Their Finest Hour and a Half Read Online Free PDF

new forms of art.’
    â€˜I should hope they do. I’m sick of seeing stuffy old portraits of generals, the sort of thing that chap Eves does – technique unchanged in twenty years. You know he’s on a bloody salary from the War Office?’
    Ellis released Catrin’s waist and began to cut up the fish with the blade he used for sharpening pencils.
    â€˜I had my interview,’ said Catrin.
    â€˜What’s that?’ asked Ellis.
    â€˜I had my interview at the Ministry of Information. And you’ll never guess where I’ve ended up.’
    â€˜Slogans,’ suggested Perry. ‘“Divide and Rule.” “ Your Courage, Your Cheerfulness, Your Resolution Will Bring Us Victory”.’
    â€˜No, not slogans. They’ve seen the advertisements that I wrote for So-Bee-Fee and they’re putting me in the film division. Helping to write scripts!’
    She waited for a reaction; Ellis nodded a couple of times. ‘Yes, I’d heard that they’re starting to siphon money into film propaganda.’
    â€˜The transient arts,’ said Perry, disparagingly. ‘Next thing we know they’ll be setting up a ballet division. And what are they paying you?’
    â€˜Three pounds a week. I’ll be working mainly on women’s dialogue. In short films. And they said I’d—’
    â€˜SHOWING A LIGHT!’ shouted Ellis, suddenly, and the figure who had just entered the garage closed the door hastily behind himself and shouted an apology.
    â€˜Which is a reminder,’ said Ellis, checking his watch, ‘that I’d better get off to Post C. Thanks for the supper, Cat.’ He kissed her on the lips and then crammed a last handful of chips into his mouth.
    Catrin watched him go.
    â€˜Do you want the rest of that cod?’ asked Perry.
    â€˜No thanks,’ she said. She felt oddly flat. It was so seldom that she had anything of interest to tell Ellis.
    â€˜Three pounds a week,’ said Perry, ruminatively, picking up scraps of batter with a damp finger. ‘Wish I could write gossip for three pounds a week.’

THE MINISTRY OF INFORMATION PRESENTS . . .

June 1940
    There was no chair with his name on the back. There was no dressing-room, and in any case there was no costume to be fitted. There was no car to collect him from home or to return him at the end of the day. The script was printed on what looked like rice paper. The sole water closet in the studio could be used by anyone, even electricians. The director was eight years old. The continuity girl was ninety. The pay was an insult.
    â€˜I really am grateful,’ said Ambrose to the journalist from Kinematograph Weekly , ‘to be able to do something for the war effort. Really – it’s almost a privilege.’ He took a mouthful of lukewarm chicory and smiled over the journalist’s shoulder at the lady sitting at the next table. She looked startled.
    It had been yet another disappointment to add to the catalogue accrued during the day so far that the journalist – a shabby, enthusiastic man named Heswell – was not interviewing Ambrose for a feature on Ambrose but for some article about Ministry-sponsored films, Ambrose acting as a mere conduit for information. There being – but of course! – no green room in the studio, they had adjourned to a café in the next street, taking advantage of the mid-morning break enforced by the striking of one inadequate set and the erection of another.
    â€˜I gather it’s all very economical,’ said Heswell, dabbing away at a tiny notepad. ‘What is it – two films a day? Seventy seconds apiece?’
    â€˜Indeed.’
    â€˜And another two tomorrow?’
    â€˜For my sins.’
    Heswell looked up at him enquiringly.
    â€˜That means yes,’ said Ambrose, abandoning charm. ‘I simply hope that the degree of economy being used does not transfer to the