“Yes, yes,” Mr. Reith agreed, tapping his pen along the typed list. “Important we do well, nothing inappropriate. Though Miss Warwick tells me it was your suggestion the Drama Department do a specially designed performance of A Christmas Carol. A jolly good thought; should be most entertaining.”
“Ah, thank you. Yes, I am afire with anticipation,” Hilda said. “They’ve secured a marvelous cast. Mr. Hicks, you know.” Another minute sniff from Miss Shields, though whether for Dickens or actors, it was impossible to guess.
“Hicks, yes,” Reith murmured, eyes on Hilda’s list. “Rather hard to choose.”
“I ought to have tried to edit more,” Hilda said, cheerfully unapologetic, “but we can always make use of extraneous ideas for another time. And you know, the holidays might be a time to press for more broadcast hours, what with—”
Reith made a noise like a bull sneezing.
“More hours, indeed. You’ve never been to a meeting of the governors. What a rum lot.”
“I would be happy to join you at one, if you would like?”
His scowl crinkled upward.
“Perhaps one day, if it can be managed.” He sounded so fatherly. Maisie’s throat constricted.
“Well, if we’ve only got the hours we’ve got, let’s give this a bit of a thrashing, hm?” Hilda consulted her copy of the Christmas list. “So let’s see, something to accompany the Dickens broadcast, obviously, a Talk about the traditions, the tree. I’ll ask Peppard at Cambridge, and do let’s have a Talk about gift giving. Gilbert at the V&A should do, and Nellie will be game for a decorating Talk. She’s at Home magazine now—”
“Wonderful, wonderful,” Mr. Reith broke in, nodding vigorously and marking the list. “And then this and this, yes, yes, and what do you reckon to the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“He does fine work, I hear.”
“Pardon?”
“Just a jest, hopeless habit. He should be grand for a reading if he isn’t fully booked. Would you like to send the letter, having met him, or shall I?”
Reith had met the Archbishop of Canterbury. And here was Maisie, serving him.
“I’m happy to make the request, yes.” Reith made a final tick on the list and slid it back to Hilda. “Very, very good, Miss Matheson. You’re doing splendidly. Exactly why I was pleased to hire you.”
“Begged me to come aboard, as I recall it.” Hilda pealed with laughter again. Miss Shields did not sniff, but the scratch of her pencil spoke volumes. “Lady Astor had quite a job convincing me. Still, she succeeded, as of course she always does, and I am very pleased indeed.”
“Yes, well.” Reith turned over another set of papers. “It was a good show of you, not to want to leave your employer.”
Maisie looked up from that shorthand mark. Even with her scant interest in British government, she knew the name “Lady Astor.” Everyone did. But to Maisie, she was an object of glorious inspiration that had nothing to do with being the first woman elected to Parliament. Nancy Astor had been born and raised in Virginia, and managed to marry a British nobleman. She was one of Maisie’s personal goddesses.
“I think the chaps at the Radio Times could be making a better show of writing up the Talks programs,” Reith went on. “Perhaps you can give them more specific notes?”
“Certainly,” Hilda said. “Though we are always very clear. The fellows seem to have this idea that they add pizzazz, I think.”
“But if you can write things up for them more exactly, that will be of use.”
“Having Miss Musgrave will be a great help in that regard,” Hilda told him.
“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He gave Maisie a pleasant nod, and she blushed.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Reith,” Miss Shields broke in, “but it is nearly half past two.”
“Is it?” He consulted his watch to confirm. “Ah. Well, we can discuss plans for next year later in the week. Thank you, Miss Matheson, and do keep on with the fine work.”
“I absolutely shall,” Hilda almost sang as they trooped out.
Back in Miss Shields’s office, Maisie hovered, waiting to be dismissed so she could type the minutes. She was eager to relive every second of that meeting.
Hilda turned to Miss Shields. “Have I got Miss Musgrave again now?”
“Not just yet,” Miss Shields said, snap and chill fully restored. “I have quite a bit of typing for her to complete. Weight must be mindfully distributed.”
“Well, indeed, but—”
A brilliantined man burst in, straightening his tie.
“He ready for me?”
“Do go in, Mr. Eckersley.” Miss Shields indicated Reith’s office. “Was there anything else, Miss Matheson?”
“No, thank you,” Hilda said. She turned to Maisie. “Welcome aboard, Miss Musgrave. I hope you can be spared a few more hours this afternoon.”
“Yes, Miss Matheson,” Maisie murmured politely. Having basked in the glory that was Mr. Reith, she wanted to stay as close in his circle as possible. But she wasn’t forgetting the sandwiches.
Hilda nodded briskly and was gone, her footfall so silent, she might as well have evaporated.