Their Finest Hour and a Half by Lissa Evans Read Free Book Online

informed, all I ask is that I’m allowed to pursue my craft in full possession of the facts. If the decision on lines is to be thrown open to the floor then simply let me know. Come one, come all . . .’ He spread his arms wide, and Pippin pursed his little mouth, and looked anxiously at Briggs.
    â€˜A brief pause to marshall our thoughts?’ suggested Ambrose. ‘A chance for you to consult the new constitution of the people’s collective of the Albany Road studios? I shall take ten minutes, then.’ He stalked towards the heavy double doors, enjoying the silence, the singular, crackling, theatrical silence that invariably signalled the end of a powerful scene. Chick, standing beside the exit, opened one of the doors for him, and Ambrose inclined his head in thanks. Grace and power, he thought, grace and power, an invincible combination; there was no doubt who would win this fight, no doubt whose lines would be spoken when filming resumed. The door closed behind him with a dull thud, and he checked his watch. Ten minutes. Just about enough time to get to the tobacconist’s on Clipstone Street and back.
    Catrin’s face felt like a great flaming disk, the skin emitting so much heat that she could almost feel her eyebrows crisping. After the actor playing Mr Brown had walked out, she had been told off – in succession and in front of anyone who cared to watch (and there had been people hanging from the rafters) – by the plump actress, the man with the tie, and the director, who had given her a hissy little speech about undermining his authority. After that, the woman with the stopwatch round her neck had taken her into the dark canyon between the high wooden set and the studio wall and told her she’d been a damn fool to open her mouth on the floor.
    â€˜But what was I supposed to do?’ asked Catrin. ‘He’s ruining the script.’
    â€˜If you had anything at all that needed saying, you should have spoken to the first AD.’
    â€˜The who?’
    â€˜The first assistant director – Briggs, the one with the ridiculous tie. You shouldn’t even have come on to the set without asking him, it’s not etiquette. And secondly, you shouldn’t have been here at all. There’s no point in the writer coming to the studio.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because no one takes any notice of you and you simply get in the way.’ It was stated matter-of-factly and without malice. The woman was in her mid-forties, spare and dry-skinned, her sandy hair pulled back into a bun from which a fan of brittle loose-ends radiated like a sunburst. ‘I’m Phyl, by the way,’ she said. ‘Continuity.’
    â€˜So most writers don’t come to the filming?’
    â€˜They stick their heads in and wince and then go and drink tea somewhere. Occasionally they’ll be called in to re-work a scene. That’s if there’s even a script in the first place. Half of these short films seem to be made up by the director as he goes along.’
    â€˜And by the cast?’
    â€˜Only if the director’s the sort of wet lettuce we have today. And if the actor’s a pompous old fool who doesn’t realize that he should be grateful for any scraps that are flung his way. Do you recognize him?’
    â€˜I’m not sure. Did he play a detective in something? Quite a long time ago?’
    â€˜The Inspector Charnforth Mysteries. He didn’t play Charnforth, he played the professorial type that Charnforth went to for advice – chin-stroking and so on. How old are you?’
    â€˜Twenty.’
    â€˜God, is that all? Well, when you were stumbling around in pinafores he was a bit of a matinee idol. Ambrose Hilliard. He was known as The Man with the Glint.’
    â€˜With the what?’
    â€˜With the Glint. In his eye, I presume. Now he’s just a BF who hasn’t grasped that the world has changed and that we