The Hopkins Manuscript

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two weeks before the critical night of May 3rd, the dugout in Burgin Park was finished.

Four cylinders of oxygen arrived in an Army Service lorry that Friday night. Sapper Evans installed them without delay and announced a ‘Dress Rehearsal’ for three o’clock on the Saturday afternoon.

The Dugout Committee, accompanied by half a dozen selected villagers, entered the dugout and closed the airtight doors in the presence of a large crowd. The test was only to be for three hours, the supply of oxygen being too precious to waste upon a longer experiment. The Mulcaster Fire Brigade directed a powerful cascade of water upon each door in turn to test them against flood, and at six o’clock the Committee emerged from the dugout to report complete success in every way. Sapper Evans, with his usual resourcefulness, had organised a whist drive within the sealed dugout to pass the time, and I was gratified to learn that Dr Hax had lost ninepence.

Everything now seemed finished, and nothing remained but to await the fateful day. I was afraid that a sudden lapse into idleness would have a damaging effect upon the morale of the village, and Sapper Evans evidently thought the same, for at church next morning the Vicar announced an important meeting to be held at the Village Hall directly after tea and before evening service.

Old villagers declared that they had never seen such a crowd in the Hall since the day it was opened by the Duke of Teck. The Vicar was in the Chair and the Committee had seats upon the platform, but it was Sapper Evans’ evening from beginning to end.

Dr Hax began with a silly, pompous speech, obviously inspired by official instructions from the Government. He explained at such length that there was absolutely no danger whatever that his audience began to wonder whether there was more than they had realised.

‘The main purpose of this dugout,’ he announced, ‘is to protect you against the violent atmospheric disturbances that we may possibly experience. There is a chance that these disturbances may begin upon nights before May 3rd: we shall be advised of approaching danger by wireless and the warning will be relayed to you by a series of short peals upon the church bells. If you hear this you must take shelter in the dugout until the moon has set.

‘But the critical period,’ he continued, ‘will most likely be from six o’clock upon the afternoon of the 3rd until the morning of the 4th. You will be free to take up your positions in the dugout from four o’clock that afternoon and must be there without fail by five.’

He went on to say that nobody must bring bulky possessions with them, but everyone should bring a flask of hot coffee or tea – a blanket, and, if desired, a book. Alcohol would be strictly forbidden, although a supply of brandy for medical purposes would be in his own care. As the main electricity supply might be temporarily disarranged, the Committee had provided an adequate reserve of electric torches, and smoking would not be permissible under any conditions.

He announced, amidst applause, that Charlie Hurst and his Trio had promised to entertain the party with music that night, and the Vicar would bring his gramophone.

Dr Hax was resuming his seat when the Vicar urgently whispered to him.

‘Oh, yes,’ exclaimed the Doctor, standing up again – ‘and don’t forget, before leaving your houses, to make sure that anything likely to blow about in the gale is placed in a position of safety, or firmly secured. There is no need for the least fear of any kind: you saw with your own eyes how the dugout stood up against the powerful jets of the Fire Brigade: if it is immune to flood, it is doubly immune to gales.’

I could not help smiling at these sugar-coated pills of reassurance.

A lady asked whether knitting or needlework would be allowed, and the Committee, after a brief discussion, agreed to the loose, handy type but forbade tapestry frames, etc. Toys for the children were also permitted, and the suggestion of Mr Barlow, the postman, that progressive games be organised was agreed to on condition that there was no heavy gambling. Darts, however, were vetoed after some forceful opposition upon the score of limited space.

Then Sapper Evans stood up. He received a terrific round of applause, for it was our first formal opportunity to show our keen appreciation of his work. He set aside at once the rumour that he was now to be recalled to military duty, and announced, amidst renewed applause, that in common with all other soldiers detailed to assist in dugout construction, he would remain on duty with the people of Beadle until all danger had passed.

I was glad of this because it was one in the eye for Dr Hax, who had obviously resented the popularity of the little Sapper and was hoping for his departure in order to become the boss again.

Sapper Evans congratulated the villagers upon the splendid work they had done. ‘It would be a fine thing,’ he declared, ‘if every village was like Beadle!’ The applause was deafening, and when it subsided he sprang a surprise on us.

‘You may think you’ve finished your job,’ he said, ‘but you haven’t! If you think you’re going to sit back and enjoy yourselves you are mistaken!’

There was laughter at this, and a murmur of appreciation, for none of us, in our hearts, was relishing the idea of ‘sitting back’.

‘Some villages might stop at what they’ve done, and be proud of it,’ he said, ‘but not Beadle! – We may get floods – we can’t tell: we’ve got to be ready for anything. When we open our dugout on the Tuesday morning we might find the valley turned into a lake. By that time you’ll want to be getting home for a square meal, and most of you live on the far side of the valley. You won’t fancy swimming home, so what are we going to do about it?’

There was an expectant silence.

‘We’re going to build half a dozen good-sized rafts,’ he declared. ‘We’ll use the spare timber in Burgin Park and lash the rafts against the dugout doorways. I’ve an idea they’ll come in very handy. It’s a stiff job with a bare two weeks to do it in. Who’s going to volunteer?’

Every man in the Hall sprang to his feet: every man clutched eagerly at a few more days of comradeship upon the slopes of Burgin Park – a few more evenings with pipes and mugs of beer at the ‘timber club’.

For my own part I could not help feeling that this raft idea was absurdly far-fetched: I doubt if it would have deceived any but these simple country folk, but its conception sprang from a full understanding of human nature: it would bridge the perilous gap of idleness that might easily have undermined the courage of our village.

‘Splendid!’ exclaimed Sapper Evans. ‘We start at seven in the morning. Bring all the rope you can lay your hands on for lashing the timber together.’ The little man sat down with a cheerful smile: Mr Flidale, the carrier, proposed a vote of thanks to the Vicar and the meeting broke up with a buzz of conversation that reminded me of the end of a successful concert.

I honestly believe that if news had suddenly arrived to say that the moon was not coming after all, and that the whole thing was off, the majority would have been thoroughly disappointed!

If this sounds an exaggeration it must be remembered how remote our village lay from the rest of the world. We were at the end of the valley, and no road climbed the downs beyond. No traffic passed our way, and the village was immune from the disturbing influence of travellers. We depended for our news upon the papers and the radio, both of which were deliberately soothing and reassuring. With few exceptions the people of Beadle believed themselves in for a thrilling experience that would be over and done with in a single night, and even those of us who knew the truth could not help being influenced by the optimism of the majority.

Although I was grateful to live in such tranquil surroundings, I naturally felt, upon occasions, an urge to know what was passing in the outside world, so now that the most urgent work upon the dugout was over, I decided to go and spend a few days in London with my uncle and aunt at Notting Hill. Not only would I get the latest news at first hand but it was also my duty to go. They were my only relatives, but I had hesitated about visiting them for fear that it might seem like a ‘deathbed’ parting and cause my uncle and aunt unnecessary alarm. On that Sunday night I dropped a line to Aunt Rose and received a cordial invitation by return.

How deeply I regret that I ever went to London! How sincerely I wish that my last memories of the old world had been confined to those happy days in Beadle!