Radio Girls(59)



“She’s got him absolutely pegged, yet she’s the one who’s the aristocrat,” Phyllida said, shaking her head. “If anyone was ever going to return us to feudalism, it’s the aspirant middle classes.”

“I doubt the aristocrats would mind that very much, though,” Maisie pointed out.




The Savoy Hill buzz quickly told more of the story. Miss Shields had asked to stay on after marriage and been denied. Maisie wondered how anyone could possibly know—none of the parties in question would have disseminated such information. But at the next meeting between Hilda and Reith, she saw for herself Miss Shields’s elegant diamond ring and more-than-usual rigid face. As she looked closer, Maisie recognized what few others would: the light application of stage makeup, probably to hide red-rimmed eyes.

“Miss Matheson,” Reith said, his tone attempting patience. “A great many of these books Lady Nicholson discusses are not at all appropriate. I’ve received a number of complaints, including those expressing the concern that some of the books advocate shocking ideas, perhaps even the overturning of all our most sacred traditions. As if these times aren’t outlandish enough.”

“Lady Nicholson would never be inappropriate,” Hilda said, her chin jutted stubbornly and a decided snap in her tone. She had been to Long Barn, the estate of Vita and her husband, Harold Nicholson, for a dinner party, and her opinion of the whole family, but especially Vita, dwarfed the Eiffel Tower. “And if I may say, Mr. Reith, we have received reams of letters from librarians throughout the country saying that many of the books reviewed are high on request lists.”

“Yes, but are people reading them or burning them?”

“Well, I don’t think that would bode well for their lending privileges.”

“Do please be serious, Miss Matheson. I’ve told you many times, we have got to tread with care. Minds are malleable, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” she said.

“So you’ll speak to Lady Nicholson?”

“I certainly shan’t. She understands the parameters and has inimitable taste. Besides, if you’ll recall, some of the honey we added to the pot when we asked her to take up the reviewing post was that she could choose to review whatever books she liked.”

Reith inhaled on his cigarette so hard, it looked like he was eating it.

“I’d speak to Sir Harold, but I know the lady holds the whip hand over him. I do hope, by the way, that their union is not so unnatural as is rumored, or of course we will have to review her position here.”

Hilda’s stubborn chin was trembling and her jaw was turning white. Maisie leaned forward.

“If I may, sir, we’ve received quite a lot of complimentary letters from listeners, not just librarians, appreciating Lady Nicholson. I have a compendium in the Talks Department, if you’d like to see it?”

He had a way of blinking at her as though surprised she could speak in full sentences. He’d done it before, Maisie realized, but she’d always been too pleased to be acknowledged to notice his expression.

“Yes, well, I’m sure that’s . . . very nice. But now really, Miss Matheson, I’d be obliged if you would at least hint that some discretion is advised? Even in these unrestrained times?” He said the word “unrestrained” with the sort of grimace someone might make if they’d just sucked down a whole lemon. One that was rotting. “The greatest loyalty must be to the BBC. We all need to put it first.”

Maisie glanced at Miss Shields, who bit her lip as she wrote those shorthand marks.

Would she miss this? Maisie had always thought of marriage as going toward something. Now she thought about what you were leaving. The BBC was one of the few places in Britain where a woman could keep working after marriage, provided she was senior enough, and given approval. Maybe Miss Shields didn’t qualify. Or perhaps Reith didn’t want to feel like the woman serving him loved another man more.

The meeting over, the women dismissed, Maisie held out her hand to Miss Shields.

“Congratulations, Miss Shields. I hope you’ll have great happiness.”

Miss Shields actually smiled and took Maisie’s hand.

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Musgrave. Many thanks.”

It was hard to remember that not quite two years ago, Maisie, pale and bony, first tiptoed into this office, a frightened hen on the way to the chopping block. Miss Shields hadn’t thought much of her, but she’d given her tea. And the chance to speak the words that had brought her inside to stay.

Maisie wanted to thank her. But Miss Shields wasn’t the sort of woman who welcomed thanks. And anyway, they both remembered that her wish to keep Maisie far away from the BBC had been thwarted.

I, at least, continue to put the BBC first.

She was hard-pressed to imagine anything more important.




Maisie and Hilda had not exaggerated about the amount of letters they received. Most were thanks, and congratulations, but there were also requests and even open suggestions for new Talks pouring in from every square inch of Britain. Not only that, but thousands of people, gallantly offering their time and expertise, were eager to come broadcast. The mail boys marveled at the sacks of correspondence that flowed in and out every hour. They were as pleased with their work as the rest of Savoy Hill, though they did grumble about Reith’s rule regarding men’s jackets. While shirtsleeves were allowed in the mailroom, jackets had to be worn when delivering correspondence. Reith’s puritanical insistence on a dress code was one of those subjects that gave fodder for the satirical magazines that otherwise weren’t always at their best skewering radio. “They should thank us for giving them such a challenge,” Hilda observed, snickering over Punch.

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