“It’s just so wonderful,” Maisie breathed, wishing she could fold herself inside it and be part of those flickers, entering wirelesses in every home and pub and shop, seeing the faces as they listened to the stories.
“It is,” Hilda agreed. “Quite an instrument for communication,” She continued, her eyes traversing the length of the transmitter. “A magnificent tool. Of course, one quirk about tools is that many of them can also be wielded as weapons.”
Maisie looked up at her, but Hilda was lost in the machine.
No wonder Reith was so particular about the BBC’s content. With millions of listeners already, it would be catastrophic to broadcast something, call it fact, and then discover it was wrong. Broadcasting was only five years old, but it was becoming an institution. And institutions had power.
And I’m a part of this.
Her heart was pounding, the fist beating her ribs.
“Time we were getting back to the office,” Hilda announced. “I imagine there are at least twenty new crises to corral. Such is life at our BBC.”
No doubt. And Maisie couldn’t wait to get back to it.
Her new vigor was a talisman, a shield against any arrow that might be slung her way, attempting to pierce Invisible Girl. She shoved Cyril to the back of her mind, where she was hoping he would fall out. There was too much else to think of, and it was all more important.
“Miss Musgrave, are you capable of bringing a broadcaster up for rehearsal?” Fielden asked. “Our Lady is still meeting with that ball of scruff from the Urban Allotment Society.”
The broadcaster was a City man, Mr. Emmet, talking about the importance of investments and stocks, peevish because Hilda had revised his script four times.
Maisie guided him into the studio, where Billy and the new engineer were running tests and making adjustments to the mike.
“We’re about to do a rehearsal,” she informed them. They looked up at her, then turned back to their work, muttering something about being nearly done.
“I suppose there’s no hope of a drink,” Mr. Emmet asked, holding out his hat for Maisie to hang.
“Not in the studio, I’m afraid, sir.”
He snorted and settled himself in the chair.
“I’ll just run and tell Miss Matheson you’re here,” Maisie said.
“You should take him to the Tup,” Billy said in an undertone. Maisie was astonished—Billy never spoke to her. “City chaps are awful lightweights. After a few, maybe he’ll think you’re one worth marrying.”
The talisman pushed back her tears but did nothing to allay her mounting rage. It could just have been a matter of Billy being himself, but it was possible, just possible, that Cyril had told them.
Her talisman got its real test a few days later, when she was hurrying to the Talks Department. She saw Cyril before he saw her, and that fist in her chest flung itself in five directions at once. She concentrated on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other, thinking about the script she was about to type.
Cyril saw her and stopped. “Maisie, hallo. How are you keeping?”
She had to dig her nails into her palms to prevent herself from stopping or shaking.
“Copacetic,” she answered, trying to sound like a brusque New Yorker, far too busy and important to even break pace. He jogged backward to keep eye contact.
“Good, good. I say, will you stop a moment?”
He put out a hand and she stopped, mostly to avoid his skin making contact.
“I, ah, just wanted to be sure . . . no hard feelings, hey? We can be chums?”
A fleeting image of fish bait swam through Maisie’s brain.
“I’m sure you can be anything you’d like to be,” she told him. “Really must dash, cheerio,” and she skittered around him and down the corridor, wondering if he was watching and refusing to care.
She was still roiling two hours later on her tea break.
“Goodness, what did that poor toast ever do to you?” Phyllida was moved to ask, hypnotized by Maisie’s atavistic gnashing.
Everyone else in the tearoom, however, was focused on Billy and another engineer, Paul, who had built some ridiculous motorized contraption on which the handler could guide metal football players over a pitch. The clutch of BBC boys was enthralled.
“Seems to get a bit hot,” Cyril observed, playing his round.
“Funny since you’re such a rotten player,” Billy said.
“Funny yourself!”
“Here, I’ll show you.” Billy nudged Cyril away and took over to a chorus of jeers.
Maisie lunged into another slice of toast, wishing they would shut up. As if solely to aggravate her further, the shouts grew louder. Then there was a sudden boom, puffs of black smoke, and the whole room chorused with shouts.
“What have those lunatics done?” shrieked Mrs. Hudson, ever protective of her abused tearoom.
The room was unscathed, the only casualties of the explosion being Billy, squalling and clutching his hand, and the toy, oozing unidentifiable liquid and an acrid smell. Paul keened over this destruction.
“We ought to get him to the hospital!” shouted Cyril.