Radio Girls(93)

“I’m sure there are those who wouldn’t mind. But there you are. We simply carry on reminding people not to take anything for granted. You’ve done very well, Miss Musgrave. Are you prepared to carry on with this project?”

“They’re not getting into the BBC without a fight.”

“No. No, they’re not.”




As The Week in Westminster would focus on events of the week, notes on scripts were made every day. Maisie spent her morning tram ride scrawling ideas for themes and tidbits voters would want to know. She sailed into Hilda’s office and was knocked into the umbrella stand as she was leaped on by a huge red spaniel.

“Steady on there, Torquhil,” Hilda commanded, laughing.

Dogs made Maisie nervous. An admirer had once given Georgina an overbred puppy and Maisie had been deputized to feed it scraps from her plate. Whether because it was hungry or simply sensed the resentment, it sank its teeth into Maisie’s fingers. The combination of screeching and growling prompted audience merriment, which made Maisie cry, which made everyone, especially Georgina, laugh harder. The dog soon disappeared, part of the ceaseless detritus flowing in and out of Georgina’s life. The scars on Maisie’s fingers were still visible.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hilda purred, stroking Torquhil’s red head. “He was a gift.”

“Um, he’s very nice,” Maisie muttered, avoiding the dog’s eye.

“Don’t you worry,” said Hilda. “Torquhil can’t even do damage to a chewing bone.” She scratched behind his ear and crooned, “If a man were trying to have my bag off me, he’d just sit there and look for a biscuit, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?” She stood and studied him. “Or am I maligning your character? Many apologies, if so.” She turned to Maisie and grinned. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me I’m off my nuts?”

“I was thinking of saying more like you’re barking mad.”

Hilda threw back her head and laughed.

“Well, there’s no directive against bringing in dogs, and the DG did say he wanted us treating family well. Now that Torquhil’s trained, no need to keep him at home all day, so here he is.”

Her eyes were bright and challenging. Maisie wasn’t sure who would be more displeased, Reith or Samson.

Phyllida came in with a green interoffice envelope. “Good morning. This just came. It’s marked ‘Urgent.’ Oh, hallo!” She saw Torquhil and he, recognizing a friend, nudged her hand for a pat. “New Talks assistant?”

“Excuse me?” Maisie asked.

“Oh, good Lord, please no,” Hilda moaned as she read the interoffice memo.

Maisie and Phyllida exchanged alarmed glances.

“Not another tour of inspection by the governors?” Maisie asked.

“Worse,” Hilda replied in a hollow voice. “We’re to have a Sports Day.”





SEVENTEEN




It wasn’t quite a Sports Day in fact, but rather a Savoy Hill–wide picnic, in the countryside, featuring games, amusements, dancing, and loads of food. All in all, a grand day out.

Maisie hopped off the bus Reith had hired for them, wearing borrowed brogues, a georgette ocher frock, and a straw hat, and carrying the good wishes of her whole boardinghouse. It was a startlingly warm day, and the park chosen for the event was a lush expanse of green lawn ringed by very fine oaks and shrubbery.

“Ah, the Hundred Acre Wood!” Phyllida cried. “Lord, the whole thing is rather tidy, isn’t it? Bet it belongs to some landed gent, raking in a few extra shillings. They still have their names and houses, but the cash is running down. Excuse me whilst I weep.”

Marquees stretched over tables groaning with food, and Maisie was second only to the messenger boys in making her first strike. She took her food and settled herself on a blanket, happily working her way through a cold collation and salmon aspic as she watched a rather brutal game of field hockey, with Hilda as one team captain and Beanie as the other. Maisie had long since reconciled herself to her lack of schooling, though she still felt a twinge at not being able to join this melee. Even Phyllida could play a little, applying brawn whenever there was a small lapse in her knowledge of the rules.

“Go, go, go!” Beanie shouted, a general leading a cavalry raid. “What do you call that?”

“Good form, troops, good form. Now move in, strike!” cried Hilda, equally militant.

“What a bother I can’t join!” Mary Somerville said, coming to stand beside Maisie. She had married last year and was now six months pregnant. Not only did she still prefer to be called “Miss Somerville” at the BBC, but the rumor was she was intending on returning to work some months after the baby was born and had asked Reith for what she called “maternity leave.”

“You could be goalkeeper for Miss Matheson’s team,” Maisie suggested. Though Beanie’s team put up an impressive fight, the goalkeeper had not been much challenged.

“I think I’ll go watch the cricket. It’ll be more soothing,” Miss Somerville decided after a particularly vicious attack.

Maisie watched her stride along the grounds, her gait only just becoming ungainly. That’s who I could be. In Simon’s last letter, he’d written, “I do admire you, my darling Miss Musgrave, working so hard as you do, devoted to your cause, and rising.” He was a modern man at heart, and proud of her. He wouldn’t mind her staying on, still being Miss Musgrave, still rising.