A Tonic for the Nation

It is the summer of 1951. London is still pockmarked with bomb sites. Food is still rationed. Men who survived the Burma Railway, the North Atlantic convoys, the firebombing of cities have come home to a country worn to nothing by six years of war and five more of austerity. The war ended in 1945. The damage did not.

The government’s answer: a festival.

Kate Atkinson’s new novel, Our Noble Selves (Doubleday, September 15, 2026), is built around the real Festival of Britain, held on the South Bank of the Thames in 1951. The Festival was the government’s deliberate attempt to give a shattered nation a reason to feel something other than exhaustion. It celebrated British art, architecture, design, industry, and history. It ran from May to September 1951 and drew more than eight million visitors.

Atkinson’s main character, Harry Flynn, is a journalist who spent most of the war as a prisoner of the Japanese on the Burma Railway, forced to work on a project killing twelve thousand Allied prisoners and nearly one hundred thousand Asian laborers. He comes home carrying what cannot be spoken. He finds himself working on the Festival — helping build something beautiful because the country has decided, against all evidence, beauty is necessary.

The other organizers around him are survivors too: a Welshman who spent a week on a raft watching everyone else die, a man with a secret history in intelligence, a fourteen-year-old boy with no father. They are making something out of the wreckage. Atkinson’s author’s note says: “The only thing I made up was the plot to fit around all this.” The real history was strange enough. She simply gave it characters.

One year before the Festival of Britain was conceived, a novelist and playwright named J.B. Priestley sat before a BBC microphone on the evening of June 5, 1940. He had been asked to give a Postscript broadcast following the nine o’clock news.

Four days had passed since the Dunkirk evacuation ended. In nine days, some 338,000 soldiers had been lifted from the beaches of northern France by a fleet of naval vessels and private pleasure boats — small steamers, fishing boats, river launches, paddle steamers — anything capable of crossing the Channel.

Priestley described the pleasure boats. He said they had been “called out of our holidays and our pleasures.” He said the boats — built for summer outings, for families on day trips, for the ordinary happiness of peacetime — had gone to the beach at Dunkirk. He made the boats into an emblem of what Britain actually was: ordinary, practical, humorous, willing. He said: “So to the valour of our fighters and the fortitude of our people, there is added — and it is no small thing — the saving grace of humour.”

The broadcast was heard by millions. His Postscript series continued for months and became one of the most listened-to programs of the war. He was eventually taken off the air — some in government felt he was becoming too popular, too much his own voice. He kept writing. He kept giving the country language for what it was living through.

In 1951, Priestley helped plan the Festival of Britain. He already understood what it was for. He had been doing it another way for eleven years.

 

Atkinson’s novel is not about the Festival. It is about the people who built the Festival while carrying what they had seen. What those people did was not sentimental. It was not escapism. It was the deliberate act of people who had looked at the worst and decided to make something worthy of the best. Reviewer Kirkus wrote of Our Noble Selves: “What begins as a narrative of personal and collective collapse becomes, by the end, a story about the power of love and connection.”

The answer the Festival gave was not: forget what happened. The answer was: here is what we are still capable of. Here is the architecture we can still raise. Here is the music we can still write. Here is the story we can still tell.

The Power of Authors teaches: writing is not the comfortable work done after the necessary work is finished. Writing is necessary work. Priestley’s broadcasts did not wait until Britain was safe. They did their work in the middle of the danger — giving people language for what they were enduring, restoring dignity to ordinary life, naming the saving grace of humour when humour seemed impossible.

You may be wondering whether your writing matters right now. Whether the world’s weight leaves room for story.

It was 1951. London had bomb sites. Food was rationed. The weight was considerable. They built the Festival anyway. Harry Flynn, who had survived the Burma Railway, helped build it.

Write anyway. Your writing is not the decoration around the necessary work. It is evidence of what is still possible. Write it.

Discover why purpose is the foundation of every sentence worth writing in The Power of Authors by Evan and Lois Swensen.

The Power of Authors is available from Amazon or your favorite bookseller: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1594338698. If you’d like an autographed copy, you can order it here: http://bit.ly/4pgmzjM.

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