Read Online Radio Girls by Sarah-Jane Stratford - Free Book Online

anything to do with the hiring of the girls, generally, but in this instance I thought it best to have a small hand in.”
    He was still scowling, and now she discerned that the creases around his eyes turned up slightly, creating his version of a smile.
    This man was responsible for hiring me
.
    Her fingers were gouging into her knees, preventing her from sliding to the floor in obeisance.
    If Reith noticed her naked gratitude, he hid it under his scowl as he stirred sugar into his tea.
    â€œThere are two questions I like to ask of potential BBC staff,” he said, taking a sip of tea and sniffing in approval. He leaned closer to her, eyebrows tight, chin jutted. “Are you a Christian, and have you any character defects?”
    Maisie’s jaw unhinged. Since the true answers were “no” and “countless,” there was nothing to do but stare at him hopelessly.
    Reith took a big puff on his cigarette and laughed. Or anyway, it sounded like a laugh; she didn’t want to swear to it.
    â€œNot to worry. Not to worry. I only ask in earnest when interviewing men for top positions. I was merely curious to see how you would respond, though of course I don’t doubt you are a well brought-up girl.”
    Maisie was beyond relieved he had answered for her. During Toronto exiles, her grandmother (the incongruous Lorelei, who had spent an admirable life’s work exorcising the name’s implied sensuality) marched Maisie to the First Anglican Church every Sunday, carrying a birch switch to remind her of consequences. “Your mother is the first and last whore in this bloodline. I shall beat every last sin out of you if I must, so help me.” Certainly, all the local hoodlums were happy to assist—the unwanted daughter of an actress must deserve beating. Georgina’s neglect was a welcome relief on a Sunday, as she slept all day.
    As to character defects, between Maisie’s assessment and Georgina’s, there couldn’t be enough letterhead in the BBC to complete the list.
    Did Reith expect everyone to say “Yes” and “No”? Would he believe the latter? There wasn’t such a man, was there? Would he be absurdly dull or irritatingly perfect?
    â€œI hope you are a hard worker,” Reith barked, his scowl twisting into expectation.
    â€œYes, sir,” she squeaked. “I mean, I am.”
    â€œExcellent.” He nodded, taking another sip of tea.
    â€œYour next appointment, Mr. Reith,” Miss Shields announced from the door.
    â€œThank you,” he said, which sufficed for both women.
    â€œBack to Talks with you, then,” Miss Shields ordered Maisie. “You have those minutes?”
    The typed pages, neat and exact, were received with a resigned grunt. Maisie wondered how Miss Jenkins would react to asupervisor who seemed to resent a lack of error. “You have to be prepared for anything,” she’d lectured her students.
I think I’ll write and suggest a new course for the curriculum
.

    Hilda’s lamps were turned up full, making the room cozy in the chilly November afternoon. She handed Maisie a typed script covered in illegible red writing.
    â€œA Talk runs fifteen minutes; we’re rather firm about that. Except when we’re not. Some Talks warrant more time. Unfortunately, every speaker thus far seems to think their subject is one of the latter.” Hilda grinned. “Can’t blame them, can you? I’m developing a set of guidelines that should help them. You can type my initial notes tomorrow. No time to lose.”
    Imagine knowing so much about a topic, you can talk and be interesting for fifteen minutes. Be considered an expert, invited to broadcast. Be listened to and paid.
    Maisie looked at the script. It was for a broadcast by Joseph Conrad. Perhaps that meant Maisie was going to meet him, going to meet all such men when they came in to broadcast. This job might be something close to