It’s a close June night in the Welsh hills, taut with the threat of thunder, and the radios of the village cough with static. The Quarryman’s Arms, with the tallest aerial for miles around, is a scrum of bodies, all waiting to hear Churchill’s broadcast.
There’s a flurry of shouted orders leading up to the news at six. Esther, behind the lounge bar, pulls pint after pint, leaning back against the pumps so that the beer froths in the glass. She sets the shaker out for those who want to salt their drinks to melt the foam. Round the corner to her right, her boss, Jack Jones, has his hands full with the regulars in the public bar. At five to six by the scarred grandfather clock in the corner, he calls across for Esther to “warm ’er up.” She tops off the pint she’s pouring, steps back from the counter and up onto the pop crate beneath the till. She has to stretch for the knob on the wireless, one foot lifting off the crate. Behind her, over the calls for service, she hears a few low whistles before the machine clicks into life, first with a scratchy hum, then a whistle of its own, finally, as if from afar, the signature tune of the program. The dial lights up like a sunset, and the noise around her subsides at once. Turning, the girl looks down into the crowd of faces staring up at the glowing radio, and it seems to her for a moment as if she has stilled them.
The men—soldiers, mostly, in the lounge—sip their beers slowly during the broadcast. She looks from face to face, but they’re all gazing off, concentrating on the prime minister’s shuffling growl. The only ones to catch her eye are Harry Hitch, who’s mouthing something—“me usual”—and Colin, who winks broadly from across the room.
Colin’s one of the sappers with the Pioneer Corps building the base near the old holiday camp in the valley. They’ve been bringing some much-needed business to the Arms for the last month, and for the last fortnight Esther and Colin have been sweethearts. Tonight she’s agreed to slip off with him after work—he’s got “something special” to tell her, he’s promised—a date that seems destined now. She says the English word in her mind, “sweethearts,” likes the way it sounds. She listens to Churchill, the voice of England, imagines him whispering it gravely, swallows a smile. She concentrates on the speech, thinks of the men on the beaches, and feels herself fill with emotion for her soldier like a slow-pouring glass of Guinness. There’s a thickening in her throat, a brimming pressure behind her eyes. It’s gratitude she feels, mixed with pride and hope, and she trusts that together this blend amounts to love.
The broadcast ends and the noise builds again in the pub. It’s not quite a cheer—the speech has been sternly cautious—but there’s a sense of excitement kept just in check and a kind of relief, as if a long-held breath can finally be released. All spring the whispered talk has been about an invasion, and now it’s here, D-day, the beginning of the end. The suspected secret the whole country has silently shared for months can be talked about openly at last. Everyone is smiling at the soldiers and calling congratulations, even the locals clustered behind the public bar.