“Perhaps we can compromise?” Maisie suggested.
“Miss Musgrave!” Reith shouted. “I have been more than tolerant with you from the beginning. You are no one and nothing, and you’ve risen quite high. I insist you retype the script to my specifications. But if you back Miss Matheson in this folly of hers, I will have your employment terminated.”
The words were on Maisie’s lips. She was quite ready to tell him she wasn’t going to submit to threats or blackmail or censorship. But she caught Hilda’s eye. Hilda did not move a muscle, but her expression told Maisie she could do more with staying on.
“I’ll adjust the script,” Maisie whispered.
“Thank you, Miss Musgrave. Perhaps you might be elevated to producer rank after all.”
“Mr. Reith,” Hilda said, her voice very plain and casual. “You have made yourself very clear, and there is nothing else for me to do other than to submit my resignation.”
“No!” Maisie cried, unable to stop herself. But neither of them seemed to notice her.
“Miss Matheson, that is being a bit extreme.” Though he looked pleased. “I am hardly asking you to leave, and I do think the BBC will be somewhat diminished without you.”
“For a while, perhaps. But what is sure is that this entire venture is lesser for submitting to such diktats. I’ve never heard of open censorship of literature leading to anything good, and I will not be seen to tolerate it. I shall deliver my formal letter of resignation in the course of the afternoon.”
And that was that.
The carriage clock was packed last, nestled lovingly into straw. Up until that moment, Maisie had thought for sure there would be one more reprieve.
“Cheerio, all. Onwards and upwards!” Hilda cried, sauntering out of the office.
As soon as she was gone, Siepmann turned to Maisie.
“I’ll have you know I expect total loyalty. This department is due for a shaking up, and I don’t know that we need quite so many girls running around.”
“I do understand.” Maisie nodded gravely. “I might be better off writing a massive exposé on the inner workings of the BBC and how staff is reorganized.”
Siepmann fixed her in a hot glare, and she smiled back, placid and almost bored.
“You’re not only angling to stay, but you want to be a producer, don’t you? Do you think I’d let you on anything other than The Week in Westminster?”
“‘Let’? No, but I think I’ll earn my way onto more shows.”
“And I suppose you want that Yorkie girl as your Talks assistant.”
“Miss Fenwick? I would, but Lady Astor has just engaged her as her new political secretary and protégée, despite their being of wildly different parties. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she sees that Lady Astor still has plenty of time to come and broadcast for us. You know how popular she is. The Talks Department will start getting good press again, I’m sure.”
“Your first failure, little lady, and you’re out,” Siepmann hissed.
“Good job I’ve got no intention of failing,” she assured him.
In fact, she’d just scored a success. He called me a lady, not a girl. Before he knows it, he’s going to stop calling me “little.”
Lady Astor fought hard to have Hilda appointed to the BBC board of governors, but Hilda declared herself sick of broadcasting. At least for a while.
“You know, Lady Astor’s coaching me to stand for office,” Phyllida confided as Lady Astor was giving her broadcast. Her new role as Lady Astor’s political secretary had bought her a tweed suit and attaché case, but she was still her pretty and pugnacious self. “Bit tricky, as I’ve been living down here, I want to represent the North properly, you see.”
“You always have,” Maisie said, but her voice was shaking. She would have rather Phyllida had stayed at the BBC a little longer.
“None of that now, you dozy cow,” Phyllida warned, though her voice wasn’t as steady as it could be. “We’ll still have lunch three times a week at least, and larks at the weekend. Onwards and upwards, remember?”
“Onwards and upwards.”
“And anyway, not all change is bad, is it?”
“No. No, it’s not.”
EPILOGUE
1932
Hilda leaned back in the chair and smiled around the pretty pub back garden.
“I can’t believe I thought life would be more restful after the BBC, but here I am, traveling all over Africa with Lord Hailey, and oh, did I mention? A publisher is interested in the little book on broadcasting, so it’s back to that as well. I’m doing revisions now.”
“I suppose you don’t need a typist?” Maisie asked. Hilda laughed, shaking her head.
“A producer at the BBC, a columnist for the Listener, and how many magazines have you written for now?”
“Five.”
“Yes, I can just see you making time to type my notes for me.”
“Also I’ve probably forgotten how to read your handwriting.”