Could she possibly be facetious? Maisie thought with yearning of Miss Shields’s disapproving candor, which was at least comprehensible. She gazed, fascinated, as Hilda organized the papers, small neat hands flying through them, nails manicured, left finger brazenly unencumbered by a wedding ring, a silver-and-enamel Mido watch clamped around her wrist.
“There!” She patted the neat folders with satisfaction. “I shall let you in on a little secret I’ve unearthed, having been here only since September myself. Few of these papers are of the earth-shattering consequence they’re considered by some. It’s all about what’s going to happen, Miss Musgrave, not what’s already been and done. Which isn’t to say I don’t like to keep very complete and tidy records. That is something I do expect, along with a strict attentiveness to all that goes forward. But I daresay Miss Shields and Mr. Reith wouldn’t have approved you if you weren’t sharp.”
At the moment Maisie had no idea why she’d been approved. Miss Jenkins at the secretarial school always withheld from giving her full marks. “You’re the most technically proficient and capable, Miss Musgrave, but the best secretaries have brio, dear.” Does anyone ever use the word “dear” when they aren’t insulting you?
Maisie was grateful to Miss Matheson, who in any case was a good deal more pleasant than Miss Shields, but now, the emergency over, she felt deflated. She’d been expecting a man. A clever, charming, well-spoken man who would intimidate and dazzle her. Under his influence, she would learn how to behave in such a way that would allow a man’s genius to flourish. Such skills would hopefully attract another clever and exciting man (dark blue eyes and freckles came to mind) who might be enticed to become her husband.
But a woman. As director of Talks. That seemed to be taking the BBC’s audacious modernity a bit too far.
“We have some time before the meeting,” Hilda announced. “Let’s discuss the department. I’ll detail what we’ve been doing here and some thoughts I have towards the future and how to implement some plans. We’re very small as yet. You’ll meet us all by tomorrow. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my junior, Lionel Fielden, very good at his job but rather willfully bad-mannered—you’ll get used to him. He’s handy, but it’s not the same thing as having an energetic, clever young woman to really organize things and keep us all well oiled.” She studied Maisie, assessing those oil reserves. “We’re a bit short on time. What say we be wild and I send out for some sandwiches? Anything in particular you’d like?”
“Er . . .”
For heaven’s sake, at least use a different syllable!
Hilda grinned.
“Can a person ever go wrong with egg and cress in one hand and ham and cheese in the other? Do sit down.” She waved at the room as she pressed a button to summon a page, another brisk and eager adolescent boy.
Hilda’s office was larger than Miss Shields’s, more militantly well ordered, but also more inviting. Slivers of gold-and-blue walls peeked around bookshelves, which were stuffed with the sort of books Maisie had always wanted to own. It was a struggle not to reach out and run her finger across them, feeling each embossed leather binding sing under her skin. What wall space remained was decorated with pictures; an Italian landscape, the Scottish Highlands, Paris on a lavender spring evening. A water jug and two glasses sat on one trestle table, the tea tray on another, next to a tempting plate of biscuits. Maisie wanted to hug the room, kiss it, swallow it whole.
“Why are you standing on ceremony?” Hilda asked. “I wasn’t intending for you to sit on the floor, you know, though of course you’re very free to do so.”
Maisie sank into a chair. A fat round cushion with a red-and-blue Italian print cover nestled into her back. Its fellow was on the floor, having performed its good service for Hilda. Just as Maisie was reaching for it, Hilda caught it up, set it on her own chair, and turned to Maisie.
“I don’t want a fetch-and-carry sort of secretary. We’re far too busy. Now, then, I’ve been organizing Talks into series. I think regular programming is useful and builds an audience, but of course we don’t want anything so routine that it becomes dull. I like to keep things in categories. So, literary Talks, political, scientific, educational, artistic, household, general, those are what I’ve put into motion thus far, and I think will form a useful frame within which to operate, but of course it’s really only just the springboard for launching any manner of interesting broadcasting. From one person speaking, to interviews, to a series of debates, wouldn’t that be splendid?”
Maisie nodded, concentrating on her shorthand as Hilda rattled off names of people she was hoping to persuade to broadcast. Maisie recognized some of them—T. S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, George Bernard Shaw. But she was soon drowning under the scientists, mathematicians, writers, artists, politicians, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers. Hilda talked as if she knew every one of them, her giddiness catapulting her from her chair so she paced the room, both it and Maisie shrinking to accommodate her expansive vision.