“Miss Musgrave, be straight now. Do you wish to work solely for Talks?”
She swallowed hard, lest her thoughts—ideas for Talks, for stories, for something—tumble out of her and spill all over the desk.
“Sir, I am more indebted to you than I can possibly say. But if this is what’s best for the BBC, then yes, it’s what I want.”
His face remained impassive, but she knew better than to trust it. Reith tapped his pen against his lip.
“Miss Matheson is a girl of peculiar taste. I cannot say as I agree with her often. But she does seem to be doing well. So if she believes you are suited to be her permanent secretary, then I suppose I must acquiesce. And it is expedient. But if I see any faltering coming from Talks, I will insist she replace you at once.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m very indebted to you, sir. Again. Still.” Maisie breathed, sucking in her cheeks to keep the smile from breaking free.
“Yes. I’m glad you realize that. I’d thank you not to forget it.”
The smile sank into her throat.
“Yes, sir.”
He replaced his pen. The eyebrows edged out a few millimeters.
“You’re a sweet girl, but whatever Miss Matheson says, I don’t think you’re suited to her at all. And remember I warned you to guard against ambition.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She didn’t dare tell him that ambition had triumphed.
He sniffed, popping a cigarette in his mouth.
“Modern girls,” he muttered. Maisie knew he didn’t mean her.
He didn’t know she was one of them now. And if she wasn’t suited to the job Hilda was putting her to, she was going to be.
There was no fanfare when she settled permanently into a jerry-rigged corner of the Talks Department, within eyesight of Hilda’s door. She could see Hilda if she was at her desk, though being Hilda, she was mostly sprawled on the floor, reading, writing, brain buzzing loud enough to disrupt the transmission waves.
The others were relieved to finally have a secretary at hand full-time and not have to run to the typing pool and be pecked incessantly about how some people were already working under full pressure. Fielden grunted: “I suppose it was inevitable, but Our Lady wants you, so I hope you don’t let the side down.”
“I’ll need you to draft an announcement of the News division for the Radio Times,” Hilda said. An inauspicious greeting, as the BBC’s weekly magazine thrived on but despised content given to it by the departments. “And we’re going to have to shift some files into storage—if they expand any further, they’ll need their own postcode.”
“Yes, Miss Matheson.” Maisie nodded, biting down disappointment. She wanted a more exciting start to this new adventure.
“And, lest you think I forgot (When did Hilda ever forget anything?) here.” She pressed a florin into Maisie’s hand. “For your good work at the salon. Lady Astor’s going to come and broadcast. I’ve wanted her to do so since I started.”
“But I had nothing to do with that!” Maisie hated false credit.
“Not directly. But I think she wanted to come when she saw me as well established, rather than as a favor. And one is never more well established then when one has one’s own secretary.”
Maisie rolled the coin in her hand. A florin. Two shillings. Her docked pay wouldn’t touch her, and she still had a whole twelve pennies extra. She could get stockings with this.
“Not as much fun, perhaps, but have a go with this, if you like,” Hilda continued, handing Maisie a large notebook overflowing in her exasperating handwriting. “Another after-hours job, so only if you don’t mind staying a bit past the time, now and then. I could do it myself, but you’re a much better typist than I, and I daresay some extra funds wouldn’t go amiss.”
They wouldn’t.
“You’re still a weekly girl for now, I’m afraid. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t. Thank you, Miss Matheson.”
“Feel free to make any comment you like,” Hilda said, tapping the notebook.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that.” Hilda grinned. “I say, were you ever able to answer your question? About an equity drop?”
“I . . .” Maisie looked into Hilda’s dancing eyes. “I’m working on it.”
“Good. I thought you might be.”
“I’ll get an answer soon, I’m sure.”
“I haven’t any doubt of it.”
“It’s about flipping time,” was Phyllida’s assessment of recent events as they strode down the Embankment. “Can’t think why the DG was being so tight about a Talks secretary, unless he trowed—thought—a woman wouldn’t need one?”
“Why would he think that? Miss Matheson was a secretary to a woman.”
“Aye, but a political secretary, and that’s different. Ah, well, who knows with the DG. You were well in there and you can’t guess, can you?”