Radio Girls (12 page)

“Oh, er, well, a lot of apples grow there,” she ventured, half remembering reading something about the nickname, and that it had nothing to do with fruit.

“I thought it might be named after you,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Maisie tried to remember to breathe.

“What?”

“Well, its skin turns red.”

A treacherous joke about green apples entered her mind, but she couldn't speak.

Skin. Those freckles. She pictured him on the sand in Brighton, legs, arms, that wide-open grin lighting his face as he ran by the water. The smell of the sea on his skin, the tiny grains of sand caught on his flesh as he pulled her close . . .

“Maisie!”

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you were ready to go,” he said, looking impatient. The plates and cups were empty.

“Yes,” she answered, hoping she wasn't expected to use any more syllables.

“Let's get a cab,” he suggested, and she was soon sitting on a plush upholstered seat, surrounded by dark wood and small windows. She'd never been in a London cab before. She longed to stroke the cushions and polished wood.

Cyril settled next to her, his lazy smile glowing in the semidarkness.

“New York girl, eh?” and he pulled her to him.

All she knew of kisses was what she had seen onstage. This was different. Better. Magic. His lips guided hers, encouraging her to melt into him. She trembled so hard, she was afraid she was going to bite his lip, but his hands were steady on her shoulders and he didn't pull away, so she must be doing something right.

Please don't let this stop
.

The cab stopped and the yawning driver asked for the fare.

They were on a quiet street, moderately well-kept houses full of sleeping clerks and hardworking hopeful juniors. If it were New York, one house would hide a speakeasy. Maisie grinned. It would be just like Cyril to know of an underground place in London.

He kissed her again, his body pressed against hers. There was nothing except this man, this mouth, this moment.

“Quick, let's get upstairs,” he breathed.

“What?” She was gasping, embarrassingly loud.

“Shush, come on, this way.”

“Where are we? Is it a nightclub?”

“Ha. Perhaps tonight it will be. It's my flat. Well, a bedsit, but there's privacy enough. We'll take the back stairs. No one will see you.”

“What?” She was still having trouble breathing.

“We ought to hurry,” he urged.

“No, I . . .”

He wasn't really suggesting what he sounded like he was suggesting, was he? He couldn't be. This wasn't . . . His eyes were so bright and liquid. She wanted to kiss him more, kiss him forever. It would be so easy.
Say yes. Trust him.

But it was too much at once.

“I don't think I should. I mean, not the first . . . I'm sorry.”

His eyes chilled, raking her face. “Are you making a joke?”

“I . . . What?”

“You're not actually . . . ? Look, haven't I done rather nicely by you this evening?”

It was like walking downstairs and missing the last step.

“What?”

Because there weren't any other words.

“You can't . . . Haven't you done this before?”

She couldn't look like a girl who had, could she? Plenty of girls did, she knew, but were they ones who still got married?

“It'll be fun, won't it?” He took her hand. “You're not teasing me, are you?”

“What? I, no, I wouldn't. I'm not that sort, truly.”

“Good. Let's go.”

“Cyril, I'm . . . not that sort either.”

“You are serious, aren't you?” His hand pulled away, and she was sinking. “Well, I never. Bit of a turn-up, that.”

“What?”

Which asked so many questions.

“Ah, Maisie, go on. You're not . . . That is . . . A girl like you, I mean . . . Ah, what's a bit of practice between chums, eh? Just some fun, a laugh.”

She was never going to laugh again.

“I have to go home.”

Now. Before he saw her cry. He wasn't going to see her cry.

“I say, look, I'm sorry, all right? Maybe you being American, you can't understand. Never mind. We don't need to let them in the salt
mine know about it, do we? I mean, you won't look any better than I will, and no harm done anyway.”

If I had the money, I'd buy him a dictionary and show him the definition of the word.

“I'll get you a cab, shall I? Maisie! Wait, Maisie!”

She was running. He didn't have a hope of keeping up, especially now that she had her new shoes. She could hear them, the gang children of the Toronto streets, chasing her still. Mousy Maisie. Mousy Maisie. Mousy Maisie. They were never going to stop chasing her.

On the tram, she fought her stomach's urge to vomit. She was determined to digest that food. It was the only good thing to come of the evening.

After she'd yanked the velvet ribbons off her dress and thrown them under the bed, she remembered she might see Cyril Monday. It was the sort of thing that could happen.

I'll just be too busy to bother with him. Miss Matheson can probably guarantee that. And if not, I'll find a way to help her.
Onwards and upwards.

She still wasn't going to cry.

Despite Cyril's assurance it wouldn't be mentioned, Maisie braced herself for an avalanche of humiliation at the BBC. Where the fellows talked, the women listened, and she would be marked: A for Ass.

Well, they can all go to hell. I'm not running away in retreat this time. I'm not the Germans. I'm the conquering army.

Which didn't stop her dreading their first meeting.

“You don't look very well,” Hilda said, frowning at her as she typed.

“No, I'm all right,” Maisie lied. She was coiled tight, bracing for a rude comment from Fielden, a knowing glance from Alfred, a smirk from Billy. A giggle from Phyllida. And Beanie would have a four-part soliloquy.

“Well, come along. We've got a meeting with the DG,” Hilda
ordered. Maisie padded after her, pleased to discover she'd learned to walk almost as quietly as Hilda. Invisible Girl, upgraded.

They passed Rusty, Phyllida, Alfred and his basket, and dozens of others, including Samson the cat, but either Maisie was indeed not floating on the Savoy Hill buzz, or no one would dare even glance at her when she was with Hilda.

“Ah, Miss Matheson,” Reith greeted them, scowling warmly. “Mrs. Reith wanted to pass on her congratulations about . . . well, some ladies' program. I can't recall which. Last week, I believe.”

Maisie wondered if it was on home renovation or dressmaking or keeping fit. Possibly Mrs. Reith never listened to any of the broadcasts at all.

“That's very kind of her. Please thank her for me,” Hilda said.

“Yes, yes. Now, I'm afraid there is a bit of unpleasant business.”

“Oh dear.”

“It seems you have a woman presenting
Odd Jobs Around the House
? Didn't you say that referred to mending small electrics and other such tasks?”

“Absolutely. It's very—”

“Isn't it awfully dangerous to suggest women take up tools? If they were to injure themselves, they could register a very strong complaint against us.”

“Mrs. Fisher is making it clear that these tasks are quite simple. Anyone with a bit of common sense can do them. After all, sir, many women do live alone—”

“Poor creatures,” he grumbled, shaking his head. He looked miserable, and Maisie wished she could get him a cup of tea. “It's a bad pass we've come to, Miss Matheson, very bad.”

“Of course, it's very hard on those who wish to marry but can't,” Hilda agreed, “but it's also rather exciting for women to have the chance at some independence.”

“Too much independence is not healthy,” he boomed. Maisie tapped her pencil in quiet agreement. She was convinced she'd be healthier in a state of warm dependence.

“I suppose it's different for everyone,” Hilda said. “But what do you say I bring Mrs. Fisher to come and meet you before her rehearsal? I think you'll find her a very respectable, decent woman simply trying to help save women a little money by doing these things themselves.”

“Taking work from handymen, too,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Well, all right. I'm sure she is a very fine speaker. You've done well with them. We just do need to be mindful, is all I meant. Tread with care. You understand me.”

“Perfectly so, Mr. Reith.”

“Marvelous.” He looked relieved, or as much as Maisie could tell, but she was learning to read his scowls. “Now, looking towards autumn, I very much like—”

The phone rang, and they all glared at its presumption. Maisie wished Miss Shields wouldn't answer so they could instead hear what Reith liked.

Miss Shields looked as though she wished she hadn't answered either.

“The Selfridges transmitter is having trouble again. We're switching to 2LO for the rest of the day,” she reported in the tone of a nurse telling a man his leg would have to be amputated.

“Well, that's a rum bit of business!” Reith exploded, seizing a cigarette. Hilda edged away from the flame. “Where the devil's Eckersley?”

Miss Shields was already ringing the Engineering Department—people rang the fire brigade with less urgency. Hilda nodded to Maisie, and they sidled out of the room.

As soon as they were out of earshot of Reith's bellowing, Hilda sped up.

“Look sharp, Miss Musgrave. This is a great chance!”

“Pardon?”

“The 2LO, it's just up the Strand, at Marconi House. Will take us four minutes at a good clip. Don't you want to see our transmissions in action?”

“I . . .” Maisie had never really thought about the connection
between the microphone and the machine that sent broadcasts into wirelesses around the nation.

“Everyone who works here ought to see a transmitter at least once,” Hilda said, in that way she had that made you feel stupid for arguing.

So they hurried up the road to the Marconi House. Everyone there recognized Hilda—Maisie was pretty sure Hilda would be recognized if she walked into a meeting of the Ancient Order of Hibernians—and they were promptly ushered into an airy room where the 2LO transmitter was still housed.

Despite having made possible the first-ever words broadcast in Britain: “This is 2LO calling,” the 2LO transmitter was an unholy relic, kept only for these occasional days when the newer, smaller, more powerful transmitter in Selfridges went down.

“Always good to have a contingency plan,” Hilda murmured.

“Oh, hullo.” Eckersley greeted them with a hunted expression. He was circling the transmitter, making minor adjustments, readying it to spring to life again. “I suppose the DG is baying for blood? It's nothing to do with us engineers, I've told him, but he can't seem to understand that.”

“Of course it's not your fault,” Hilda agreed soothingly. “Never mind, Mr. Eckersley. Have you met my secretary, Miss Musgrave? I thought she'd like to see a transmitter at work, and I'm afraid your misfortune is her great gain.”

“I'll say one thing for the dear old dinosaur, Miss Musgrave. You can see the workings far more clearly than on the new beast,” Eckersley told her, giving the transmitter a fond pat. “Come on, then, and touch the heart of the matter. But don't you dare actually touch it,” he warned.

The heart of the matter. A battered anatomy book once taught Maisie that a human heart was the size of a fist. She liked that. Her own heart, always fragile, was bruised and shrunken after Cyril—a dandelion gone to seed; another blow and it would simply scatter. A fist, though, pounding away inside her chest, was much less likely to be crushed. It meant that somewhere inside her she was strong.

The 2LO looked more like a skeleton than an organ. Six meters of machine, comprising a line of valves backed by polished wood. Delicate and solid. Within this elegant contraption lay the power of communication.

Hilda was pointing, naming every segment, her knowledge as intimate as if she had built it herself, while Eckersley buzzed away at whatever he did, making the magic happen. But it wasn't magic. It was better. This was the result of endless questions, of the search for answers, of not resting until those answers were found. And then beginning all over again, with more questions.

The rectifier, the oscillator, the modulated amplifier, the modulator, the sub modulator. Valves and valves and valves. Making sound fly on airwaves.

How did anyone ask the questions that answered in this configuration of wood and glass and wire that was changing the whole world? Thousands of years ago, someone had gazed into the night sky and seen that some stars were planets. And then they mapped the universe. They unlocked mathematics. They saw the way the sun moved across the earth and how to harness its power, warming homes and baths, growing plants. And they developed tools. The capacity to sail around the globe, to build cathedrals, to run a factory, to capture images on paper and then on screen. And now, to send a story throughout the country, from a machine.