Radio Girls by Sarah-Jane Stratford Page B

‘darbuka.’ I suppose we can’t expect Bach.”
    â€œI should jolly well hope not!” Hilda crowed gleefully.
    â€œThey probably won’t fit in the lift.” Fielden sighed, stumping out of the room.
    â€œI expect they’ll have a remarkable sound,” Hilda told Maisie. “Theengineers will be run to exhaustion, which should render them ecstatic. You did very well, Miss Musgrave. Thank you. I’ll give you a note for Miss Shields to explain why you’re a bit late getting back there.”
    Cripes, I forgot all about the executive offices
. She came in expecting the worst, but Reith was locked in a meeting and Miss Shields only gave her a withering glance as she scurried to her typewriter. The in-tray was invisible under the weight of correspondence.
    Maisie concentrated hard, fingers barnstorming over the keys, steadily reducing the mountain of replies requested, but couldn’t help looking up when Reith’s door opened. She got a little thrill on seeing him, breathing in the power he emanated. He walked out with yet another man in a black bowler hat saying that Reith must dine with him at his club the next week.
    â€œI should be delighted. Miss Shields will be in contact with my free days. Cheerio, then!”
    Clubs were where important men gathered to talk about important business. Maisie couldn’t imagine what it must entail, but she thought how wonderful it would be to find out, just once. To be part of the life of a man who lived this way.
    She brought the correspondence to Miss Shields.
    â€œYou look a bit melancholy, Miss Musgrave,” Reith observed, sending her spirits soaring. She loved when he singled her out. “I hope there isn’t anything troubling in that.” He indicated the letters.
    â€œOh, no. Not at all, sir. I think we get busier every week.”
    â€œThat is the idea,” he answered, pleased. “Bringing culture and education to all Britain, isn’t that right?”
    â€œI should think so, sir,” she answered reverently.
    Miss Shields handed him a report. He glanced at it, lit a cigarette, and scowled back at Maisie.
    â€œI do worry about you young girls, left all on your own after that nasty war. Rum business, having to work during prime marriage years.”
    Maisie didn’t dare look at the ageless, but perhaps not prime, Miss Shields.
    â€œI hope you don’t devote yourself too much to work that you don’t try to seize a good chance,” he advised. “There are still some sound chaps out there for a working-class girl, even if you’re not British, so long as you aren’t too particular.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” Maisie whispered, still blushing when Eckersley, the chief engineer, strode in.
    â€œAh, Eckersley!” Reith barked. “Good, good, do come in. Spot of something?”
    â€œNo, thanks, sir. I’m all right.”
    They disappeared behind the door of the inner sanctum. Maisie lingered, twisting her hands together, and inadvertently glanced at Miss Shields, who was frowning at her left ring finger. She felt Maisie’s gaze and looked up, angry triumph lighting up her face.
    â€œLoafing, are you? I’ll report that to Mr. Reith. People get sacked for less.”
    Maisie slunk away. For the rest of the day, their typewriters battled to see which was loudest.

    Miss Shields’s report went unmentioned and the secretary’s snubs continued. Maisie thought more about Reith’s warning (or was it encouragement?) regarding marriage.
But who am I kidding? Look at me. Not pretty, no money, an actress mother and an unknown father.
Her attempts to make her father less unknown continued to fail. She had written to the General Register Office, hoping Edwin Musgrave’s birth was in their records, but there was no reply.
    Family. A home. Love. All the things she’d dreamed of as a child. It was hard not to still want them. Desperately.
    At