Maisie was beyond relieved he had answered for her. During Toronto exiles, her grandmother (the incongruous Lorelei, who had spent an admirable life’s work exorcising the name’s implied sensuality) marched Maisie to the First Anglican Church every Sunday, carrying a birch switch to remind her of consequences. “Your mother is the first and last whore in this bloodline. I shall beat every last sin out of you if I must, so help me.” Certainly, all the local hoodlums were happy to assist—the unwanted daughter of an actress must deserve beating. Georgina’s neglect was a welcome relief on a Sunday, as she slept all day.
As to character defects, between Maisie’s assessment and Georgina’s, there couldn’t be enough letterhead in the BBC to complete the list.
Did Reith expect everyone to say “Yes” and “No”? Would he believe the latter? There wasn’t such a man, was there? Would he be absurdly dull or irritatingly perfect?
“I hope you are a hard worker,” Reith barked, his scowl twisting into expectation.
“Yes, sir,” she squeaked. “I mean, I am.”
“Excellent.” He nodded, taking another sip of tea.
“Your next appointment, Mr. Reith,” Miss Shields announced from the door.
“Thank you,” he said, which sufficed for both women.
“Back to Talks with you, then,” Miss Shields ordered Maisie. “You have those minutes?”
The typed pages, neat and exact, were received with a resigned grunt. Maisie wondered how Miss Jenkins would react to a supervisor who seemed to resent a lack of error. “You have to be prepared for anything,” she’d lectured her students. I think I’ll write and suggest a new course for the curriculum.
Hilda’s lamps were turned up full, making the room cozy in the chilly November afternoon. She handed Maisie a typed script covered in illegible red writing.
“A Talk runs fifteen minutes; we’re rather firm about that. Except when we’re not. Some Talks warrant more time. Unfortunately, every speaker thus far seems to think their subject is one of the latter.” Hilda grinned. “Can’t blame them, can you? I’m developing a set of guidelines that should help them. You can type my initial notes tomorrow. No time to lose.”
Imagine knowing so much about a topic, you can talk and be interesting for fifteen minutes. Be considered an expert, invited to broadcast. Be listened to and paid.
Maisie looked at the script. It was for a broadcast by Joseph Conrad. Perhaps that meant Maisie was going to meet him, going to meet all such men when they came in to broadcast. This job might be something close to heaven.
“You’ll have to type the script again, implementing my changes,” Hilda directed, waving a hand at the illegible red scrawl. Maisie felt a slight descent from heaven.
“You’re making changes to Mr. Conrad’s work?” she asked.
She hadn’t meant to speak out loud, but however much power Hilda might wield, she couldn’t think it extended to altering a syllable of a man’s words, not a man like this.
“Many can write; few can broadcast. Thus far,” Hilda added with a cackle. “There’s a trick to it, I’ve found. I mean to devote myself to developing, refining, and teaching it. You’ll see. You shall come to rehearsals with me soon, and you’ll see.”
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.
THREE
“Tremendous 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.