The rain started before dawn and did not stop.
By nine o'clock it had turned from a drizzle into a steady English sheet that made the flag above Number 10 hang heavy and dark.
In the Cabinet Room the green baize table was crowded with files and tea cups.
A map of Central Europe lay unfolded, pinned by a paperweight and the Prime Minister's spectacles case.
The windows were beaded with water so thick the street beyond looked like it had been rubbed out.
Neville Chamberlain sat at the head of the table, chin forward, hands neatly folded as if an invigilator were about to hand him an examination paper.
To his right sat Halifax, long face unreadable.
Around them clustered secretaries and ministers, the private staff with notebooks open, pens poised for instructions that would settle the day.
Chamberlain began in a tone he used for many difficult things a calm, oddly intimate.
