Radio Girls(65)

“That may yet take a great deal of doing,” a man called from the other side of the room. “Things are well entrenched there. Although I believe the election will mean a new board of governors and the opportunity to replace the director-general, should that be necessary, though I do hope not. The current man is, I think, amenable.”

“I am most pleased to hear it,” the Lion said. “We can have our own Five-Year Plan, you know, only ours will be accomplished more quickly. The BBC will be far easier to manage, once we have barred all women from working there.”

What?! Maisie fought to retain the cloak of Invisible Girl. Who were these lunatics?

“And don’t forget the newspapers,” another man piped up in a gruff voice. “I am still arranging to purchase a number of newspapers, and searching for the right man to manage them.”

“Yes, I daresay it is useful to have outlets for those who still read,” the other man said, to much laughter. “But with sales of less expensive wirelesses growing apace, the BBC will allow us to make the Britain we want, and in good time.”

Maisie spotted a table laden with sandwiches, coffee, and cakes, but had no appetite. Although she could only see his nose and avuncular smile, there was no question: The man with the plan for the BBC was Hoppel, of Siemens. Siemens, who also offered less expensive wireless sets. She slithered to the door. Dollars to doughnuts he’d never recognize me, but what a damn waste of a doughnut if he did.

Which wasn’t going to stop her from calling again, after she’d raided Lola’s trunk for a wig and some stage makeup. She wasn’t Georgina’s daughter for nothing.




Maisie was bursting with communicativeness the next day and was thwarted at every turn—it was simply too typical a day for a conversation in Talks.

“Mary Cartwright needs to be rescheduled again—so much for bankers having regular hours—and we’ve got to sort out Rebecca West, fine writer but my goodness, she doesn’t understand broadcasting at all. Oh, and that mathematician at Oxford wouldn’t change his script, insisting that women aren’t capable of higher maths, so we’re just going to replace him. That’s censorship of me, isn’t it? Very poor form, but a lesser crime than putting ladies off numbers. I am looking forward to telling him we’re getting someone from Manchester instead; that should get him counting to ten a few times, and were you able to make any progress on getting us more storage space for files?”

Hilda sat on the floor, a cheery volcanic island in a sea of red-inked scripts and the week’s schedule. Maisie sat at the edge of the papers, rearranging and taking notes as Hilda talked, as though she were dealing three-card Monte.

“I think we can manage Miss Cartwright for next Wednesday after Mr. Bartlett. We can push Life in Roman Britain to the following week. I’ll draft the letter before lunch, and the only way we’re getting more space is if we branch out onto the roof. We’re growing so much, there’s some real concern about the joists. Miss Matheson, if I may, I had a rather extraordinary experience last night that I think is not unrelated to the—”

“Miss Matheson, what the devil are you doing?”

Reith was standing in the door, glaring down at them. Just behind him was the despondent figure of Fielden, the messenger who had failed to warn them in time. Maisie wondered how much Reith had heard.

“Ah, Mr. Reith, welcome,” Hilda said with the warmth of a hostess at a garden party. “Do join us. Would you like a biscuit? They’re lemon-flavored, very nice.”

“You are a senior member of this staff. You ought to be showing some decorum,” Reith snarled. He looked ready to seize Hilda and jerk her to her feet. Despite their almost comical difference in size, Maisie could easily see Hilda pushing Reith back. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised to see Hilda thump him.

“Sitting on the floor helps me think, I’ve told you,” Hilda reminded him airily. “It’s hardly indecorous.”

“What if an important guest were to walk in?”

“I’ve got extra cushions and plenty of biscuits,” Hilda answered.

Maisie hid her laugh in a fake sneeze.

“This is hardly a moment for levity, Miss Matheson. I’m very troubled . . . Will you take a proper seat, please?”

“Of course,” Hilda said, ever gracious, and swept herself up and into her chair. Reith, however, chose to remain standing.

“Miss Matheson, I need you to replace Sir John Simon in the talk on Lord Birkenhead.”

Hilda turned white. “But, Mr. Reith, we’ve invited him. He’s accepted. It’s all arranged.”

“Yes.” He helped himself to one of her cigarettes. “You’ll have to disinvite him. He’s not appropriate for broadcast—his personal life, you see.”

“I’m afraid I very much do not see.”

Neither did Maisie. Sir John was married to an activist of some sort, but that was as much as she knew of him. Reith rolled his eyes.

“Well, with the girl present, I can’t say more. Just see to it at once. This isn’t pleasant for me, you know. Do you realize I had MPs on the phone after that Bolshie debate, worried we might be creating panic? Panic, Miss Matheson!”

“Oh, what tosh,” Hilda said, ignoring the disappearance of Reith’s eyebrows. “The papers are constantly screeching any amount of dross about Russians, radicalism, revolution, probably even roller skates. We create a space for dialogue, and that calms things down rather than stirs them up. The more people understand—”