Radio Girls(52)

They’d been gone less than an hour, and each returned to in-trays mountainous with paper, rather proving Phyllida’s point.




Having new energy as well as new cheeks, Maisie felt she was becoming the avatar of the efficiency Hilda demanded for Talks. She read and sorted correspondence as though she’d taken a speed-reading course and could not remember the last time she missed a key when typing. She liked it all, but the constant bustle meant there was scant time for trying new things beyond the typewriter. There was her vague interest in Hilda’s German propaganda, but Maisie wanted to do more within the world of Talks.

Hilda liked initiative in her staff, so Maisie felt bold enough a few days later, when Hilda was signing letters, to ask, “Could I be the one to start putting together notes and things for the Talk on memorable sounds, please, Miss Matheson? Or might I help Mr. Collins?”

“Hmm? Sorry?” Hilda looked up at her from a letter to Alexander Fleming.

“The idea, from the meeting, on sounds?”

Hilda’s expression remained blank. Maisie blushed. “My idea. You said it was good, something we could . . .” She trailed off, feeling silly. Feeling worse than that, because Hilda was frowning.

“There are any number of good ideas, but as you very well know, only a few of them ever become Talks.”

“But you said—”

“That it was a nice idea. It was. It is. And I always hope to encourage all of you, and see you all continuously exerting yourselves. But I am the only one who decides what will be broadcast, and once that decision is made, I delegate to the appropriate staff, as I hope you’ve noticed.”

“Yes, Miss Matheson.” Maisie wished Hilda would snap, like Miss Shields. Her calm, casual manner made Maisie feel ten times smaller.

“Ambition is a commendable thing,” Hilda said, her eyes at last regaining some of their usual warmth. “And I’ve known from the start that you have a terrific capacity. It’s good to want things, to work for them, and ask for them. Just don’t expect to always get them.”

“I didn’t—”

But Hilda finished signing the letters and gave them back to Maisie for sealing. Maisie returned to her desk. Nice as it was to have terrific capacity, she could not stop blushing at the embarrassing realization that she had, indeed, expected to get what she asked for, just because she had the courage to ask.




The reprimand and its reason were forgotten the following day, when at midmorning Hilda asked Maisie to go down to reception and wait for Lady Nicholson.

Lady Nicholson. That was Vita Sackville-West.

Maisie glanced at the carriage clock. Lady Nicholson wasn’t due for nearly half an hour.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Hilda said. “But I’ve got to meet with the fellow from the Foreign Office, and I may not extricate myself in time. I trust you to keep her in good hands, should it be necessary. And you can read till she arrives.”

Maisie grabbed a pad and pencil instead. Vernon Bartlett had just broadcast about Canada’s work in the League, and she couldn’t help thinking about America and its refusal to join. Which embarrassed her, despite telling herself she had no part of it. But I lived in New York most of my childhood. It’s part of me, isn’t it?

She smoothed the page. “Maybe the Congress should poll the theater community about American interest in Europe,” she wrote. All the actors she’d known were eager to ply their trade in London, Paris, Berlin. And every third girl in New York sighed over foreign accents, imagining the romance of the French, the thrill of the Italians, the marvelous marriageability of the British. In the elite classes, many daughters were sent to Swiss finishing schools, many sons to Oxford or Cambridge. Americans, so fierce in their republicanism, their non-monarchy, yearned to meet aristocrats and monarchs, touch a fairy-tale past while scoffing at it. Wouldn’t membership in the League of Nations allow a bit of that, while also getting to exert influence and show off a more perfect union to the world? And yet they stayed resolutely at home.

She crossed it all out. I don’t know what I’m doing. Why should I? She doodled boxes and coils and radio waves. Then she scribbled: “Ask the American embassy for someone to do a Talk about their not being in the League.”

Would that be controversial? Miss Matheson would like that. Let’s see. They’d have to address the war, de Tocqueville’s idea of exceptionalism, or whatever it was, and maybe . . . She’d covered three pages when Rusty tugged on her elbow—she yelped and the pencil tip snapped off.

“Sorry, miss. I spoke to you lots, but you didn’t hear me. It’s the lady, miss. Her car’s just coming. A jolly nice Daimler it is, too.”

“Thanks, Rusty. Would you mind running these back to my desk?” She handed him the pad and pencil. Awk! My fingers! I’m bleeding graphite! She checked to make sure no one was looking, spat on her fingers, yanked her handkerchief from her sleeve, and attempted to wipe off the stains. Then she smoothed her skirt and pushed back her shoulders. Vita Sackville-West, a born aristocrat, might know Maisie was a commoner, but she was not going to be seen as common.

Maisie opened the door to prevent the lady’s having to do so and immediately thought she was hallucinating, envisioning the great as truly overpowering. Then she realized Vita was over six feet tall and ramrod straight, making her even more imposing. She wasn’t, perhaps, very beautiful, but she exuded something Maisie couldn’t identify that gave her a peculiar attraction. It was hard not to stare at her. She glanced down her long nose and smiled at Maisie.