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

simply don’t have time for his sort of nonsense. Walking off set, I mean, honestly  . . .’ She rolled her eyes.
    â€˜So what’s going to happen?’ asked Catrin. ‘Is he really going to alter those lines?’
    â€˜Absolutely not,’ said Phyl, her jawline granite. ‘If he starts on that before lunch on day one, then by tomorrow afternoon he’ll think he’s the producer. No, the director’s backbone just needs a little reinforcement – I’ll mention the words ‘overtime’ and ‘budget’ and ‘Ministry money’. I suppose I’d better get on with it before the old goat comes back.’
    Catrin watched round the edge of the painted flat as Phyl hurried across the floor towards the director. The space was full of people, and none of them, apart from Phyl, seemed to be doing very much. There were occasional bursts of hammering and the odd incomprehensible shout; a rope was lowered from the ceiling and left dangling; three men very slowly wheeled a colossal lamp from one side of the Browns’ living room to the other, and then, after a short consultation, wheeled it back again; a man with a dustpan picked invisible bits of fluff from the upholstery of the two armchairs. ‘Get yourself down to the studio,’ Buckley had said to Catrin, ‘take a look at the action.’ In her excitement, she had missed the sarcasm.
    There was a sudden movement over by the door, and she turned to see Ambrose Hilliard strolling back towards the Browns’ living room, cigarette in hand, smoke wreathing the baggy, disdainful face. He was, she thought, no more than a decade older than Phyl – not actually old, but somehow dated , a piece of art deco in a utilitarian world. He skirted the brindled bull-terrier that was sitting directly in his path, paw outstretched, and gave a generalized and well-simulated smile that made him look almost handsome.
    â€˜Are we all ready?’ he asked. ‘Decisions made?’
    Briggs and the director came to meet him, scripts in hand. Catrin stayed behind the flat, attempting – and failing – to eavesdrop, and watching the gradual drift of personnel towards the camera.
    The serenity was broken by the blast of a whistle. ‘Final checks, please,’ shouted Briggs in a surprisingly manly voice. ‘Going for a take on the first set-up of The Letter . Over shoulder single Mrs Brown.’
    Briggs and the director took their places beside the camera; Ambrose remained where he was for a moment or two, his shoulders rigid. ‘Make it Chinese,’ bellowed someone, and there was the thud of a giant switch and a sudden buzzing blast of yellow light, turning the living room into a gilded tableau. Mrs Brown wound the wool around her fingers and picked up her knitting; Ambrose shrugged off the attentions of a woman with a powder-puff and seated himself opposite Mrs Brown. From his jacket pocket he took out what looked like a brand new pipe. The standard lamp in the corner flickered a couple of times and then steadied, and Catrin suddenly found herself staring at the opening image of the script – of her script, as she couldn’t help but think of it, although she’d been allotted a pre-existing storyline and every draft of the dialogue had been tweaked and filleted, stuffed, carved and garnished by at least a dozen other people. ‘Too many cooks,’ Buckley had said to her during one of his fleeting visits to the Ministry. ‘Too many cooks and most of ’em can’t even boil an egg.’
    â€˜But what shall I do?’ Catrin had asked him, clutching a copy of the fifth draft. ‘Most of the notes I get are actually contradictory – it’s impossible to act on them all.’
    â€˜Do nothing. That script’s all right; it’s not going to get any better. Write a memo. Tell them their comments are invaluable and that you’ve made all the