Radio Girls by Sarah-Jane Stratford Page A

anyway (“you’re not as twangy as most Americans, but your accent will still put people off”). Reaching out to a stranger on behalf of the BBC was not in her bulwark.
    â€œI’d really rather type and things,” Maisie begged. “My voice just isn’t—”
    â€œOf course it is,” Hilda interrupted. “And we need more notes before there can be any typing.” The clear eyes lasered in on Maisie. “You have a very pleasant manner, you know.”
    She always sounds so sincere. Why isn’t she a politician?
    â€œWe just need to find something that won’t shame the BBC.”
    Was that meant to be encouraging? Hilda was halfway into her own office but stuck her head around the door again.
    â€œAnd warn everyone that if I hear the phrase ‘Turkish Delight’ they’ll get a hose turned on them.”
    Maisie picked up the phone, though she could barely keep it steady, and asked the operator to connect her.
    Maybe no one will answer anywhere
.
    But someone did, and she had to speak.
    â€œEr, hullo. Um, this is Miss Musgrave calling from the BBC Talks Department, and, er . . . I . . . That is, we were hoping you might be able to assist . . .”
    The voice squeaked and crackled—it would have rained fuzz through the airwaves. But the words got out. And Maisie hadn’t reckoned the effect of “BBC.” The man on the other end didn’t know she was Mousy Maisie, Invisible Girl, dogsbody extraordinaire.
    â€œYes, Miss Musgrave, what can I do for you?”
    She’d never heard anyone address her so deferentially.
    â€œWe’re preparing a Talk on Turkey, and we’re a bit pressed for time—” Was that really her voice, gaining confidence and competence by the syllable? This man deeply regretted not being able to help, and meant it. Maisie thanked him politely and soldiered on.
    â€œThis is Miss Musgrave of the BBC Talks Department.” The voice was getting crisper and more commanding, with a mixture ofwarmth and politeness. “We are looking for a knowledgeable person to speak about Turkey for a program that’s come up rather suddenly and were hoping you might be able to assist us.”
    Maisie reported it all: the restaurant managers who thought maybe, perhaps, could they ring back? The expert in Byzantine history who insisted the capital be referred to as Constantinople, even though it had been renamed Istanbul in 1923. (“I’m all for adding controversy,” Hilda said, “but he doesn’t sound like someone who can be bullied into decorum in a timely fashion.”) The diplomat who wanted to pontificate on the successful eradication of the Ottoman Empire and the proven brilliance of the Sykes-Picot Agreement. (“Practically begs the imperialists in the Turkish embassy to march on the BBC with torches and pitchforks. Certainly good for publicity, but a nuisance for the fire brigade and awkward if we want lunch.”)
    The phones rang in—Hilda had sent telegrams to “a few Foreign Office chaps I know.” The representative of the Turkish consulate was glad to speak to Miss Matheson if she was a friend of Mr. Winters, but was concerned the BBC was making light of his nation.
    â€œNothing of the sort,” Hilda insisted. “We want listeners to gain a real understanding of the Turkish nation, not just its history, but what its people are really like. If you can send over a few notes this afternoon, we can turn it into a script and send it back for your approval.”
    â€œThat seems satisfactory,” came the grudging, but also eager, response.
    â€œThank you so much!”
    â€œI’ll get on looking for musicians,” Maisie offered.
    â€œNo need,” Fielden announced with grim smugness. “I’ve found us a trio, Miss Matheson, who play instruments called a ‘saz,’ a ‘sipsi,’ and a