“I don’t disagree with you, but you must know the BBC is overseen by a board of governors. Accountable to Parliament and meant to represent the public. Very keen on the BBC being a public entity, quite different from the American model. Independent and what.” Reith shrugged in a “What can you do?” sort of gesture.
“Oh, public, public, public.” Hoppel grinned, leaning over Miss Shields to tap the contents of his ivory pipe into the ashtray on her desk. “I’ll say this for the interminable public. Not only are they dreary, but they fail to know their own interest. Besides which, who appoints those governors? I warrant it’s the government, yes? So all the more argument for a government more sympathetic to business interests.”
“Ah, it’s a bit trickier than that,” Reith said, chuckling and shaking his head. It was impossible to tell if he agreed or was simply trying to end the discussion. Maisie suspected this was the technique he employed when meeting with the governors themselves, and wished she could see it in person. She couldn’t resist tagging after them into the corridor, seizing a folder to lend credence to her activity.
“See here, Reith,” Hoppel went on, undeterred. “You’ve got to come to one of our political meetings. You keep saying you’re keen, but you don’t follow through.” He sucked on his pipe and blew a smoke ring.
“Yes, I do apologize,” Reith said. “My schedule is a barely tamed beast, for one, but I do need to be a little mindful, too. I can’t be seen supporting a nontraditional political party. Must maintain the proper image.” For punctuation, he pulled out his pocket watch, shook his head at the time, then tucked it back in his waistcoat.
“Exactly,” said Hoppel. “The image of a right-minded man, the sort to make sure this country runs as it ought to. Ah, Reith, I know you’re not your own master entirely—I suppose few of us are—but it comforts me, having a man like you in a place like this. Bodes well for the future.”
Reith laughed agreeably and shook Hoppel’s hand as he called for the lift. Maisie hurried downstairs to avoid being seen when Reith turned, and then struck a circuitous route back. She passed Sound Effects just as Fowler was leaving. He brightened on seeing her. “Hullo. Have you got something for us?”
“Oh, I . . . No, actually. Sorry.”
He frowned. “You in Talks need to put on a better show. Drama and Schools are constantly giving us marvelous challenges. Yours are the best when they happen, but they are far too rare.”
“I’ll let Miss Matheson know.”
Not that Talks was short on challenges. The following week, Maisie was leaving the tearoom, brushing crumbs from her skirt, when Hilda came at her at a dead run, looped her arm through Maisie’s, and barreled her down to Talks.
“Bit of a crisis, I’m afraid,” Hilda explained, though she didn’t look afraid at all. She was glowing hot with excitement.
“Oh, excellent. Reinforcements,” Fielden said with heavy sarcasm on seeing Maisie. “Are you sure you don’t want to ask any of the cleaning crew to help?”
“Mr. Fielden,” Hilda said, and it was enough to silence him. She parked Maisie in front of a telephone and handed her a list of names, phone exchange codes, and a steno pad. “Somehow a program on Turkey has been thrust upon us, and it’s all hands on deck for research.”
Turkey?
Fielden sniggered at Maisie’s expression.
“The nation, Miss Musgrave, not the Christmas dinner.”
What a shame. It’d be so nice to shove a whole turkey in his mouth.
Hilda ignored him. “We must find someone, preferably Turkish, who can speak at length, be comprehensible, and be interesting. Oh, and some music. One of those silly exotic restaurants will have a player or a group. Just be sure they are genuine. And some poetry or a reading from a novel, that will be nice.”
“There doesn’t seem to be anything original,” Fielden informed her in his most dour tones. “I’m just off to King’s College and the library to be sure.”
“Good.” Hilda nodded, frowning at her watch. “I’ll have to cancel my lunch, poor Fred.” She turned back to Maisie. “Ready to begin?”
The only thing Maisie felt ready to do was hyperventilate. Answering a phone was one thing—which Miss Shields didn’t allow anyway (“you’re not as twangy as most Americans, but your accent will still put people off”). Reaching out to a stranger on behalf of the BBC was not in her bulwark.
“I’d really rather type and things,” Maisie begged. “My voice just isn’t—”
“Of course it is,” Hilda interrupted. “And we need more notes before there can be any typing.” The clear eyes lasered in on Maisie. “You have a very pleasant manner, you know.”
She always sounds so sincere. Why isn’t she a politician?
“We just need to find something that won’t shame the BBC.”
Was that meant to be encouraging? Hilda was halfway into her own office but stuck her head around the door again.
“And warn everyone that if I hear the phrase ‘Turkish Delight’ they’ll get a hose turned on them.”
Maisie picked up the phone, though she could barely keep it steady, and asked the operator to connect her.
Maybe no one will answer anywhere.