Radio Girls (7 page)

All Maisie could see were typed words slathered in red graffiti.

“Yes, I am sorry about that.” Hilda laughed, not sounding sorry at all. “Never had much of a neat hand. But I'm sure you'll soon decipher it and be raring away. You'll get used to me in time.”

Maisie settled herself before the typewriter.

I'm not so sure about that.

“T
remendous congratters. Knew you'd land it, but I miss us gadding about during the days,” Lola mourned, as though there'd ever been any gadding. Maisie knew she was only missed as an audience to the drama that was Lola's ramshackle—and indeed, often entertaining—life, and that as soon as Lola was cast in a show again, she would disappear, and Maisie would be forgotten.

Maisie embraced her new routine with all the ardor of a new bride. Up at seven, washed and dressed, all in the space of fifteen minutes.
The length of a Talk
. This efficiency, she decided, marked some small advantage to being poor. With so few clothes to choose from, getting dressed was no quarrelsome effort. It was almost an argument for
not
acquiring more blouses and skirts, jumpers and jackets, else how much time would be lost in dividing and conquering them? But she still sighed as she buttoned herself into her blue serge dress, the dullest of her three outfits. She lined her shoes with fresh paper and went down for breakfast.

Though inflexible on points like acquiring a wireless, Mrs. Crewe was admirable about breakfasts. There was porridge and toast, cornflakes and coffee, with the boarders free to use as much treacle, butter,
and cream as they wished. Maisie craved eggs and bacon, but it was a lovely porridge. And the other girls' desire to be fashionably slim meant she could be even more extravagant with the cream and butter.

After breakfast, she put on her coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. Her handbag, empty save for a handkerchief, two pennies for lunch, and emergency sixpence, went over her wrist, and she hoped her rickety umbrella could stay folded.

She was one of the lucky ones, as it took her only one tram to reach the Strand, the street above Savoy Hill. The ride was long and she had to stand, but she didn't mind. The car had a rhythmic sway, the bell tinkled happily, and one never knew when a sudden screech or thrust would disrupt the song, jolting them all out of their morning meditation. It was a kind of jazz, the only kind she could afford, and so she embraced the fizz of cigarette smoke, the lingering smell of coffee, and the crinkle of newspapers that added to the hum and percussion. It wasn't stealing to read the paper over a man's shoulder, gleaning nuggets of the world and enjoying the smell of Palmolive shaving cream. And she watched London unfold before her.

The dark rows of unloved terrace houses gave way to streets wide enough to encompass history, close enough to wrap that history around you and make you feel how fleeting and finite you were within it. Maisie exulted in the oldness of the buildings, their grandeur and glisten, stoically gazing down on the throng of people and trams and buses and cabs and horse-drawn carriages, with a snake of private cars looping in, men encasing their wealth in sleek metal and leather and wire wheels. Women, too, occasionally, nearly always driving open-top cars, bursts of impertinent sunshine in beaded cloches, cherry-red lips widespread in ecstatic smiles, eyes fireworking from behind their motoring goggles. Racing their way somewhere they no doubt called important.

Maisie turned from them and held her breath, waiting for the entrance onto the Strand, this last mile of the marathon. So many magnificent buildings to pass on the way, the Royal Courts of Justice, the charming and appropriately antique Twinings tea shop, and then
at last, the Savoy Hotel, an almost-palace on a street that once boasted palaces. She alighted at the corner of Savoy Street and revolved once on the spot, drinking in the day before measuring each step down the hill to Savoy Hill House, home of the BBC. The pub on the left, the Savoy Tup, was still shuttered at this hour. It and the Lyceum, just up on the Strand, were popular lunch spots for the denizens of Savoy Hill. Until she was paid, Maisie confined her lunches to an apple and a bun, but the Tup had been the purveyor of the sandwiches Hilda ordered that first day, and so Maisie hailed it with respect.

She hadn't yet visited the decrepit Savoy Chapel, just outside the BBC, but knew it was the subject of many jokes, its location considered ideal for the days when one's entire department was imploding (at least once a week) or as a hiding place from Mr. Reith when he was on the warpath (at least once a day).

No less worthy of worship was the Thames, at the foot of the hill. Maisie stopped outside the BBC's door and looked down at it. Some bright day, it would be the height of bliss to eat a sandwich and cake on the Victoria Embankment.

The BBC shared its home with the Institute of Electrical Engineers, who, being more than fifty years the senior, showed its scorn for this damp-eared upstart by designing the carved-out space so that the two entities never met. The IEE commandeered Savoy Hill's majestic entranceway on the Embankment, and it was said they had a good laugh whenever some grand person came to broadcast and had to use the BBC's unprepossessing entrance at the side of the building. Maisie thought that since the BBC was the natural and rather exciting outgrowth of the IEE's work, they should be hovering like proud mothers. Instead, each organization went about its business as though the other didn't exist.

And indeed, once through that wooden door, nothing else did exist.

It was easy to maintain her status as Invisible Girl as she whizzed back and forth between the executive offices and the Talks Department. Maisie had a long experience of listening to many conversations at once and gleaning anything that might be useful, and information
flew through the narrow corridors of Savoy Hill at a speed Lindbergh would envy. Thus, as the week progressed, she learned that Cyril Underwood-not-typewriter worked in the Schools Department, where they produced broadcasts heard in schoolrooms throughout Britain, considered a daunting task. Scores of complimentary letters from teachers and heads did nothing to allay the staff's horror of a scalding letter, or even worse, negative commentary in a newspaper. They soldiered on, both pets and prodigals under Mr. Reith's watchful eye. There was a woman producer there, too, a Mary Somerville, apparently hired through “an old girls' network, who knew?” and quite brilliant. The curvy, curly blonde in the typing pool was Phyllida Fenwick, the de facto head of the consortium by dint of being the tallest and loudest. The proprietress of the tearoom, her temperament both leonine and motherly, was Mrs. Hudson. Then there were those who simply announced themselves, like Beanie.

“It's Sabine, of course, Sabine Warwick, not of the Greville side—wouldn't want to look after that pile anyway—but baronets just the same. And new creations, but 1780, so well entrenched in Debrett's. Bit scandalizing, me working, but Mama thinks I've not got the stamina, so must prove the old dear wrong. Pater's pleased for once. Thinks it shows moral fiber, good example to the ordinary folk, and very modern. Keen on being modern, he is. Bought some of the West End theaters in his wilding days, and proud to be a patron, don't you know. So here I am in our mouse hole of a Drama Department! The DG thinks I bring refinement, and Pater is bursting his buttons, contemplating all the edifying drama I'm bringing to the poor wretches who never saw a play. Great good fun, really.”

Maisie was the one left breathless after this one-sided exchange.

She was quick to drop Invisible Girl whenever she saw Cyril, and was pleased to be rewarded by his grin.

“Well, New York! I'd heard you were a Talks fixture now, and here it is true.”

“Oh, no, the Talks only have me part-time,” she corrected him.

“Until Matheson comes to like you, I'll warrant. Massive
apologies for not setting you straight on her your first day. Rotten of me. What say I apologize properly someday and you tell me all about speakeasies, hm?” He seemed to take her blush as agreement. “I'll hold you to that,” he said, and loped away, which spared Maisie's having to either admit ignorance of speakeasies or ask how particular he was about the truth.

Phyllida and a minor contingent of the typists chose that moment to walk by, smoking and chatting. They went silent on seeing Maisie, glanced at her sideways, then dissolved into whispers and giggles once she was behind them. Maisie was suddenly contemptuous. Had any of
them
lied about their age to join the war effort? They had probably grown up in loving families, who didn't begrudge them food or education or upkeep. Or existence.

It doesn't matter. I've spent my whole life not having friends. I've gotten good at it. And that's not why I'm here
.

She was still uneasy around Hilda. It was one thing to have had Sister Bennister as a superior. That was comprehensible. The world of nursing was emphatically female. This world wasn't, and Hilda's comfort with it unnerved Maisie that much more. Hilda was friendly to her, but she was friendly to everybody. Georgina always said, never trust a friendly woman. She herself was always friendly, to anyone who wasn't Maisie, and Maisie certainly never trusted her.

According to the Savoy Hill buzz, Hilda had not exaggerated—Reith had indeed begged her to leave her post as Lady Astor's political secretary (how did she
get
these jobs?) and come to the BBC to head this, the most important department in the company, and it was Lady Astor, not Reith, who had convinced Hilda.

“That Matheson knows everyone,” Billy, one of the engineers, pronounced to a shiny new boy as they wheeled equipment along the third floor. “Brings loads of ladies in to broadcast. Between her and that Miss Warwick in Drama bringing in the actresses, you get to see some of the finest in the land. And if you need to adjust the sub-mixer during broadcast, you can get an up-close of their legs.”

So much for the glory of the new technology.

“Managing all right?” Hilda asked, seeing Maisie waver over some filing.

“Oh, I, yes, thank you,” Maisie muttered.

“Excellent. I hope you're feeling robust. I've got a few revisions for you to type.” She handed Maisie another script sagging under the weight of red writing. “Tell me, Miss Musgrave. I'm bursting to know. What sort of Talks do you like best?”

Maisie tried to remember the last time anyone had asked her personal opinion. Hilda liked answers, so Maisie pondered. She felt the most affinity for the morning Talks, considered the purview of women and primarily focused on household issues. The afternoon and evening Talks were more taxing in comparison, though she liked the book reviews and discussions. But a bluestocking expected a more intellectual response.

“Er, well, I . . . They're all different, aren't they?” she asked, opting instead for diplomacy.

“I certainly hope so. But you needn't fear being marked up or down. I'm merely interested in your opinion.”

Maisie also liked Talks where great men spoke of great things in a great way.
And you
really
can't say that to a bluestocking
.

“I really can't say.”

Disappointment tinged the edge of Hilda's eyes. “I hope you've seen that I encourage free speaking around here, Miss Musgrave. It would hardly be the Talks Department otherwise.”

“I don't understand,” Maisie said, although she had a feeling she did.

“I prefer when everyone is open and honest. Makes for far pleasanter conversation, and more efficient, too,” Hilda explained. “Mind you”—a grin teased around her lips—“an enigmatic conversation is not without its enchantments. One does enjoy a challenge.”

There was a ream of things Maisie hated. Umbrellas that turned inside out. Newspaper ink on her fingers. Plays featuring Georgina. Hunger. And being made the subject of a joke. That was Georgina's favorite trick. The nurses had picked it up as surely as if they had been sent instructions. And now Hilda was teasing her.

“Speaking of challenges,” Hilda went on, as though Maisie wasn't inching toward the door, longing to escape to the typewriter, “we must arrange for you to be here more frequently. You'll be worn to ribbons in a month, otherwise.”

“Please don't rush on my account,” Maisie said, horrified at the thought of spending more time in this quarter of the BBC. “I can manage just fine.”