January 1929
Maisie had a brief moment of melancholy, noting the beginning of the New Year and that, contrary to Lola’s annual prediction, she still boarded at Mrs. Crewe’s house. She had a dressing gown and slippers now, and a warm nightdress. And savings building up in an actual bank, of all things. But it wasn’t quite enough. Lola herself had yet to return. She still maintained her room, as her family wouldn’t hear of her storing belongings with them, not while she was on the stage,. She was now on a tour in Germany, that Italian visconte in arduous pursuit. Maisie had half a mind to ask Lola to put the man to use and find Simon. If nothing else, he might ask why being in Germany had robbed Simon of the ability to write letters to the woman of whom he claimed to be fond.
She’d wrapped this grim mood around her more tightly than her muffler when she returned to the office on January 2, but then Hilda swooped in announcing: “We’re going to rehearse that fascinating woman who trumped the house in Monte Carlo, and I’ll need you to reschedule the head of the Science Museum so we can have the Tunisian ambassador, very interesting man. I’d rather like to go to Tunisia. Wouldn’t you? And we should talk more about oil interests. I know the DG doesn’t like it, but it’s becoming such a critical issue. I really think . . .”
And Maisie forgot everything else.
The list of things Reith didn’t like was growing by the hour. Fielden opened a departmental pool, taking bets on how many of their proposals Reith would fight them on through the year. Despite the regular meetings in his office, Reith had taken to storming into Talks at least once a week. Phyllida grumbled that he must like the exercise.
“Miss Matheson, it seems you have Mr. Forster booked for a series with no end in sight? Is that correct, or have you made an error in the planning?”
Hilda went marble white, less offended by the slight on E. M. Forster than the suggestion she had made an error.
“Mr. Forster is enthusiastic about the opportunity,” she began.
“I daresay. It will mean quite a bit of regular money for him,” Reith said, with a half glance to Fielden, seeking support for this wit. Fielden failed him abjectly.
“Sir, Mr. Forster is one of our preeminent modern novelists,” Hilda explained. “Once again, we’re the ones who are reaping the benefits, more than he. And I’m sure he’s just as pleased to earn four guineas per broadcast as he was to earn thousands of pounds for A Passage to India, but I think he’s quite comfortably fixed, regardless. He certainly hasn’t tried to negotiate the fee.”
“His books may be well liked, but he’s not an upworthy man. Do you know he was a conscientious objector? And he’s not married.”
“Well, you know what writers are like. Hard enough to eat with, much less live with.”
“I’m weary of it, Miss Matheson, positively weary. Must every man of letters you bring in here be a homo . . . that is, an inappropriate sort?”
“Mr. Reith, you asked me to cast a wide-ranging net and bring as many voices as possible to the BBC. I heartily apologize if their personal lives are not up to scratch, but they are only discussing their work. I’m glad to have a monk come in to broadcast, but none seems to be a bestselling author.”
“Oh, will you stop being so infernally clever!”
“I would try, but it’s inordinately difficult.”
“Hallo, bit of trouble at t’mill?” Siepmann was leaning in the doorway.
Reith lit up on seeing him, but Hilda went even whiter with rage. To Maisie’s horror, she was even trembling.
“Mr. Siepmann,” Hilda greeted him in a colorless voice. “Many thanks, I’m sure, but this is a private matter concerning the Talks Department.”
“Oh, certainly. Only I heard raised voices and thought perhaps I could be of service? One thing we are well versed in over at Schools is keeping peace. Still, right you are, Miss Matheson, and I’ll be—”
“Please, Siepmann,” Reith broke in. “Do give us your opinion. Do you think a man such as this E. M. Forster is the right sort to be given prominence by the BBC?”
“Ah! Forster. Very popular writer. A fine intellect, it would seem. Not my own taste, personally, but can’t say his work hasn’t captured the reading public.”
“So it would seem,” said Reith, talking over Hilda. “And we can’t control what gets published. But should we be making a show of him?”
“Mr. Reith!” Hilda said. “We’re meant to expose Britain to the whole of our contemporary society and let people draw their own conclusions based on complete information. If they come to dislike Mr. Forster, they are welcome to leave his books on the shelf.”