easy. Miss Morland’s Free School for Girls. St. Agatha’s Girls High. Gramercy Girls Academy. She won’t know they’re not real. Just say something!

“Er, I . . .”

“Yes?” Miss Shields’s eyebrows danced the dance Maisie knew too well.

“The fact is, we moved a great deal, so I couldn’t go to the same school for very long.”

“But you did go to school?” Despite the inflection, it was much more of a statement than a question, one that expected nothing but affirmation.

The School for Scandal. The School for Wives. The School of Hard Knocks. Miss Witless’s School for the Criminally Uneducatable.

“I was predominantly educated at home,” Maisie answered, hoping she sounded starchy and governess-trained.

“Was this a general all-round education, or did you have a specialty?”

Maisie wasn’t sure what the woman meant. All she could think of was Georgina instructing her never to wear two shades of red together.

“Just general. I, er, I liked history. I’ve always liked reading. Reading everything, really.”

“Hmm. Well, I didn’t exactly expect the equivalent of Cheltenham,” Miss Shields remarked, making a note.

Cheltenham! That was one of the poshest girls’ schools in Britain. Was Savoy Hill filled with women who had gone there? Had Miss Shields?

“We need people who are sharp and well organized, Miss Musgrave. For this job, your educational background is less critical than your ability. Now, the post also demands some assistance given to the new director of Talks”—Maisie was quite sure Miss Shields swallowed a sneer—“but your main attention is to me, which is to say, Mr. Reith. I expect that’s quite clear?”

“Yes, Miss Shields.” Maisie nodded.

“Because we can’t have someone who’s got one eye somewhere else.”

“No, Miss Shields.”

“It is useful, of course, especially in Talks, if you know a great deal about the important people of the day and things taking place. Do you read the daily papers?”

Maisie used to, but the long period of irregular employment made it impossible to focus on anything other than the “Situations Available” pages. She had, however, become adept at picking up abandoned papers from collection piles and cutting out shoe linings from them. They kept her feet warm. She wondered what stories she had walked on to get here.

“I certainly do look at them, Miss Shields.”

“I see.”

Miss Shields didn’t seem likely to say more, and Maisie finished her tea, thinking she ought to ask a question.

“Would I, that is, would the person you engage be working in this room with you?” It seemed unlikely, given the room’s size, but she wanted to steel herself if she were going to be subjected to that stern gaze half the day.

“In my room? I should say not. We are pushing through a cupboard to create space.”

Maisie glanced at the door to her left.

“No,” Miss Shields corrected her. “That is Mr. Reith’s room.”

Maisie’s heart jumped. Was he in there? Had he been listening? What if he opened the door?

“This is the space we are designating,” Miss Shields said, pointing to the door on the right. “There will be space enough for a typewriter, and it will do. Much time will be spent in managing files and papers. Energy, Miss Musgrave, I need someone with energy.”