The Hopkins Manuscript

CHAPTER TEN

The newspapers on Tuesday morning were not quite so pleasant.

It is true that they published special articles by foreign scientists that confirmed the optimistic statements of our own astronomers, and the cartoonists had even dared to compare the moon’s approach with current political matters, but I noticed a stern undercurrent that was missing from the almost holiday-like atmosphere of the Monday papers.

As a dentist puts comic papers upon the table of his waiting-room, so the newspapers cheered us up on Monday to make us the stronger to meet the facts on Tuesday.

There was, for instance, the Government order against ‘malingering’ that surprised and disturbed me. A special Act of Parliament declared it to be an offence, punishable by imprisonment with hard labour, for any man to absent himself from his work without a medical certificate of illness.

It seemed that in certain districts, under the influence, no doubt, of individuals with strong personality, large numbers of factory workers had decided that it was a waste of time to work anymore, and had gone home at lunch-time.

It was a harsh law that deprived those who sincerely believed the end to be near from spending their last days with their wives and children – particularly for those engaged upon work of a kind so obviously useless as, say, making hats, when there were more than enough hats in stock to last until the 3rd of May. Nobody in his right mind would bother to buy a new hat which, even if not totally destroyed by the moon itself, would obviously be blown away in a hurricane that accompanied the moon’s passing. But the official attitude was right in all the circumstances. Far better make superfluous hats than be idle under such conditions. In any case there would be few with sufficient money saved up to last the three months until the 3rd of May: idleness would not only lead to moral collapse, but in the end to thieving, looting and anarchy.

I think that the newspapers exercised a great deal of voluntary censorship in those early days of excitement, for although they stressed the heroic calmness with which the news had been received all over England, I know for a fact that the Rector of Chadley was thrown into the village duck-pond.

It appears that the Rector, in an excess of righteousness, had blamed the evil ways of his villagers for the moon’s threat to destroy the earth. The villagers naturally felt it was absurd to suggest that God was destroying the world in order to teach Chadley not to play darts on Sundays, and they showed their irritation in the manner above mentioned.

If a thing like that could happen within seven miles of Beadle I am pretty sure that even more serious incidents must have occurred here and there in other parts of the world. But the newspapers did not report these disturbing incidents and no doubt they were right in suppressing them. ‘Business as usual’ became the slogan, and it was emblazoned upon all the posters.

The newspapers also urged on with all speed the work of defence, and I could scarcely force my way through the crowd when I reported at nine o’clock that morning for work upon our dugout in Burgin Park. The whole village was there to watch, partly because the dugout was now so exciting and partly because, under normal conditions, Burgin Park was private.

The Vicar and Dr Hax were fussing about with ridiculous importance. They were both wearing enamelled blue badges inscribed ‘COMMITTEE’ which had been bought the previous year for the village sports, but I soon realised that Mr Murdoch, the engineer from Makleton who had been made ‘technical adviser’, was the real boss of the show. He was a thin, bleak-looking Scotsman with a drooping black moustache and a broad accent, but he obviously knew his job and had got the work far better organised than anything achieved by Dr Hax at the Beadle athletic meetings.

A large hole gaped in the chalky hillside and broad steps led down into the bowels of the hill. I was told that Mr Lanbury, the blacksmith, with his son Richard and old Peter (who broke stones for the Rural Council) were down below with miners’ picks, and two lusty farm boys were hauling sandbags full of broken chalk up the dugout steps.

Dr Hax introduced me to Mr Murdoch and I was detailed to join the ‘wheelbarrow gang’. I was given a zinc barrow and my job was to trundle the excavated chalk down the hillside and dump it into a disused quarry. It was pleasant work, for the full barrow practically ran by itself downhill and it was an easy matter to wheel the empty vehicle up the slope again.

At twelve o’clock old Lady Burgin sent her butler and pantry boy down with a large canister of tea and we knocked off and had a picnic lunch beneath the trees. While we were lunching a load of timber struts arrived in a lorry from the Cakebridge Saw Mills and during the afternoon we unloaded them so that John Briggs, the carpenter, could begin strutting the dugout steps. I was told that the whole of the interior was to be lined with timber, a packing of old sacking and cloth being thrust into the cavity between the chalk walls and the lining to act as a shock absorbent.

It was a lovely day with a hint of spring in the air and I enjoyed it all immensely. The mild weather had encouraged the bulbs: the crocuses were spangling the glades of the park with a sheen of gold and blue, and as I lay under the trees eating my sandwiches I could picture these woods in a few weeks’ time with their glimmering carpet of daffodils.

There was a grand spirit amongst us, too. We had always been a friendly, peaceful village, but I had never before felt such a fine bond of comradeship. We were all so happy at having something novel and valuable to do. The men all called each other by their nicknames and I was almost tempted to tell John Briggs, the carpenter, that my Christian name was Edgar. I decided upon reflection not to do so, for if nothing fatal happened on the 3rd of May he might fail to appreciate his duty to call me ‘sir’ again.

All the same, I felt so happy with my wheelbarrow that I was quite sorry to have to ask Mr Murdoch for leave off on Thursday afternoon to attend the Widgeley Poultry Show. For two pins I would have cancelled my entry and stayed in Beadle, but I well knew that this would be interpreted by my rival exhibitors as a confession of weakness, and I had to go.

I spent that evening preparing a few words that I should be called upon to say when my champion Wyandotte hen Broodie was awarded her fiftieth First Prize. I have scarcely mentioned Broodie in my story until now: I could not resist holding her name back and dwelling upon her fame at this point as a surprise to my readers who might by now believe that they were fully acquainted with every branch of my success as a poultry breeder.

Broodie was born in the early hours of the 14th June two years previously. She was one of a brood of nine, and it is remarkable that none of her brothers and sisters emerged from mediocrity. Nature lavished all her gifts upon her, and I was quick to single her out for special care. She became my ‘chef d’oeuvre’: her first appearance at the South Hampshire Poultry Show caused the biggest sensation in years: by the age of eleven months she had carried off twenty-three First Prizes and her photograph had appeared in three papers in Denmark. She was in a class by herself – so much so that in many cases, upon news of her entry, the other exhibitors withdrew their hens in a body and Broodie secured a triumphant walkover. At the age of nineteen months she was, if anything, in finer condition than ever, and this will afford reassurance to the reader who may have considered my action in preparing a speech in advance as over-confident, even vainglorious.

I prepared an amusing little speech, giving Broodie all the credit and finishing with the remark that she had been offered a big prize to star in a film! I knew that this would cause a great deal of laughter, and went to bed looking forward to the Show the next day.

But for some extraordinary reason I had a most disturbing nightmare. I dreamt that when the time arrived for Broodie to be taken before the judges at the Show, I found to my horror that she had shrunk up to the size of a sparrow. The judges were waiting – everybody was waiting – and I was at my wit’s end what to do. Desperately I carried the poor shrivelled little creature into the Market Square, hoping that the fresh air would revive her and restore her to her normal appearance, but she escaped from me and ran back into the County Hall. I rushed after her, but too late – for there was the poor, tiny bird strutting up and down with the other Wyandottes to the deafening laughter of the onlookers, all of whom were delighted at Broodie’s downfall and my embarrassment.

I awoke with a dry, burning mouth and beating heart. It puzzled me, and worried me, for I had eaten a very light supper.

I have since thought that my digestion had been disturbed by the heavy and unaccustomed work with those wheelbarrow loads of chalk. Hard physical labour soon makes us conscious of tired arm and leg muscles, but we are inclined to forget that our digestive muscles are equally tired and unable to do their normal work. I have frequently considered the matter, and am now convinced that my nightmare about Broodie was due to that wheelbarrow.