Royal
Beach to meet the City Council members. Judy, lining up
with the rest of the staff to greet him, gazed in awe at his
stumpy figure and the famous cigar wedged in his mouth.
He really does look like a bulldog, she thought - absolutely
determined, as if nothing can stop him. If anyone can make
us win the war, he can.
He made a speech too, as good as any on the wireless. ‘I
thought about you a good deal a few weeks ago when we
knew how heavily you were being attacked,’ he told them,
‘and I am very glad to find an afternoon to come to see you
here and wish you “Good Luck”. Our buildings, our
dwellings, may be destroyed, but the spirit of Britain glows
warmer and brighter for the tribulations through which we
pass. We shall come through. We cannot tell when. We
cannot tell how. But we shall come through.’ He paused and
seemed to look at every person present, as if calling on each
one to live up to his expectations. ‘We have none of us
any doubt whatever. And when we have done so, we shall
have the right to say,’ his voice swelled and deepened, ‘that
we live in an age that, in all the long history of Britain, was
most filled with glorious achievement and most graced by
duties done.’
There was a pause as he finished speaking, and then a
spontaneous outburst of applause. All the women and many
of the men had tears in their eyes. Mr Churchill stood for a
moment, smiling broadly, then he nodded his big head and
waved his hand, giving them the famous Victory salute, and
turned to go out of the room.
‘Isn’t he wonderful!’ Judy said, going back to her desk.
‘You can’t help but follow a man like that. I mean, even on
the wireless he makes you feel you could do anything, but
when you see him in person - well, he’s like a tidal wave,
rushing you along.’
‘And the way he puts things,’ Laura agreed. ‘I used to be
good at English at school, but I could never put things the
way he does. And it wasn’t even a big speech, not to go on
the wireless or in Parliament, I mean. It was just to us, here
in Pompey.’
‘It’ll be in the newspapers though,’ Judy said. ‘The Evening News will print it — there was a reporter here taking down every word — and some of the others will too, I expect.
Plenty of people will get to know what he said to us.’
They went back to work, heartened by the Prime
Minister’s words. Judy thought about them, wondering just
why they seemed so different from the bishop’s during the
mass funeral. He, too, had been trying to give them hope,
but somehow it hadn’t been the same. It was as if he were
trying to brush aside and glorify the horrible deaths that so
many people had suffered, whereas Mr Churchill seemed to
suffer with them. He’d seen deaths like that himself, he
knew what they were like and didn’t pretend they were
glorious or ‘happy’, but at the same time he seemed to draw
strength from them, and hand it on to others. What was it
he’d said in that other speech? ‘I have nothing to offer you but blood, toil, tears and sweat.’ And, ‘We shall fight them in the streets and the hills and on the beaches. We shall never
surrender.’ He didn’t pretend, but at the same time he gave you hope and some of his own stubborn determination. And
he made you feel that, however small a part you played
yourself, it was important. It was all a part of the great
national effort.
Just at the moment, Judy’s part in that effort was trying
to set up a system for salvage collections - there had been
appeals for binoculars for the Navy, for saucepans and other
aluminium goods for making aeroplanes, for clothes, for rags
and bones. Nothing, it seemed, was to be thrown away;
everything could be put to some use.
‘There are going to be special bins for food scraps,’ she
said. ‘They’ll be collected for pig swill - pigs will eat
anything. There’ll be one on the corner of every street
Beach to meet the City Council members. Judy, lining up
with the rest of the staff to greet him, gazed in awe at his
stumpy figure and the famous cigar wedged in his mouth.
He really does look like a bulldog, she thought - absolutely
determined, as if nothing can stop him. If anyone can make
us win the war, he can.
He made a speech too, as good as any on the wireless. ‘I
thought about you a good deal a few weeks ago when we
knew how heavily you were being attacked,’ he told them,
‘and I am very glad to find an afternoon to come to see you
here and wish you “Good Luck”. Our buildings, our
dwellings, may be destroyed, but the spirit of Britain glows
warmer and brighter for the tribulations through which we
pass. We shall come through. We cannot tell when. We
cannot tell how. But we shall come through.’ He paused and
seemed to look at every person present, as if calling on each
one to live up to his expectations. ‘We have none of us
any doubt whatever. And when we have done so, we shall
have the right to say,’ his voice swelled and deepened, ‘that
we live in an age that, in all the long history of Britain, was
most filled with glorious achievement and most graced by
duties done.’
There was a pause as he finished speaking, and then a
spontaneous outburst of applause. All the women and many
of the men had tears in their eyes. Mr Churchill stood for a
moment, smiling broadly, then he nodded his big head and
waved his hand, giving them the famous Victory salute, and
turned to go out of the room.
‘Isn’t he wonderful!’ Judy said, going back to her desk.
‘You can’t help but follow a man like that. I mean, even on
the wireless he makes you feel you could do anything, but
when you see him in person - well, he’s like a tidal wave,
rushing you along.’
‘And the way he puts things,’ Laura agreed. ‘I used to be
good at English at school, but I could never put things the
way he does. And it wasn’t even a big speech, not to go on
the wireless or in Parliament, I mean. It was just to us, here
in Pompey.’
‘It’ll be in the newspapers though,’ Judy said. ‘The Evening News will print it — there was a reporter here taking down every word — and some of the others will too, I expect.
Plenty of people will get to know what he said to us.’
They went back to work, heartened by the Prime
Minister’s words. Judy thought about them, wondering just
why they seemed so different from the bishop’s during the
mass funeral. He, too, had been trying to give them hope,
but somehow it hadn’t been the same. It was as if he were
trying to brush aside and glorify the horrible deaths that so
many people had suffered, whereas Mr Churchill seemed to
suffer with them. He’d seen deaths like that himself, he
knew what they were like and didn’t pretend they were
glorious or ‘happy’, but at the same time he seemed to draw
strength from them, and hand it on to others. What was it
he’d said in that other speech? ‘I have nothing to offer you but blood, toil, tears and sweat.’ And, ‘We shall fight them in the streets and the hills and on the beaches. We shall never
surrender.’ He didn’t pretend, but at the same time he gave you hope and some of his own stubborn determination. And
he made you feel that, however small a part you played
yourself, it was important. It was all a part of the great
national effort.
Just at the moment, Judy’s part in that effort was trying
to set up a system for salvage collections - there had been
appeals for binoculars for the Navy, for saucepans and other
aluminium goods for making aeroplanes, for clothes, for rags
and bones. Nothing, it seemed, was to be thrown away;
everything could be put to some use.
‘There are going to be special bins for food scraps,’ she
said. ‘They’ll be collected for pig swill - pigs will eat
anything. There’ll be one on the corner of every street
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