The Hopkins Manuscript

CHAPTER NINE

My annoyance over the trivial stupidity of Beadle was soon forgotten when I awoke on Monday morning.

So infuriated – so justly infuriated – had I been at my treatment by the vicar and the publican that for the moment I had almost lost sight of the fact that the rest of the world might be just as badly disturbed by the news as the village of Beadle.

I awoke from a restless sleep at three in the morning, and after lying for several hours rehearsing what I would say to the publican if ever I met him again, it suddenly occurred to me that the morning newspapers ought to be extremely interesting.

Within a very few minutes the vicar and the publican assumed their correct size in my sense of proportion (in other words they became small insects and were completely forgotten) and I began to wonder how the newspapers would tackle their frightfully difficult job.

They had got away with the ‘phenomenon’ at Christmas by the skilful expedient of humour, but headlines such as ‘The Moon in Festive Mood’ would serve no longer. They could not make fun of the end of the world, but on the other hand it was their duty at all costs to allay fear. I was still pondering this intriguing problem when Mrs Buller brought my morning tea, and I could scarcely wait until she had left the room before I snatched up the papers to see what they had to say about it all.

Upon first sight I was somewhat disappointed. I had expected terrific, flaming headlines of the most sensational description: I almost expected the papers to appear with broad edges of black, in advance mourning for the death of the world. But instead I observed in each paper a masterly restraint, and a tone that inspired excitement rather than panic.

Each published an Official Statement of the salient facts, phrased with a calm dignity that somehow stirred one’s pride. Each followed this with interviews and articles by famous scientists who enlarged upon every particle of hope with the greatest skill.

The ‘grazing’ theory was the one unanimously adopted. It was explained that the tails of comets had frequently grazed the earth without doing the slightest damage, and although the moon was a solid body, its size in relation to the earth was only that of a cherry compared with a large orange.

If a cherry were to graze the surface of an orange it was scarcely likely to smash the orange to pieces.

Some papers went so far as to question whether even a graze would occur. The moon, they explained, had simply taken a new course: its gravitational poise had been disturbed and it might now be moving without any relationship with the earth at all. It might pass close to us and then move away for ever into the uncharted spaces of the universe: we should miss it, naturally, but it provided nothing that we could not do without at a pinch. The tides, for instance, which were influenced by the moon, were valuable in keeping the seaside beaches clean during the summer season but other means could doubtless be discovered. Shipping would be assisted very greatly: so many big liners were slaves to the tides and frequently lost so much time in waiting for them that the disappearance of the moon would be welcomed in nautical circles. The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, which took advantage of the tide upon the Thames, would have to be rowed in the opposite direction, from Mortlake to Putney, in order to obtain the advantage of normal river stream – and so, with extraordinary adroitness, the newspapers led us away from the dangerous, panic-breeding grounds of scientific theory to the homely, amusing details of life without a moon.

One finely-written article stressed the awe-inspiring romance and excitement that lay in store for us. The generation upon earth this day would be privileged to witness a stupendous phenomenon denied to the ages past and the ages yet to come… In three months’ time would come a terrific thrill… the moon would pass literally a few miles from us – it would fill the whole sky – it would pass and leave us, perhaps for ever. In years to come old men at their firesides would say to their grandchildren – ‘I remember the moon…’ – every ounce of human courage would be demanded: there might be storms and floods… there would be danger, but the human race was inured to danger… the world must keep calm… it was not created to perish… all would be well.

Upon one point all were definitely agreed. There would be no ‘head-on’ crash. This was impossible because the moon and the earth were revolving in the same direction. We could no more have a ‘head-on’ crash than two motor-cars could crash head-on when travelling side by side. The only thing that could definitely smash the world was therefore out of the question…

I dressed and shaved with a buoyancy of spirit which I had not experienced for years: I even sang in my bath – a thing I had not done since my college days. I was profoundly affected by the newspapers. This was no mere ‘eyewash’. There was reason and deep thought behind their optimism. I was angry with Professor Hartley for having disturbed us so unnecessarily at the meetings of our Society, but I reflected that all ‘experts’ were tarred with the same brush – they could never resist exploiting their superior wisdom to alarm their listeners. I felt a deep, exultant conviction that the world would survive – that the human race, purified by a common danger, would emerge with all its petty jealousy and senseless strife forgotten. Instead of destroying us the moon would deliver us for ever from greed and cruelty and war by frightening us into an everlasting thankfulness.

Directly after breakfast I went down to the village to ask Mr Westrop, the postmaster, whether he thought the Widgeley Poultry Show would be cancelled. Widgeley was fortunate in having a keen, efficient Committee and their show, unlike some that I could mention, always went like clockwork. I well recollect one show (which I will spare from naming), at which the judge of the Wyandotte cockerel class appeared in a disgustingly intoxicated condition. After making several absurd remarks he announced in a loud voice that he would give a special prize of five pounds to the hen that could lay the most eggs in ten minutes. He then shouted: ‘Are you ready, go!’ It was a disgraceful scene, but it aroused such deafening laughter from the onlookers that my hen Broodie actually laid an egg on the spot, and it gave me the greatest pleasure to force the drunken sot into delivering a five-pound note.

Mr Westrop, who shows Rhode Island pullets in a modest way, agreed with me that the Widgeley Committee were most unlikely to cancel the show, particularly as they had already booked the County Hall. The show being on Thursday, I arranged to share a van with Mr Westrop to convey our exhibits. I was showing my six little Bantam hens for the first time, and although I had not possessed them long enough to bring them into winning condition, I was very anxious to see how they would compare with thoroughly trained birds.

After leaving the post office I had to pass the Fox & Hounds. I was giving it a wide berth (for I had no wish to see its surly proprietor again) when I heard someone call my name, and to my surprise saw Murgatroyd himself approaching me.

I was about to turn away and ignore him when something in his manner detained me against my will.

Normally his big shapeless face was the very embodiment of smug self-indulgence: his fat red cheeks were so thoroughly embalmed in alcohol that I had pictured them blooming unseen beneath the soil of the churchyard for ever and ever. And now, with a shock of surprise, I saw a face that had aged by twenty years in a single night: a face that in a night had fallen to a wreck beyond repair. Those crimson, blooming cheeks had become grey, flabby pouches filled with hundreds of little wandering blue veins. Those bulbous, self-satisfied eyes were flickering now in deep, dirty yellow pits that symbolised an eternity of sleepless nights.

There was stark, ugly death in the face of the proprietor of the Fox & Hounds and I recoiled from it in horror.

I should have prepared myself to meet a certain number of men who would collapse pitiably like this, but the serene calmness of the Vicar and his wife and the homely stolidness of my housekeeper had misled me.

There was something infinitely pathetic in that quivering bulk of flesh with all its arrogance stripped from it: something pitiable in the way he approached me, almost shyly, with his haggard face twisted into the burlesque of a smile.

‘Sorry about yesterday,’ he said. ‘It ain’t my way to be rude. Shall we call it quits?’

Why it should be called ‘quits’ I do not know, for the rudeness had been entirely upon his part, and never in my life had I been rude to him. But the big trembling hand was before me; I took it, and shook it warmly. I loathe bad feeling and was very glad that the incident was over. He had capitulated completely, even if in a pathetic little attempt to save his pride he preferred to ‘call it quits’.

The fat coward was in such a state of repressed terror that I felt it my duty to reassure him and put new heart into him.

‘That’s all right,’ I said with a smile. ‘We were all a bit overwrought yesterday, but it’s better now.’

‘What d’you mean – “better now”?’ he said abruptly, his eyes full of groping suspicion and resentment.

‘I mean it’s not going to be so terrible after all,’ I replied. ‘Haven’t you seen this morning’s newspapers? We’re all going to live to tell the tale!’

The man’s feeble smile had disappeared: the sunken, jaundiced eyes had a horrid leer in them and he spat a harsh, unpleasant laugh at me.

‘You needn’t treat me like a kid,’ he snarled. ‘You ain’t such a damn fool as not to know it’s the bloody end.’ He dragged a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and flourished it in my face. ‘D’you s’pose any man with half a brain believes the blab in these papers? – They talk about a “graze”!’ – (his voice was rising: he was almost inarticulate and as he shouted at me he crushed the paper into a ball and flung it over the hedge). ‘A graze! – have you ever heard such bloody rot? D’you suppose a mighty great thing like the moon can give us a “graze” without smashing millions of us to bleeding pulp and jerking the rest of us to kingdom come? They’ve got the nerve to tell us the moon’s the size of a cherry!’

‘They don’t say that,’ I began, ‘they…’

‘They do say that,’ he shouted.

‘It’s just a comparison,’ I went on.

‘Comparison!’ he yelled. ‘The moon’s the size of Europe! – What kind of a mess would you be in if somebody hit you over the head with Europe?’ He looked at me with a contempt that I had never seen in a human face before. ‘You talking about having a tale to tell! – Try dropping Westminster Abbey on top of a cheese-maggot and see what kind of a tale it’s got to tell! O’ course the bloody papers ’ave got to say something! Any fool knows that!’

With an effort I quenched the angry retort that sprang to my lips. I do not believe that he had any direct intention of comparing me with a cheese-maggot: I prefer to believe that it was merely his clumsy way of putting it.

‘Anyway,’ I said with an attempted smile, ‘we’ve all got a right to our opinion. What about a little drink to wash the moon away?’

He shook his head. ‘Not me. I ain’t drinking no more. With three months to live I reckon a man’s a damn fool to knock chunks of his time away with a gin bottle. I’m just walking into Lullington to see my old Ma. She’s near ninety and won’t understand nothing. I’d rather be with them that can’t understand than those who don’t try. You go inside. Tell Mabel to give you a glass on the house. There’s plenty of nitwits in there who believe them papers like you do!’

With that he turned away, and walked off down the road.

I had done my best to keep calm before him, but as I watched that waddling, tight-trousered figure disappearing around the corner I could have thrown impotent curses after him. I nearly ran after him and shouted my anger at him as I had done the day before.

It was not his obscene tongue that had angered me – nor his contemptible terror; it was the horrible conviction that this man was right – that every word he had said, despite his stumbling coarseness, was pitilessly true. I was angry because he had revealed me as a fool. I had surrounded myself with a feeble little screen of self-deception which this drink-sodden creature, in a few lashes of his crude tongue, had shattered beyond repair.

But worse still, this bloated publican had destroyed with his foul tongue every particle of heroism that might have sustained me against the horror that lay ahead.

With Professor Hartley I had faced death and been unafraid – for death in the company of a fine man can become a brave adventure. I had faced death in the presence of our Vicar because no man could sink to fear in the presence of pure courage and unquenchable faith. But death in company with a swollen, craven creature that smelt of whisky and perspiration was a revolting, terrifying thing – an obscene thing that carried me to the brink of suicide… to anything that would spare me from dying at the same moment as that nasty man.

For the first time in my life I craved for alcohol – by bitter irony I craved forgetfulness in the very thing that had made the proprietor of the Fox & Hounds such a loathsome creature to die with!

I had to do it. If I had restrained myself I do not believe I should ever have seen another day in my right mind. I stumbled blindly into the saloon bar, elbowed my way through the chattering crowd and called for a large brandy and soda.

I dislike the taste of brandy and rarely drink it, and to this fact I owe its almost instantaneous and stimulating effect upon me. In a few minutes I was able to take note of the scene surrounding me with a calmness that I would never have believed possible again.

The saloon bar was crowded with farmers who had come in to discuss the news as their forefathers had come to talk of the death of Queen Anne and the victory at Trafalgar. Nobody was drinking to excess and if any felt concern they concealed it well. For a time I sat wondering where I had witnessed such a scene before: that full-throated, excited murmur was vaguely familiar – and suddenly I knew. I was witnessing again, with uncanny similarity, that scene of strange elation in the refreshment-room of the British Lunar Society, when after the stunning shock of our President’s announcement we had reacted over our coffee and sandwiches into something very near to exultation.

I saw again those same eyes, stirred to brightness by the fascination of a threatened danger that still lay reassuringly in the future: I heard those same excited voices that mirrored the pride in a brain that was suddenly grappling with something far bigger than anything that had come within its ken before.

I could quickly see that the majority had accepted without reserve the reassurances of the newspapers. The average farmer so completely exhausts his store of pessimism over the future of farming that he has no alternative but to be optimistic about everything else. The news about the moon was obviously producing plenty of wit. The ‘grazing’ theory had caught the popular imagination, and one old fellow raised a hearty laugh by expressing the hope that the moon would graze his barley field and save him a week with the plough. Another raised a still louder laugh by calling out that it wouldn’t leave anything for his sheep to graze.

I began to feel so much better that I was almost moved to join in and turn the conversation to my long-preserved secret and the dramatic meetings of the British Lunar Society. But reflection warned me that scientific details would be out of place amongst these simple, slow-witted fellows: out of harmony with the defiant, carefree atmosphere.

I suppose I am unduly swayed by the feelings of my fellow men, for when I left the Fox & Hounds I was so completely restored to my normal state that I went straight home and telephoned to Pomfret Wilkins, Secretary of the Widgeley Poultry Show, to confirm that everything would be carried through as usual on Thursday. His cheery, booming voice quickly reassured me. The Widgeley Poultry Show would be held as arranged – moon or no moon. He told me that there was an unusually heavy entry for the Bantam cockerel section, but fewer hens were being shown than last year. When he told me of the keen interest aroused by the news that I was showing my Bantams for the first time I especially asked him, if he had the chance, to let it be known in Widgeley that the entry was purely a sporting gesture upon my part, as I had not had the time to bring my Bantams up to the standard expected of me. I explained to him that I was entering merely to compare the progress of my birds with prize entries and had no expectation whatever of carrying off an award.

Between ourselves, I was anxious for this to be clearly understood on account of the jealousy that was at that time so prevalent in the poultry world. As the most successful breeder in South Hampshire I was naturally the principal target for this jealousy, and a failure upon my part would lead to a chorus of delight from the less successful. By making it clear that I was not seriously competing for a prize I was forestalling these jeers in the event of my not winning. Pomfret Wilkins promised to do what he could: he was attending a Rotary lunch next day and it would give him the chance of explaining about my exhibit. The news would quickly get around Widgeley and the facts concerning my Bantams would be quite well known by Thursday.

An amusing thing happened that evening. I felt so much better disposed towards everybody in Beadle after my cheerful visit to the Fox & Hounds that I decided to let bygones be bygones and go down to offer my services upon the dugout. I accordingly set out to see Dr Hax and offer to help in any way I could.

At his gate I met Pawson, the retired police sergeant, who was a member of the Dugout Committee.

I greeted him jovially, but to my surprise I discovered him filled with disgust.

‘Damn waste of time,’ he growled. ‘Just the kind of thing that would happen.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Why, this blooming dugout! Here we’ve been breaking our backs on it – and now this!’

I was completely puzzled, and again asked him what he was driving at. He nearly lost his temper.

‘Well – use your common sense! Here we spend weeks of our time building a whacking great dugout to get into if there’s a war – and who d’you suppose is going to waste time having a war with all this moon business coming on? – Damn waste of time!’

At first I was astonished – then I simply had to laugh out loud. The poor fool had never realised what the dugout was really for!

‘Use your own common sense!’ I cried. ‘The dugout’s to save the village from the moon! That war story was just a blind!’

He was completely unconvinced, but soon afterwards he apologised most handsomely, for Dr Hax, as Chairman of the Dugout Committee, had now received full official instructions. We were to press ahead with the dugout at full speed and have the excavation complete by Wednesday week, when a sapper of the Royal Engineers would arrive in Beadle to instruct us upon the final details.

The doctor was more self-important than ever now. He felt completely responsible for the lives of all Beadle and was like a general preparing for a battle. He accepted my services in rather an offhand way and told me to report in Burgin Park at nine o’clock next morning.

I went home far happier with active and useful work ahead, but I could not sleep for laughing at that poor dunderheaded fellow who never realised the purpose of the dugout until he was told!