Radio Girls(92)

“I’m sorry,” Cyril whispered. She hadn’t realized he was there. They locked eyes briefly. He seemed to want to say something more, but she pulled away from his gaze and hurried back to Talks. There was a lot of work to do.




“Imbecile should have stuck it out or gone to the governors,” was Phyllida’s shrugged response to the dearth of Eckersley ten minutes later. “All right, so he’s a louse to his wife, but what does that have to do with anything? If every man who behaved like a complete toad were forced out of his job, then . . . well, you know, it would open up a lot more jobs for women.”

“Meaning what, you could be chief engineer?” Fielden said with a sneer.

“I’d put up a good fist learning. I’ll tell you that.”

Hilda crooked a finger at Maisie, beckoning her away from the brewing donnybrook.

“Margaret Bondfield’s agreed to come broadcast,” Hilda announced.

Hilda’s charms worked where they counted. Margaret Bondfield was the subject of much scrutiny and some quiet scoffing, being the first woman who wasn’t an aristocrat to be made a Cabinet member.

“Oh! How wonderful! May I work on the first draft of her script?”

Hilda grinned, blowing a smoke ring. “I remember a young woman terrified to take on such work, or even ask questions.”

“I remember her, too,” Maisie said. “I can’t say as I miss her.”

“She was a great deal more than she knew to credit herself for, though. Ah, and she still blushes, I see. Yes, Miss Musgrave, you may have a go at the script. That’s the only way to carry on learning. Rather good, having a lady politician in so soon after the election. Feels like a continuation of Questions for Women Voters, don’t you think?”

“It does. Maybe if we could keep bringing on women in politics in some way—”

“Just as I was thinking. But not haphazardly. Women are still so new to being part of the political process. Most of them haven’t the foggiest idea how Parliament works. Mind you, I can say the same for some MPs. But what’s good for the goose is good for the flock—what do you think of a weekly program that will educate women as to the goings-on in Westminster and we’ll only have women MPs as broadcasters, and a woman as the presenter and moderator? Explain how the sausage gets made and talk about specific policy discussions. Good, eh?”

“The bee’s knees,” breathed Maisie.

“I admire all parts of the bee, myself. Anyway, jolly good. I was thinking we’d just call it The Week in Westminster, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You are pliant today. And here’s what else I’d like to propose. That you should be the producer. Yes?”

“No. What? Me?” Pliancy flew up the chimney.

“You’d be quite good at it. Lady Astor will be one of our regular speakers, obviously, and she already likes you. And you’ve come to rather enjoy politics, I think.”

Maisie’s fingers were itching. She wanted to write to every woman in Westminster at once.

“Do you think the DG will approve it?” she asked.

What she meant, though, was, Will he approve me? It felt like a long time since Reith had extended any sort of approval to Maisie. She missed it. Though in fact, it was a long time since she’d approved of him.

“He likes the women’s programming,” Hilda answered. “Especially when it’s edifying and features upstanding women. And he’s terrified of Lady Astor’s wrath. And”—seeming to know Maisie’s real question—“if I convince him that it’s only a small sort of program, educating young women like yourself, then it’s only reasonable that you should be at the helm and I’ll keep a close eye as always, and that sort of thing.”

That sort of thing. The sort of thing of which minor revolutions are made.

“Can you stay a bit late today, to discuss things further?” Hilda went on.

Maisie grinned. She knew perfectly well what that meant.




Hilda had prepared for the momentous chat and was equipped with bread and honey and tea.

“We might do a Talk on that fellow’s new invention in Missouri,” Hilda said, her knife singing through the loaf. “The machine that slices bread. Mind you, that’s copping to the worst of people’s laziness. There’s an art to slicing bread, and each piece should have its own idiom. I’d like to say I hope the machine doesn’t find its way into every bakery in Britain, but I daresay it will.”

“People like being lazy,” Maisie observed, sucking honey from her pinkie.

“Many find it preferable, yes. But you don’t.” Hilda waved a hand at the notes spread on the floor around them. With the door closed and barred with a chair, and the rain making it hard for them to hear each other, never mind be heard past the door, they were free to discuss Maisie’s Siemens adventure.

“My goodness. They are ambitious,” Hilda observed.

“It looks like they want to silence women and unions everywhere. And what’s it for but money?”

“People are awfully funny. Always thinking lots of money makes them special, and thus superior, and so they ought to exercise that superiority.”

“It’s a wonder they don’t try to revoke the Magna Carta.”