Their Finest Hour and a Half Read Free Page B

this particular piece of humour was broadcast on the wireless, do you think that would affect your opinion on the authority and/or the ability of the BBC to—’
    The door from the corridor opened suddenly, admitting two men. ‘Off you go, Flaxton,’ said the younger and better-looking of the two, ‘no one wants to hear your jokes.’
    Flaxton slammed the file shut and stood up. ‘We all have work to do, Roger,’ he said, with something akin to a flounce. ‘ Morale happens to be mine, whereas undermining morale appears to be yours.’
    â€˜No, telling rotten jokes badly is yours, and trying actually to get something done is mine. Heard the one about the junior under-assistant in Home Intelligence who got transferred to Reception and Facilities?’
    â€˜No,’ said Flaxton, endeavouring to reach the door.
    â€˜You will.’ The door closed, and the speaker turned back to Catrin, smiled charmingly and offered a hand. ‘Roger Swain, assistant deputy sub-controller film division. I’m so sorry we were late and that you were subjected to Flaxton. His department’s conducting a humour survey to examine public attitudes towards the civil defence services and he’s run out of internal victims. Did you laugh?’
    â€˜Not much, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜Good.’
    â€˜ Film division?’
    â€˜That’s correct. It’s Miss Cole, is it? Or Mrs?’
    â€˜Mrs.’
    â€˜Your husband’s in the forces? Or is he another one of us pen pushers?’
    â€˜He’s an artist.’ She said the word with pride.
    â€˜An artist?’ Roger raised an eyebrow. ‘Would I have heard of him?’
    â€˜Ellis Cole.’
    â€˜Rings a bell. Pit wheels, belching chimneys, that type of thing?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜And is he keeping busy?’
    â€˜He’s working on a short contract from the War Artists Committee – four paintings for the Ministry of Supply.’
    It didn’t sound much, she knew, but Roger nodded politely. ‘Splendid. Well, we’d better get started, I suppose. This—’
    â€˜Buckley,’ said the older man, laconically, seating himself on one corner of the desk and folding his arms across the shelf of his paunch; he had a slab of fair hair, a narrow ginger moustache and teeth that looked rather sharp. He was smiling, but the effect was more predatory than welcoming. ‘I’ve been told I’m a special advisor,’ he said, ‘though not, it transpires, special enough to actually get paid. Welsh, are you?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Can’t be helped. And you’re much younger than I thought you’d be. What are you, twenty-one, twenty-two?’ His tone was accusatory; she felt herself beginning to redden.
    â€˜Nearly twenty,’ she said.
    â€˜Saints preserve us. Here.’ He slid a thin sheaf of paper across the desk top. ‘Read it. Tell me what you think.’
    She looked at him uncertainly. ‘ Read it,’ he said, with deliberation, and she hurriedly bent her head. It was a short script, carelessly typed on paper so thin that she could see the shadow of her fingers through every sheet.
    BITING THE BULLET
    1. EXTERIOR. BROWN’S ARMAMENTS FACTORY, EVENNG
    Noise of machines etc.
    2. INTERIOR FACTORY
    Rows of production lines, women working away producing bullet casings. Close up of 2 young women in partic. Shouting at each other over the noise of the machines.
    RUBY
    Are you going out somewhere special tonight, Joan?
    JOAN
    Yes I am, I’m meeting Charlie at the Palais, he’s got a weekend pass and I can’t wait for a dance. What about you?
    RUBY
    No, I’m simply too tired, I’ve been working seven days straight. I’m staying in and going to bed early.
    JOQN
    I don’t blame you, I could sleep for a whole wek. Roll on the end of the shift.
    RUBY
    There’s only another five minutes to