Radio Girls(56)

“Morning, Miss Musgrave,” Alfred trilled, wheeling in the correspondence as Maisie hung her hat and coat on the rack. “Good Lord, is that all for you?” He stared at the gargantuan iced cake on her desk, which was doing battle for space—and dimension—with the typewriter.

“Er, I think Miss Matheson might have left it for me,” Maisie said. She barely managed to snatch the fork and napkin lying in the in-tray before Alfred tossed in the morning’s first haul. It was a beautiful cake. That mascara was definitely a bad idea.

“If it’s not awfully impertinent for me to say so, miss, you look rather well today,” Alfred complimented her. “Hardly recognize you from when you started.”

“Gosh. Thank you, Alfred,” she replied, touched.

She was about to offer him some cake when he continued. “Never imagined you’d last, working in the DG’s office and all. You’re more suited here.” He nodded and wheeled away, whistling the tune of a song Maisie had heard emanating from some of her local pubs—the one about a late-blooming girl and where she bloomed. Maisie dug into the cake (butter and vanilla cream sponge with lemon icing) as she worked through the correspondence.

The morning took a decidedly less pleasant turn when Fielden, feeling his power with Hilda away, and finding no page immediately at hand, ordered Maisie to take an interoffice memo to Miss Somerville in Schools. It was a place she tried to avoid, as it contained Cyril—but she had no choice. She strongly suspected Fielden had arranged this on purpose.

“Ah, thank you, Miss Musgrave,” Miss Somerville said. “Bit beneath your position, doing the deliveries, isn’t it? Awfully good of you, though,” she amended, so as to be clear no offense was meant.

“It’s nothing, Miss Somerville,” Maisie said. She hadn’t realized the woman knew her name. She ducked out, pleased to have evaded Cyril, and ran headlong into Charles Siepmann.

“Oh, you!” he said, adjusting his glasses to study her more intently. “Thither and yon! You’re quite the industrious little thing, aren’t you?”

She longed to observe that she wasn’t so little, but Siepmann was quite senior in Schools, deeply admired by Reith, and described by the rest of Savoy Hill as an eel, “only more slippery.”

He smiled. Damn, he could look awfully attractive. Unpleasant people should look unpleasant.

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“Yes, and making an effort to look pretty, too, which is also your job. Bright flowers, that’s what you girls are, and don’t think we gents don’t appreciate it.”

Oh, lucky us.

“I’m only concerned with doing well for the Talks Department, sir,” she told him, with as much asperity as she dared.

“Just Talks? Not the whole BBC?” He smiled again, but there was a hiss, a whetstone preparing for the knife.

“I—well, of course the whole BBC,” she stammered, hoping he didn’t see her gulp. His eyes were dancing. Was he teasing her or testing her loyalties? She remembered how much Reith liked him and was suddenly cold. “I’m the Talks secretary, though, so of course I want to do well there,” she said, hoping to paper over any mess. “Doing well by one is doing well by all, isn’t it?”

“Ah, that’s nicely said, dear,” he complimented her. A host of not-nice comments paraded through her brain as she stalked back to her typewriter. Only Hilda’s pointed cough roused her from her assault upon the poor Underwood.

“Oh, excuse me, Miss Matheson. I didn’t realize you’d be back.”

“It was a very fine breakfast. And I see you enjoyed yours as well.” She indicated the empty cake plate.

“It was delicious, thank you,” Maisie said, wishing there was one last bite.

“You’re most welcome. Many happy returns. Twenty-five is a pivotal time. Now, then, Miss Fenwick has just popped ’round to say they’ve been inundated and will have to take lunch much nearer the tea break, but she hopes I will allow you a longer break this afternoon, and I think that can be arranged.”

“Thank you. I can take a short lunch.”

“Well, to do that you’ll have to keep track of the time,” Hilda warned. Then she smiled. “This ought to help,” she said, handing Maisie a cardboard box.

Perplexed, Maisie opened it to find a lilac-colored hard case. And inside that was a little enameled watch with a lilac face. It was already set to the right time. Maisie stared down at it, as though it were a face that could gaze back. She’d never received a proper birthday present in her life, and now she had gotten two . . .

“Oh! Miss Matheson!” The mascara was inching down her cheeks.

“I said twenty-five was a pivotal time, didn’t I?” Hilda smiled. “And this will save you always having to check the clock. What did I tell you your first day? Efficiency. We run on efficiency. Now put it on and remember to wind it every night. It should run for years, I hope. Have you got that letter for Mr. Wells?”

Hilda was continuing to work her charms on H. G. Wells, who was blunt in his opinion that broadcasting was far sillier than anything he could ever write. Hilda’s latest letter to him was a masterstroke, telling him that while of course she respected his position, he was robbing Britain of a special experience. She signed it in her firm hand, then asked for the morning’s correspondence, simultaneously demanding Maisie take dictation on her observations from the breakfast meeting, because it was possible most of what had been said could be worked up into some very fine Talks. The chaotic normalness restored Maisie’s face to some order.