Dear Lola,
I’m so pleased the show is such a success and you’re enjoying Rome. I do miss you, though. You needn’t worry about my moving anytime soon. I’m earning more money as a Talks assistant, but I’d rather build up some savings, and of course get some more decent clothes and things. I do wish you were here to help me with shopping (which wasn’t true but it would delight Lola). Tell me more about this visconte who meets you at the stage door every night. I hope he’s noble in every sense of the word! We all miss you. Mrs. Crewe wants you to hurry home from such a disreputable place as Italy, though she’s glad you decided to keep your room here. As am I, and thank you again for giving me free rein with your things. I’m putting them to good use, and will tell all when you get home.
Yours,
Maisie
Even if she had funds enough to move, there was absolutely no time for flat-hunting. In addition to her full days as a Talks assistant, she continued to type Hilda’s notes on broadcasting as they accumulated, every few weeks. A fine book was taking shape. Her budget now allowed for her own copies of morning papers, and as she had mastered the art of balancing in the tram without holding a strap, she could read and mark interesting events or people that might generate a Talk. And now she was sniffing around at what this unauthorized branch of the Fascist party was up to, as it was trying to upset her apple cart. She never felt tired, only energized.
This week was particularly historic, as she was the first one to attack a submitted script with a red pencil. The Talk was A Day in the Life of a London Postman. She worked on it in the tram, in the evenings, even in the bath. Make it conversational. Bring out the most interesting bits. Help him be his most natural self. Then she presented it with high ceremony to Hilda.
“Excellent work, Miss Musgrave,” Hilda said half an hour later, handing it back to her. Covered in blue writing. Hilda had made several dozen more revisions—all of them perfect.
“Sometimes I wonder why any of us even bother,” Maisie murmured to Phyllida, who was reading the script over her shoulder.
“Hers is better,” Phyllida said unhelpfully.
“I’m aware of that.”
“And next time you’ll do better, too,” Phyllida said, bopping Maisie on the shoulder.
Maisie looked forward to getting her hands dirtier with Questions for Women Voters, which was an instant success. So much post came in asking follow-up questions, they had to run an extra five minutes at the end of each broadcast just to address a tenth of them.
“We need a daily program, frankly, and an hour long,” Maisie told Simon, as they strolled through the National Gallery. He was keen to show her what he considered all the best art.
“If the ladies have so many questions, maybe they’re not ready to vote,” Simon said, laughing in the face of Maisie’s lightning-bolt glare. “Joking! Rights for one should be rights for all, certainly. And it’s far better than having women protesting on the streets, yowling like banshees and creating all kinds of mess. I remember seeing it as a lad, grim stuff.” He pretended to shudder.
“If equal rights were just given from the beginning, then no one would have to fight for them on the street and create a mess,” Maisie said.
“Ah, there’s no arguing with the radical ladies.”
“Not radical; reasonable, I think.”
They laughed, and Maisie tried not to feel too pleased with herself. She couldn’t entirely believe it, believe this was her, the former Mousy Maisie, exploring the National Gallery with a charming and handsome and honest-to-goodness aristocrat, who seemed to like her. She still felt a bit awkward around him. Even after an acquaintanceship of several months, she hadn’t seen much of him. Indeed, their only contact over the last few weeks had been letters.
“Can you forgive me, dearest?” he asked. “I’ve been working at it like a family of beavers. The words, the words, eh? Well, you know, you do a bit of writing yourself. Awfully satisfying when it comes out right and is printed, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she agreed, thinking it was high time she tried to write something for print again.
“But I can’t help wishing for a larger readership,” he complained. “Pinpoint is doing such fine work, but so few know it.” They stopped before The Hay Wain. “Ah, Constable. A great beauty, isn’t it? He really knew how to capture the best of Britain, the country life, the ordinary worker. Now, you see, that’s the sort of man I’d like my work to reach.”
“Constable?”
“The worker, darling. Provided he can read. Ah, I suppose that is the advantage you have over me. With radio, it doesn’t matter if the people are illiterate; you can still present them with useful facts and thus shape their minds.”