Radio Girls(85)

And Maisie forgot everything else.




The list of things Reith didn’t like was growing by the hour. Fielden opened a departmental pool, taking bets on how many of their proposals Reith would fight them on through the year. Despite the regular meetings in his office, Reith had taken to storming into Talks at least once a week. Phyllida grumbled that he must like the exercise.

“Miss Matheson, it seems you have Mr. Forster booked for a series with no end in sight? Is that correct, or have you made an error in the planning?”

Hilda went marble white, less offended by the slight on E. M. Forster than the suggestion she had made an error.

“Mr. Forster is enthusiastic about the opportunity,” she began.

“I daresay. It will mean quite a bit of regular money for him,” Reith said, with a half glance to Fielden, seeking support for this wit. Fielden failed him abjectly.

“Sir, Mr. Forster is one of our preeminent modern novelists,” Hilda explained. “Once again, we’re the ones who are reaping the benefits, more than he. And I’m sure he’s just as pleased to earn four guineas per broadcast as he was to earn thousands of pounds for A Passage to India, but I think he’s quite comfortably fixed, regardless. He certainly hasn’t tried to negotiate the fee.”

“His books may be well liked, but he’s not an upworthy man. Do you know he was a conscientious objector? And he’s not married.”

“Well, you know what writers are like. Hard enough to eat with, much less live with.”

“I’m weary of it, Miss Matheson, positively weary. Must every man of letters you bring in here be a homo . . . that is, an inappropriate sort?”

“Mr. Reith, you asked me to cast a wide-ranging net and bring as many voices as possible to the BBC. I heartily apologize if their personal lives are not up to scratch, but they are only discussing their work. I’m glad to have a monk come in to broadcast, but none seems to be a bestselling author.”

“Oh, will you stop being so infernally clever!”

“I would try, but it’s inordinately difficult.”

“Hallo, bit of trouble at t’mill?” Siepmann was leaning in the doorway.

Reith lit up on seeing him, but Hilda went even whiter with rage. To Maisie’s horror, she was even trembling.

“Mr. Siepmann,” Hilda greeted him in a colorless voice. “Many thanks, I’m sure, but this is a private matter concerning the Talks Department.”

“Oh, certainly. Only I heard raised voices and thought perhaps I could be of service? One thing we are well versed in over at Schools is keeping peace. Still, right you are, Miss Matheson, and I’ll be—”

“Please, Siepmann,” Reith broke in. “Do give us your opinion. Do you think a man such as this E. M. Forster is the right sort to be given prominence by the BBC?”

“Ah! Forster. Very popular writer. A fine intellect, it would seem. Not my own taste, personally, but can’t say his work hasn’t captured the reading public.”

“So it would seem,” said Reith, talking over Hilda. “And we can’t control what gets published. But should we be making a show of him?”

“Mr. Reith!” Hilda said. “We’re meant to expose Britain to the whole of our contemporary society and let people draw their own conclusions based on complete information. If they come to dislike Mr. Forster, they are welcome to leave his books on the shelf.”

“I think there’s something in what our Miss Matheson says,” Siepmann said, grinning. “That’s what I like so much about Talks. You can take these delightful little risks. And I daresay a bit of controversy builds more of an audience, what?”

“I can’t say I’ll ever be keen on controversy,” Reith said, though he was smiling. “But I suppose so long as we keep a steady hand on it, we should manage. And the Times has been very favorable to Mr. Forster, so he can’t be all bad.”

“What do you think of his work?” Hilda asked him, her voice a study in innocent interest. Reith wrinkled his nose.

“I haven’t time to read all these modern novels; you know that,” Reith scolded. “And especially not if they’re written by that sort.” He glared at Hilda’s bookshelves, groaning under the weight of work by that sort. “These people are supposed to go to prison, not be given book contracts!”

“Yes, there is something very Byzantine about our justice system,” Hilda agreed. Reith only sniffed and strode out the door, nodding to Siepmann.

“Ah, never a dull moment here in Talks, is it?” Siepmann said. “Glad I could help, Miss Matheson. We’re all in it together—isn’t that right?”

Hilda waited till they were both long gone before she sat down and sighed.

“Why does the DG get so aerated about . . . well, everything?” Maisie asked. “I suppose his intentions are decent enough, but—”

“Yes.” Hilda lit a cigarette. “His spleen is in the right place.”

Spleen seemed all the trend suddenly. Maisie could shrug at it in some places, like the Telegraph, but took it far more personally when yet another letter searching for Edwin Musgrave was answered with a sharp rebuke at her lack of information. She felt her own spleen rumbling when the Lion told the Fascists that the BBC didn’t understand how people needed things to be simple, so they didn’t have to think too hard. Maisie longed to ask how people who had no brains could possibly think too hard, but figured this was a question best left unasked, despite her interest in seeing their spleens explode.