“There are two questions I always ask of potential senior men,” Reith said. “Are you a Christian, and do you have any character defects?”
Maisie expected Siepmann to laugh, but he didn’t. He leaned forward, his look so serious that even his hair seemed less wavy.
“I am a proud member of the Church of England. And my greatest character defect is no doubt ambition, though perfectionism might also be rated a deficiency, as it can give me a warm temper, especially when others don’t share the quality to at least some extent.”
“Well?” Miss Shields asked Maisie, after the men left the office. “Will he get the position?”
“Most certainly,” Maisie answered.
Ambition and perfectionism, my eye. As though half the BBC doesn’t have one or the other. One person did possess both, though the ambition wasn’t personal, and she’d never be so gauche as to parade either of them to score points.
I wonder if this Siepmann fellow even knows what perfectionism is?
She’d already made up her mind what she wanted to do in her own journey onwards and upwards. Now she just needed to go through with it.
“Ah, Miss Musgrave, wonderful,” Hilda greeted her. “Five new scripts and we’re rehearsing those fascinating people from the Chinese dance society—I don’t know what I was thinking, but in for a penny now. People should adore the music, anyway, and the one fellow describes the dances awfully well. Incredible-sounding place, China. Wouldn’t you just love to travel there?”
She wouldn’t know the language, food, customs, clothes, or climate.
“I might, I think.”
Though maybe not. Did they really bind women’s feet there?
“I wrote up the notes on a Talk by Miss Mitterand,” Maisie said. Her mind was still on Chinese women’s feet. How did they walk? Or maybe that was the point. That they couldn’t.
“Excellent!” Hilda said, skimming Maisie’s notes. “Possibly too controversial, and of course we’d have to gauge Miss Mitterand’s interest in sharing any of her biography. I propose we ask Drama to bring her in to perform, and if she does nicely, we’ll be well positioned to invite her to give a Talk.”
Maisie nodded, steeling herself, though she didn’t know why.
“Miss Matheson?”
“Yes?”
“I, er . . .” Her eyes slithered to the carriage clock, ticking over a new minute.
“You know, Miss Musgrave, dead silence kills us.”
“I . . . wanted to ask . . .”
Hilda set down her pencil to give Maisie her full attention. Which managed to be more disconcerting.
“One straight thrust, Miss Musgrave, a killing stroke,” Hilda advised.
“I want more responsibility here. In the Talks Department. Please.”
Looking at Hilda’s face, Maisie realized she had never given anyone so much cause for pleasure. Georgina had been pleased to wave her off at the dock, but that hardly compared.
“Well killed,” Hilda congratulated her. “Now we’ll just have to see about arranging it.”
Maisie, not being privy to the machinations involved in such arrangements, spent the next few days as jumpy as the typewriter keys she was currently abusing.
“He wants to see you at once, and he’s very cross,” Miss Shields said, eyes bright with triumph. Maisie leaped up, leaving “pursuant” only a mere “pursu.” She paced her steps to be firm but obeisant as she entered Reith’s office and sat down.
Reith not only sported a single eyebrow; it was so compressed the edges barely extended past the bridge of his nose.
“Well, Miss Musgrave, it appears Miss Matheson wants you all to herself.”
“Yes, sir.” Maisie exhaled. She didn’t dare say anything else.
“I don’t object to her having a full-time secretary. It’s become necessary and speaks well for the Talks Department.”
Was he pleased? Perhaps she should smile.
“But I’m afraid I’m not convinced that you should be that secretary, and I told her so.”
She had never been more relieved not to smile.
“I know the department quite well, sir. Surely it would be inexpedient to engage a new girl at this time?”
A few threads of eyebrow arched upward.
“Well, you’ve learned something of good business. I appreciate that. But really, Miss Musgrave, do think this through. I know Talks brings in all sorts of literary men and the like. Very exciting for an impressionable young girl, I’m sure. But in my offices, you have the opportunity to meet the best sort of people.”
Not “meet,” she could point out. See them. Perhaps take their hat or bring them tea. Be rewarded with a nod or a word. Which was as much as an old-fashioned girl of no prospects should hope for and enjoy. Reith couldn’t imagine her wanting more. Surely she should honor her love of the Old World by adhering to its strictest strictures, living and loving according to rules that even Maisie knew were growing mushy around the middle, a collapsing soufflé.
The new rules were being remade by the hour. One had to wonder what purpose there was in playing by them.