“I’d speak to Sir Harold, but I know the lady holds the whip hand over him. I do hope, by the way, that their union is not so unnatural as is rumored, or of course we will have to review her position here.”
Hilda’s stubborn chin was trembling and her jaw was turning white. Maisie leaned forward.
“If I may, sir, we’ve received quite a lot of complimentary letters from listeners, not just librarians, appreciating Lady Nicholson. I have a compendium in the Talks Department, if you’d like to see it?”
He had a way of blinking at her as though surprised she could speak in full sentences. He’d done it before, Maisie realized, but she’d always been too pleased to be acknowledged to notice his expression.
“Yes, well, I’m sure that’s . . . very nice. But now really, Miss Matheson, I’d be obliged if you would at least hint that some discretion is advised? Even in these unrestrained times?” He said the word “unrestrained” with the sort of grimace someone might make if they’d just sucked down a whole lemon. One that was rotting. “The greatest loyalty must be to the BBC. We all need to put it first.”
Maisie glanced at Miss Shields, who bit her lip as she wrote those shorthand marks.
Would she miss this? Maisie had always thought of marriage as going toward something. Now she thought about what you were leaving. The BBC was one of the few places in Britain where a woman could keep working after marriage, provided she was senior enough, and given approval. Maybe Miss Shields didn’t qualify. Or perhaps Reith didn’t want to feel like the woman serving him loved another man more.
The meeting over, the women dismissed, Maisie held out her hand to Miss Shields.
“Congratulations, Miss Shields. I hope you’ll have great happiness.”
Miss Shields actually smiled and took Maisie’s hand.
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Musgrave. Many thanks.”
It was hard to remember that not quite two years ago, Maisie, pale and bony, first tiptoed into this office, a frightened hen on the way to the chopping block. Miss Shields hadn’t thought much of her, but she’d given her tea. And the chance to speak the words that had brought her inside to stay.
Maisie wanted to thank her. But Miss Shields wasn’t the sort of woman who welcomed thanks. And anyway, they both remembered that her wish to keep Maisie far away from the BBC had been thwarted.
I, at least, continue to put the BBC first.
She was hard-pressed to imagine anything more important.
Maisie and Hilda had not exaggerated about the amount of letters they received. Most were thanks, and congratulations, but there were also requests and even open suggestions for new Talks pouring in from every square inch of Britain. Not only that, but thousands of people, gallantly offering their time and expertise, were eager to come broadcast. The mail boys marveled at the sacks of correspondence that flowed in and out every hour. They were as pleased with their work as the rest of Savoy Hill, though they did grumble about Reith’s rule regarding men’s jackets. While shirtsleeves were allowed in the mailroom, jackets had to be worn when delivering correspondence. Reith’s puritanical insistence on a dress code was one of those subjects that gave fodder for the satirical magazines that otherwise weren’t always at their best skewering radio. “They should thank us for giving them such a challenge,” Hilda observed, snickering over Punch.
The afternoon post, as if determined to further vex Reith, was full of letters praising various Talks, as well as invitations for Hilda to speak at this society or that charity or some other lunch.
Then Maisie came to a large square envelope—a parcel, really—and had the oddest sensation of her heart doing a loop-the-loop through her, like a carnival ride.
It had her name. on it.
Definitely her: Miss M. Musgrave c/o BBC etc., etc. Her hands shook as she opened it, risking death by a thousand paper cuts.
Four copies of Pinpoint magazine were inside. There was a note in a man’s confident, elegant hand:
Dear Miss Musgrave, I can’t tell you how I enjoyed our chat the other week. I wanted to send you some copies of our little magazine that very afternoon, but thought perhaps I would wait so as to include this latest issue. I should very much like to know what you think of it. If you’re free Saturday afternoon, would you care to meet me for tea? Please don’t let the prospect of my disappointment sway you, should you not be able (or willing; he cringes with mortification). Yours, very sincerely, Simon Brock-Morland.
Maisie’s breath was short and ragged. It could be a trick, of course. A Cyril sort of trick. Simon Brock-Morland might think she was an advocate of free love. But tea, not a drink. An afternoon, not an evening. It all seemed quite civilized. Maybe.
“Ooh, what have we been sent?” Hilda’s eager eye danced over the magazines.
“Have you heard of Pinpoint?”
“No, I haven’t. It must be quite new if it’s not one of our regular flow.” Her eyes slid to Maisie. “I say, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. May I read one of the copies as well?”