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.”