“Turn it up, dammit—up, up, up. Can't hear a bloody thing.” Beaverbrook's voice echoed around the marble walls of the bathroom before erupting through the open door into the outer room, and anxious fingers scrabbled at the dials of the wireless set. “Not that there'll be any damn thing worth listening to, just Winston's usual windbagging,” the Canadian added. “It's starting,” a discomfited and evidently junior voice announced. This observation was followed by a series of gruntings from within th...e bathroom that sent a ripple of embarrassment amongst the four men gathered around the desk outside. They were all over-paid executives, and one of the functions they were over-paid to endure was their boss conducting meetings from the John. Beaverbrook liked to shock, keep men guessing, and usually he succeeded. The men continued to shuffle uneasily until the voice of Churchill, sibilant, slightly crackling and lacking in bass but nevertheless totally distinctive in its lilting tones, at last gave them merciful distraction.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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