Radio Girls

by Sarah-Jane Stratford

  “Did you hear? Old Matheson landed us Anthony Asquith.”

  “Pah. I’m holding out for Tallulah Bankhead coming to broadcast.”

  “You’d likely pass out stone cold!”

  “Worth it, depending where I land.”

  The colloquy buzzed and whirled around Maisie’s head, cloudier than perfume, and just as dizzying.

  “I say, anyone fancy the American tonight?”

  Maisie stumbled.

  The bar, you idiot. He means the bar at the Savoy. Was that the sort of place these people went after work? Her presence on its pavement would provide the doorman with a good laugh before he directed her back to the main road.

  The voice continued. “They’ve got a new bartender, straight from the 300 Club in New York!”

  “Any man can mix a drink, he puts his mind to it. Tell me when they’ve got that Texas Guinan and her girls!”

  He pronounced it “Gwynen.”

  Quite unintentionally, Maisie stopped and spoke into the din.

  “Guy-nan. Her name, it’s pronounced Guy-nan. And she’s not one of the . . . er, dancers. She owns the club.”

  And was, allegedly, a friend of Georgina, though a life’s experience had taught Maisie to query any information that sprang from the maternal font. Georgina described Texas Guinan as “no actress, nor beauty, but she has a force of personality, child (which Maisie still had to be, as Georgina never aged). Well worth cultivating” (because what else were people but hothouse lettuces?).

  Through the vapor of her rising mortification, Maisie felt several people staring at her in amused interest, spurring a sudden fondness for her own well-cultivated disguise of Invisible Girl, the foe she had made friend, usually so useful in cloaking her. Even Rusty had abandoned his sacred duty to gaze upon his charge in wonder.

  A young man loped up to her, all sunshine grin and summer freckles. His hair flopped over one side of his head in untidy brown curls, and he wore fashionable baggy trousers and what Maisie guessed was a school tie.

  “You’re American?” he asked in a well-bred accent. “Are you from New York? You are, aren’t you?”

  Maisie struggled to remember how to breathe. That grin. Those freckles.

  “Well, I . . . sort of . . . I mean, I lived . . . grew up . . . in New York, but . . .”

  Rusty, remembering himself, intervened. “Ever so sorry, Mr. Underwood, sir, but I must deliver the miss to Miss Shields for an interview.”

  “Oh!” The young man looked stunned. “I rather thought you must be a Matheson acquisition.”

  “Not likely,” someone said, and sniggered. A chorus of whispers ensued.

  “Well, enjoy Miss Shields, then,” Mr. Underwood encouraged. Sapphire eyes smiled, charmer to her snake, but his tone suggested enjoyment was futile.

  Maisie wished the blush burning her face and neck was hot enough to turn the floor liquid and let her sink into nothingness. She trotted robotically behind Rusty, taking no notice of the number of stairs, only waking up when they reached a hushed corridor, more polished and solemn than the lower floors, with every door closed.

  Rusty strode up to one of the doors, gave it a respectful knock, then edged it open.

  “Miss Shields, Miss Musgrave for you, miss,” Rusty announced in his best impression of refinement.

  “Thank you, Rusty,” came a ringing voice. Maisie forced herself into the office, hoping her blush had dissipated. Miss Shields looked down her nose at Maisie, her handsome features unblemished by such frivolities as a smile. She wore a brown tweed suit whose simple lines spoke the epitome of quiet good taste. A gold watch was pinned to the lapel, reminding Maisie of the Sisters in the hospital, except their watches didn’t feature a spray of tiny rubies and a diamond.

  “Do sit down, Miss Musgrave,” came the invitation, polite enough. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  Maisie hesitated. She never turned down refreshment on principle, and all the chill November had to offer had seeped through her worn shoes. On the other hand, she was shaking enough to possibly upset that tea all over her thighs. But this was not the sort of woman who brooked refusals, so Maisie nodded and smiled.

  “Yes, please, thank you. Very much.”

  Miss Shields gave Rusty the order. Maisie waited awkwardly, feeling rather than seeing the room, hot little pinpricks of excitement dancing up her limbs, forming pools of sweat under her arms. Quite a thing, sitting in an office all your own. Miss Shields’s chair had curved arms and swiveled. Maisie longed for every bit of it, and wondered how fast the chair spun around.

  “Would you like milk? Sugar?” Miss Shields asked.

  “Yes, please, both, thank you,” said Maisie, wishing the bounty extended to a tea cake or even just a cookie (or “biscuit,” as she’d taught herself to say). She didn’t remember what it was like not to be hungry in the long hours before supper.

  “Yes, you Americans do like your tea sweet,” Miss Shields observed, pleased with her knowledge as she handed Maisie a cup and saucer with bluebirds flying around the rim.

  “Oh, I’m Canadian,” Maisie stammered, and went into her usual apologetic patter. “Half-British, as my father was British. My mother is Canadian and I was born there. Then my mother and I went to New York, where she was an ac—where she had work. I mostly lived there but spent summers in Toronto until I joined the VAD in 1916 and was assigned to the hospital in Brighton.”

  She trailed off. Her biography was such a terribly unimpressive hodgepodge. She handed Miss Shields her two letters of reference and managed only one sip of tea before they were read through and set aside.

  “Where was your father born?”

  “Oh. I . . . I don’t . . .” She couldn’t see how the question was relevant, but glanced down at her shoes and settled on “Oxford,” as that sounded gorgeously respectable. Very not Georgina.

  “I suppose his name was Musgrave.”

  “Edwin Musgrave,” Maisie specified, which was true as far as she knew. The familiar pang tapped her behind the breastbone, and she suppressed a sigh. The father she apparently—and unluckily—resembled almost exactly. Whom she still hoped to find someday. Had he taken one look at his infant daughter and walked away, or did she have memories of him locked away somewhere, if only she knew where to search?

  “And do you know where he was educated?”

  “Where he . . . ? No, I . . . I’m sorry . . . I—I don’t.” She forced herself to keep looking into this woman’s cold eyes.

  “I see. Well, we’ve grown quite busy of late, and I need someone who will provide a bit of extra assistance when the typing pool is at full pressure. I am the personal secretary to Mr. Reith.”

  She pronounced his name with the sort of fervor Lola reserved for Rudolph Valentino.

  “The director-general, yes,” Maisie put in, attempting to demonstrate that she had made an attempt to learn something of this place.

  “Mr. Reith expects everything done well and on time. He expects a serious and dedicated staff. We are growing, gaining in importance. Everything we do must reflect and enhance that. I require an assistant who can manage a number of tasks at once and yet be ready to add something more when called upon. You having been a nurse, that is—”

  She narrowed her eyes at Maisie.

  “You must have been quite young when you joined.”

  Maisie never knew how to respond to that observation. Surely someone must appreciate her patriotism and initiative—or at least her need to escape—in having procured a fake birth certificate so as to be eighteen when she first came to England, instead of several months shy of her fourteenth birthday. But she had never yet found anyone to whom she dared mention it.

  “Most of my nursing was after the war,” Maisie explained, truthfully enough. “I left because we had discharged enough men that I wasn’t needed anymore.”

 
“And you didn’t seek a job with another hospital?”

  “I . . .” Wanted to stop washing blood off my hands. Wanted to be part of the living world. “I wanted to do something a bit different.” And she hadn’t been much of a nurse anyway.

  “So you went to secretarial school.” Miss Shields nodded briefly at the certificate. “And in New York, it seems.”

  “Yes. I, er, I . . . returned there for a short while.”

  I was penniless, my grandparents wanted nothing to do with me, and Georgina wanted to show off her generosity to her newest sponsor. She is always so happy when I fail. Though in fact Georgina had called Maisie her niece, not her daughter, and it was the sponsor’s money that paid the way.

  “I see,” said Miss Shields. “And where did you work after completing your course?”

  “A number of offices, but they were only short-term assignments, I’m afraid.”

  Everyone wanted secretaries to be glamorous and bubbly and modern.

  “I see. When did you return to Britain?”

  “Last year. My mother, er, knew I was happier here.” And she and Georgina were both happier with an ocean between them. “I am indeed very happy in London and hope to stay, provided I can secure a good job.” Maisie kept her tone prim.

  “Mm,” was the sole reward. “Now, aside from your nursing and secretarial training, where did you go to school?”

  And we’re at that question.

  It was a question asked in American interviews, too, for formality’s sake. Maisie’s single criticism of the British was that they were inordinately obsessed with education, even for girls. Or at least, girls who interviewed for the sort of jobs she wanted.

  Oh, just lie! she scolded herself. One more can’t hurt. Make up a name. They’re not going to write somewhere overseas just to confirm it. It’s so easy. Miss Morland’s Free School for Girls. St. Agatha’s Girls High. Gramercy Girls Academy. She won’t know they’re not real. Just say something!

  “Er, I . . .”

  “Yes?” Miss Shields’s eyebrows danced the dance Maisie knew too well.

  “The fact is, we moved a great deal, so I couldn’t go to the same school for very long.”

  “But you did go to school?” Despite the inflection, it was much more of a statement than a question, one that expected nothing but affirmation.

  The School for Scandal. The School for Wives. The School of Hard Knocks. Miss Witless’s School for the Criminally Uneducatable.

  “I was predominantly educated at home,” Maisie answered, hoping she sounded starchy and governess-trained.

  “Was this a general all-round education, or did you have a specialty?”

  Maisie wasn’t sure what the woman meant. All she could think of was Georgina instructing her never to wear two shades of red together.

  “Just general. I, er, I liked history. I’ve always liked reading. Reading everything, really.”

  “Hmm. Well, I didn’t exactly expect the equivalent of Cheltenham,” Miss Shields remarked, making a note.

  Cheltenham! That was one of the poshest girls’ schools in Britain. Was Savoy Hill filled with women who had gone there? Had Miss Shields?

  “We need people who are sharp and well organized, Miss Musgrave. For this job, your educational background is less critical than your ability. Now, the post also demands some assistance given to the new director of Talks”—Maisie was quite sure Miss Shields swallowed a sneer—“but your main attention is to me, which is to say, Mr. Reith. I expect that’s quite clear?”

  “Yes, Miss Shields.” Maisie nodded.

  “Because we can’t have someone who’s got one eye somewhere else.”

  “No, Miss Shields.”

  “It is useful, of course, especially in Talks, if you know a great deal about the important people of the day and things taking place. Do you read the daily papers?”

  Maisie used to, but the long period of irregular employment made it impossible to focus on anything other than the “Situations Available” pages. She had, however, become adept at picking up abandoned papers from collection piles and cutting out shoe linings from them. They kept her feet warm. She wondered what stories she had walked on to get here.

  “I certainly do look at them, Miss Shields.”

  “I see.”

  Miss Shields didn’t seem likely to say more, and Maisie finished her tea, thinking she ought to ask a question.

  “Would I, that is, would the person you engage be working in this room with you?” It seemed unlikely, given the room’s size, but she wanted to steel herself if she were going to be subjected to that stern gaze half the day.

  “In my room? I should say not. We are pushing through a cupboard to create space.”

  Maisie glanced at the door to her left.

  “No,” Miss Shields corrected her. “That is Mr. Reith’s room.”

  Maisie’s heart jumped. Was he in there? Had he been listening? What if he opened the door?

  “This is the space we are designating,” Miss Shields said, pointing to the door on the right. “There will be space enough for a typewriter, and it will do. Much time will be spent in managing files and papers. Energy, Miss Musgrave, I need someone with energy.”

  “I have energy,” Maisie assured her, wishing there were some way to prove it. Shame I can’t turn a cartwheel.

  Miss Shields set down her cup and saucer, then looked at Maisie’s references again.

  “What I cannot understand, Miss Musgrave, is why, if you’ve had such trouble securing regular employment, you haven’t returned once more to your people in Toronto or New York.”

  Beneath the impertinence, Maisie sensed the woman was exhorting her to leave and save jobs for those who deserved them, especially as so many men were unemployed. It was a fair point, although no man would be hired as this sort of secretary. And in fact, despite the enticement of the office, Maisie planned to quit the moment she was sure her hoped-for husband was a certainty, bringing her closer to the loving family she had wanted since she knew such things existed.

  She forced her shoulders back and her breath steady.

  “Miss Shields, I may have been born and raised in what’s sometimes still called the New World, but my heart lies in the Old World. There’s nothing that makes me happier than walking around London. History’s lived here. So much began here, so many stories. This is still the center of the universe, and there are still . . . conventions here. I came here hoping to do my bit for Britain, and leaving was so stupid, so cowardly. I made it back and I’ve got to stay. I’ve just got to. This is home. I hope,” she tapered off—her blush was making her face hurt.

  But it was true. She needed this job, needed this room with the desk, the swivel chair, the bird-festooned teacup and saucer. She even needed the terrifying Miss Shields. And the hidden Mr. Reith. If the BBC’s brazen raw newness chafed against her passion for the starch and certainty of tradition and opulence, it also enchanted her with its brightness and bustle. She couldn’t be turned away. She just couldn’t.

  “Very nice, I’m sure, Miss Musgrave,” Miss Shields said dryly. “Thank you so much for coming in.” Miss Shields pressed a button by the door and held out her hand. “You will receive a letter in due course telling you of our decision. Rusty shall show you out.”

  Rusty popped up like a groundhog and hovered as Maisie shook Miss Shields’s hand and thanked her with what she hoped wasn’t an excess of sincerity. She tagged after Rusty, feeling her heart oozing through the holes in her shoes. The most important thing was to get outside before the tears came.

  “Hey, New York!”

  Just as she reached reception, Maisie was stunned to be accosted by Mr. Underwood of the school tie and baggy trousers, pattering down the stairs after her. Still grinning. Still freckled. Eyes still blue—inviting enough that she wanted to learn to swim. Had she ever been s
miled at by a man this handsome?

  “Have you been to a speakeasy, then? What’s it like? Is Broadway really so bright at night it’s like day? Gosh, I’d rather like to spend just a week there. Must be jolly great fun—not that our London isn’t the best place on earth, of course, and we can get drinks legally, but maybe it’s more fun when you can’t? I’d give a lot to see the Cotton Club. Or do they let white people in?”

  It was like being blown through with machine-gun artillery. The fellow’s interview skills were more daunting than Miss Shields’s, and the questions more impossible to answer. But he was looking at her with interest, which was more than Miss Shields had done and remarkable from a man. Grateful to him for distracting her from her misery, Maisie gave him the one answer she could manage.

  “Well, ‘Broadway’ itself is a street, but you mean the theater district. It’s . . . rather . . . well, glorious, really. All those theaters, one after the other, marquees all lit up. I daresay you could read there, though I suppose you wouldn’t want to.”

  To her dismay, he looked disappointed.

  “You don’t talk like an American, not like some of the others who’ve been here, or in the stories.”

  “Oh. Well, I . . .” She was eager to explain herself using as many choice bits of American slang as she could muster, but those eyes and freckles made syllables hard to come by.

  “Oi, Underwood!” someone shouted from the top of the steps. “What the devil are you doing, having another tea break? Get yourself back here before the man takes your head off and uses it for a football.”