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"A policeman must always go where the crime is," Martha said, "even if the bright lights of radio are beckoning."

Mr. Hayes chuckled. "Indeed."

"So," Martha said, knowing he would be grateful for the change of subject, "the new serial will follow Blue Hills?"

"That's right. At a quarter past one in the afternoon and then again in the evenings. Gwen Meredith and her town of Tanimbla and her characters are staying put, but we feel there's an audience for another drama at that time of day. Do you know, Miss Berry, that Mrs. Meredith writes every single episode? Fifteen minutes of original drama. A bloody marvel. A terrific lady writer. She's one of a kind. A singular talent. I don't think there's another woman in the world who's as accomplished as she is in radio drama. We were lucky enough to find the only woman with the talent, determination, and grit to be that prolific and that clever. The letters we get from listeners about Blue Hills—why, you wouldn't believe it, Miss Berry."

Martha did believe it. She'd been an avid listener herself since the drama had first gone to air in 1949, and she'd been a fan of its predecessor, The Lawsons, which had started in the last years of the war. Mrs. Meredith was an accomplished playwright and emerging theater personality when she'd entered an ABC play competition in 1940, and even though the judges had selected someone else as the winner, Mrs. Meredith was the clear favorite in a listeners' poll. Of course, there had been grumblings that she was married and surely a married woman wouldn't have the time to devote her attentions to her job when she was busy devoting them all to her husband, but Mrs. Meredith had proved the naysayers wrong and The Lawsons and then Blue Hills became smash hits, and Mrs. Meredith became radio's brightest star.

Martha had never been able to listen to the daytime airings as she'd always been at work, but her mother, Violet, listened avidly at 1:00 p.m. over her lunch and never complained about hearing it all over again when it was repeated in the evenings, as had become a habit for Martha and Violet and households from Perth to Townsville and everywhere in between. After dinner, the nation would quiet, cups of tea would be made, and a biscuit or two would be consumed while the symphonic strains of the opening theme of Blue Hills filled the living rooms and kitchens of Australian households.

"I did a stint in the mail department last year. I saw the correspondence with my own eyes."

"Then you'll know they pour in from everywhere, from the back of Bourke to Western Australia. The powers that be want to surf on that success." Mr. Hayes leaned back in his chair and fiddled with his empty pipe. "We want to see what Quinn comes up with. He'll bring a younger perspective, you understand. We want it to be set right here in Sydney. In the suburbs. The ordinary suburbs. It will encompass all the things young people like these days, music and dancing and so on."

Martha nodded politely.

"Not that we want to lose the housewives, mind you. They love their sweep-while-you-weep dramas. Portia Faces Life. All those dramas on Lux Radio Theatre."

"When a Girl Marries," Martha added. She and Violet loved "radio's most appealing human interest romance," as it was billed.

"Yes, quite. And, of course, the commercial broadcasters have their lady lawyers and doctors, that sort of thing. As the national broadcaster, we very much see it as our duty to provide entertainment for the ladies of Australia. The men, of course, have their news and current affairs and discussions of serious literature, opera, and theater in the evenings when they get home from the office and are looking for some relaxation. But it's only right that we cater to the fairer sex too."

"It certainly is, Mr. Hayes."

"And you, Miss Berry, will be a vital cog in the new serial. I know you've worked with many of our producers, all those talented chaps who've gone on to bigger and better things. That young Peter Fellowes started here at seventeen, you know, and has flown the coop to London. He's writing for the BBC." Mr. Hayes's face lit up. "The original Auntie herself!"

"He was a prodigy indeed," she replied. And one who never once managed to land a screwed-up script in the wastepaper basket next to his desk.

"You know the ropes here. Show them to Quentin Quinn. Make sure he fills in all the right forms and so on. You'll be good for him." Mr. Hayes looked to the ceiling and she sensed a pontification coming on. "Miss Berry, you're one of a special breed here."

"Special?" She'd never heard herself described in such a way and was suddenly perplexed by the compliment.

"You're a female."

This was hardly news to her, but she was far too polite to interrupt Mr. Hayes's soliloquy.

"We have found, over the years, that female secretaries such as yourself are easier to supervise. You're very tolerant of routines—which men might find frustrating, if not a little boring—and you accommodate those routines with care and a certain equanimity."