London woke to headlines that tried to sound calm.
Pact Ensures Calm on the Continent, said The Times.
Berlin and Moscow Promise Stability, said The Daily Mail.
On street corners, men in hats read with lips pressed thin.
Women glanced at the newsbills and kept walking.
Tram bells chimed.
The air tasted like rain that wouldn't fall.
By noon, the House of Commons was a furnace.
Members packed the green benches so tightly that coats creased and elbows touched.
The air smelled of wool, tobacco, and impatience.
Clerks moved like cautious birds beneath the galleries.
Above, the press leaned in with pencils ready.
The Speaker rose. "Order! Order! The House will come to order."
The noise broke into shouts, then settled.
The Prime Minister stood.
Neville Chamberlain's face was pale but composed, his voice the same measured instrument that had soothed a thousand rooms.
He held the dispatch box as if it were a lectern at a parish meeting.
