The Hopkins Manuscript

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The first hint of impending trouble came to us one autumn night.

During the summer Pat had been laid up with an injured knee, and I had called in a doctor from Mulcaster – a Dr Cranley. Having assured himself that the injury was in no way serious, Dr Cranley handed over the case to his son Peter, with happy if somewhat unconventional results.

Peter was a pleasant, cheerful boy. A medical student at the time of the cataclysm, he was now completing his training as best he could as partner to his father. Directly Pat was able to get up, Peter made a point of assisting her every morning upon a short walk across the downs, explaining that exercise to the injured muscle was essential. I observed that these ‘curative walks’ became longer every day, and when, one morning, Pat announced her knee to be so far recovered that the doctor had suggested they took a picnic lunch with them I naturally realised that something was in the wind.

One Sunday Peter came to tea, bringing with him a charming sister named Joan. Robin had affected to scorn Pat’s behaviour with the young doctor, but upon Joan’s arrival he suddenly woke up himself. He took her down to see his rabbit farm and presented her with three of his best fish to take home for supper.

Within a short time the four of them were firm friends and constant companions. They repaired the tennis court upon the lawn of the ruined Manor House: they danced together at Mulcaster and went upon long walks across the downs.

Although naturally this led to some lonely evenings for me, I was delighted that Pat and Robin had found such cheerful companions of their own age. Despite their staunch devotion to their work and home, I had long been worried by the monotony of their evenings, and the occasional loneliness that I now experienced was well repaid by the wider interests and greater happiness of my young companions. They even began planning an Amateur Theatrical Club in Mulcaster – and promised me a part!

But it is a sad irony that this new and happy companionship should have led to the ominous, disturbing night that I have already referred to.

One evening in late September, Dr Cranley invited the three of us to dine at his home in Mulcaster, adding that Major Jagger, Parliamentary Representative for Hampshire, would also be his guest.

I shall never forget our journey to Mulcaster through the dusk of that lovely autumn evening. Perhaps, in reality, it was just an ordinary journey like many others: perhaps my memory had idealised it because it was the last evening of a precious span of happiness that nestled between cataclysm and final disaster, for never again did I feel the peace and tranquillity of that happy, twilit journey.

I remember how the sunset lingered upon the tarnished old windscreen of our car, how suddenly, as we dropped into the valley, the stars were glimmering in the pale, evening sky: how for a while we shouted jokes at one another above the rattle of the car, and how, as the moonless night enwrapped us, Robin’s eyes became intent upon the rough, precarious road, and Pat and I lay back in silence with our thoughts.

I thought of this wonderful year that was drawing to its close: this year of striding progress – the peace and gathering prosperity of Europe. All the bitterness and hostility, all the suspicions and racial hatreds that had threatened and darkened the closing years of the old world had gone for ever. The nations of Europe had arisen from the ruins of the cataclysm, cleansed of greed, drawn into harmony by a common disaster; determined to build a new world in friendship and mutual respect. The cataclysm had almost destroyed us, but from the ashes had arisen the United States of Europe.

But nothing gave greater cause for satisfaction than the progress and growing renown of my poultry farm. In the old days it was my hobby: today it was my profession. I had purchased two new cockerels of sturdier type and better blood than my first one. My long experience, and, I might say, genius in poultry breeding had enabled me to produce a fine, distinctive strain that was already known throughout all Hampshire as the ‘Beadle-Hopkins’. The ‘Beadle-Hopkins’ hens were fine layers, and with few exceptions careful and successful mothers, while the ‘Beadle-Hopkins’ cockerels were eagerly sought after in Mulcaster Market for breeding purposes and fetched high prices.

People came in from miles around to secure a ‘Beadle-Hopkins’ cockerel and I gained a great deal of amusement by sauntering about the market upon the days when my birds were on sale. If I heard anybody mention the name ‘Beadle-Hopkins’ I would sometimes saunter up to them and casually introduce myself. It was a treat to see the expression on their faces: to hear them say ‘Hopkins? – not the Hopkins!’ It was a simple, inexpensive way of giving people pleasure, and I never failed to secure a thrill at the thought of having given my name to a breed of domestic fowl that would endure long after I was dead.

It is easy to understand how happy and contented I felt that night. I was excited, too, at the prospect of meeting Major Jagger, a member of our new and energetic Parliament, for although I had met, at different times, almost every famous personality in the Poultry Times, my quiet career had not brought me into touch with eminent persons in other walks of life.

Dr Cranley’s house lay upon the outskirts of the town, in a broad, old-world avenue that seemed to have escaped the worst ravages of the hurricane. We were very impressed, as we drove up the drive, to see Major Jagger’s car standing by the door, with its big yellow badge denoting its use by a high official of our new National life.

Robin parked our old Ford as far from the magnificent limousine as he could, to avoid odious comparison, but he could not tear himself away from the big new car.

‘What a beauty!’ he whispered. ‘One of the new ones from the Government Factory near Oxford. Just look at that glorious instrument board!’

‘We’ve come to dine with Dr Cranley,’ I gently reminded him, ‘not to stand gaping at his guest’s car!’

‘Wonder what the politician will be like?’ said Robin, as we walked to the front door.

‘Old and pompous and gouty,’ suggested Pat.

‘He’s probably young and handsome and romantic, and you’ll fall in love with him!’ I answered.

To think that we talked light-heartedly about Major Jagger! – to think that we strolled happily to the house, eager and rather honoured to meet him! How strange it all seems now!

I cannot define the feeling that came over me as I entered Dr Cranley’s drawing-room. It was such a bright, gay room; so charmingly prepared for us with fresh autumn flowers and blazing fire. Joan Cranley came forward and greeted us so happily, and Dr Cranley handed us sherry with such friendship and welcome… and yet, in that same instant I had an overwhelming wish that I had not come.

All my life I have been acutely, abnormally sensitive to the personality of those I come into contact with. When I enter a room of pleasant, simple people I feel happy and at ease, even before I have said a word – even before I am introduced. But if a discordant, unpleasant person is there I feel it immediately: I feel uneasy and unhappy even before I have discovered which of the guests possesses the personality that has disturbed me.

Never have I felt this so acutely as upon my entrance to Dr Cranley’s drawing-room. I felt something near to panic – a helpless longing to escape – and I knew that the reason for it lay in the tall, stooping figure by the fire.

I never discovered why Jagger called himself ‘Major’. Dr Cranley told me afterwards that he knew him before the cataclysm as Professor of Philosophy at some northern university, where Jagger had been a very quiet, strange man, and something of a recluse. At the time of the cataclysm he was living in a big lonely house near Mulcaster, writing books, and becoming more and more of a hermit.

‘The cataclysm seemed to alter his whole personality,’ the doctor told me. ‘He came to live in Mulcaster. His shyness changed to the complete reverse: he never seemed to stop talking – he was full of wonderful ideas – and he was the obvious man to elect as Parliamentary Representative.’

And now, for a night, he had returned to Mulcaster in connection with the reconstruction of the town under the ‘Ten-Year Plan’.

I can see him now as he turned to shake my hand: his thin, slanting mouth, the deep furrows of contemplation drawn downwards from its corners: the deathly pale face with its deep-set, burning eyes and the mane of black hair that waved back from the wide furrowed temples. He seemed so utterly out of place in that light-hearted party and I think that he realised it, for he made no endeavour to join the conversation. Until dinner was served he stood there by the fire, greeting a joke or a gust of laughter with a tired, patronising smile. Peter and Joan Cranley were apparently accustomed to him, but once or twice I saw Pat glance at the dark, stooping figure with shy, puzzled eyes.

During dinner, too, he seemed quite incapable of joining in the happy small-talk of the rest of the party. Once or twice Dr Cranley attempted to draw him in with some question or other, but he would answer briefly and lapse into silence again. Once, in fact, when Joan Cranley asked him to settle a small argument as to whether an attempt would be made to revive the Olympic Games, he was so far away with his thoughts that he seemed unaware of being spoken to, and an embarrassing silence fell as we waited, thinking that he was considering his reply.

As dinner progressed we all, with one accord, endeavoured to sympathise with his mood by making no effort to draw him in. While we talked he sat hunched in his chair, toying listlessly with his food and sitting between courses with his long, thin fingers stroking his chin.

It was not until coffee was served and the butler had left the room, that Major Jagger became dominant: suddenly and startlingly dominant.

We were discussing (more, I think, out of compliment to Major Jagger than for any other reason) the fine achievements of our new Government, and the splendid future that lay so near at hand.

‘The cataclysm,’ I said, ‘was terrible. But it was almost worth while to have achieved this wonderful spirit of friendship and helpfulness between nations. Who would have believed, ten years ago, that a Permanent International Council would one day be sitting at The Hague, not to wrangle and snarl at one another, but to help one another in such splendid ways!’

For the first time in the evening Major Jagger laughed. His laugh was so sudden and unexpected that we all jumped with surprise. For my own part I felt angry at this strange reception of my remark.

‘You are a happy man, Mr Hopkins. I hope you will remain so.’

‘I don’t understand you, sir,’ I stiffly replied.

‘I imagine we have good reason to congratulate ourselves on this new friendship between nations,’ put in Dr Cranley.

There was a short silence. Jagger sipped his coffee, then turned his dark, mocking eyes upon the doctor.

‘Do you imagine a cataclysm – or a hundred cataclysms – can change human nature?’ he said.

‘I think that the changed circumstances that have followed the cataclysm have definitely done so,’ replied the doctor.

There was another silence. I saw a puzzled look in the eyes of the four young people around me – a look of eager, questioning anticipation. Major Jagger slowly sipped his coffee. He relit his cigar with the deliberation of a man who loves an audience and knows when he has got it.

‘The Muller-Henderson report is to be published on Monday,’ he announced. ‘I don’t think that I shall abuse my position by referring to it.’

Despite my aversion to the man I sat up and leant eagerly forward.

In the early spring a well-equipped scientific expedition had left Europe to explore the inland regions of the moon. Led by Dr Muller, the famous Norwegian scientist, and Professor Henderson, of Cambridge University, the personnel had included experts in every branch of science and engineering: the best and most distinguished men of Europe.

The departure of this expedition had aroused great romantic interest when first announced: an inspiring journey of adventure and discovery such as this could scarcely do otherwise. Its progress into the moon’s unexplored regions was reported, for a while, every morning in our newspapers and was read by everyone as though it had been an exciting new fantasy by HG Wells. And then a strange reticence had crept into the reports. We heard less and less about the expedition until rumours began to circulate that it was a dismal failure. Stories were even whispered that it had met with some terrible, mysterious disaster which the newspapers were breaking to us very carefully.

We did not even know that the expedition had returned, much less that its report had been submitted to The Hague Council and was now to be made public. It seemed very mysterious to me.

‘When did they return?’ enquired Dr Cranley.

‘In June,’ replied the Major. ‘They were away for five months. Their report has been before the International Council for nearly four.’ He glanced around the table with the ghost of a smile. ‘I’m afraid there’s trouble. Serious trouble.’

‘Trouble!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why trouble?’

The Major turned his dark, luminous eyes upon me. They seemed to bore into my brain. I felt myself struggling against a horrid, evil magnetism.

‘You are a happy man, Mr Hopkins. I hope you will remain so.’

I was startled by this strange repetition of his previous remark – angered by the impudence of it.

‘I am pleased to say I am a happy man.’

The Major smiled. ‘You have everything you desire?’

‘I have,’ I retorted. ‘And I’m proud of it.’

He turned from me and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wish that you spoke for the rest of the world,’ he remarked.

Again there was a silence. I could think of nothing to say.

‘Can you tell us something of the report?’ asked Dr Cranley.

‘I can,’ replied the Major. ‘There were some “experts” who declared that the moon would prove to be a dry, destitute mass of rock – dead and useless. Those “experts” are going to look slightly foolish next week.’

He reached for the matches. Slowly and deliberately he relit his cigar before proceeding.

‘The Muller-Henderson report will announce that the moon is by no means destitute. On the contrary it is immensely, incredibly rich. Rich in oil: rich in gold: rich in radium-bearing rock and rich in coal. The moon contains minerals sufficient to give wealth to this world undreamed of… iron – platinum – it has all been found… analysed and tested…’

One could almost feel the silence in the room. For my own part I found myself groping desperately to fit these extraordinary pronouncements into my scheme of understanding. I frankly confess that, since the cataclysm, I had been far too busy with my own urgent affairs to give any thought to the future value of the moon. For a few months it had been a ghastly menace. Now it was happily out of harm’s way in the Atlantic where, except for its inconvenience to shipping, it would never again be a factor in our daily lives.

I was still trying to realise the significance of Major Jagger’s announcement when Dr Cranley found words to break the silence.

‘But this… this is the most amazing, wonderful news!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Is it not a fact that our earthly supply of many of these precious minerals was rapidly being exhausted?’

‘It was generally accepted that our supplies of oil and coal would have been used up in a hundred years,’ replied the Major. ‘That probably applies also to our other precious minerals. We had made reckless, improvident use of them. We were, for example, burning millions of gallons of oil every hour – every day: oil that could not be replaced.’

‘And now…?’ began the doctor.

‘Now the moon has presented us with ample supplies for many generations to come.’

Again there was silence.

‘It confirms my belief,’ said the old doctor, ‘that a divine providence lay behind this terrible cataclysm.’

‘As if,’ I exclaimed, ‘the moon, long ages ago, were wrenched away from this earth by a divine, far-seeing power that realised the greed of man! – that realised that he would squander the earth’s wealth and find it out too late! And now the moon is given to us in the hope that we have learned our lesson and will take more care of our treasures in the future! We believed the moon to be an omen of destruction – it proves to be a gift from God!’

And once again Major Jagger gave that sharp, hard laugh.

‘I envy your simple faith, Mr Hopkins.’ For a moment his eyes were upon me: then he glanced around the table with a smile. ‘I wonder whether these younger people – this younger generation – shares your happiness?’

‘I don’t see that any normal person could do otherwise,’ said Peter Cranley, and I gave the boy a grateful smile. ‘Surely every normal person must realise what a wonderful thing this is!’

‘Normal people are rarely in positions of power,’ replied the Major. ‘Mr Hopkins is a normal man. He is perfectly happy, rearing his poultry in Beadle Valley.’

‘One does not speak of “rearing” poultry,’ I began, for I resented the impudent patronage of the man’s tone, ‘one “breeds” poultry.’ I was about to amplify my statement, but the man spoke on, right over me, right through me…

‘What does Mr Hopkins care about the wealth upon the moon?… what does he care about the British Empire?’

I was so bewildered by this strange and completely irrelevant remark that I began seriously to doubt the Major’s sanity.

‘What on earth has the British Empire got to do with it?’ I exclaimed, and I almost jumped out of my chair at the vehemence of the Major’s reply.

‘Good heavens, man! – don’t you see! Have you never for a moment considered the matter, or have your chickens sapped all your powers of thought! The moon is in the Atlantic, man! – it has blocked our sea routes to America – to Africa – to India – to Australia! – the whole power and greatness of Britain depended upon our access to the sea! Today we are an impotent little island! Our ships can sail as far as Plymouth and no farther! – we are of no more strategic importance than Finland or Denmark – or Greece! Thousands of our own people are cut off from the Motherland in our Colonial possessions – in India and Africa. They depended upon the sea power of this island… and now they are at the mercy of vast native populations who are beginning to understand that the brain centre of the British Empire is suffocated!’

‘You have made a remark to the effect that my chickens have sapped my powers of thought,’ I said. ‘I resent that remark, and demand an apology.’ I was really angry now, and had no intention of allowing the man to get away with this insult. But no one seemed to hear me – all eyes were upon that stark white face: those smouldering, fanatical eyes.

‘Surely,’ said Dr Cranley, ‘we must revise and adjust our ideas of the British Empire. The Empire was founded upon certain geographical conditions, but owing to our collision with the moon these conditions no longer exist. We must surely develop a new outlook upon world affairs to suit these new circumstances?’

‘You suggest that we betray our people overseas? – sentence them to death? – say “goodbye and good riddance” to the Empire?’

‘Dr Cranley didn’t say that!’ I rejoined with heat.

‘What can be done?’ went on the doctor in a quiet voice. ‘Surely it has been considered… is there no plan?’

‘There is a plan,’ replied the Major, pulling a map from his pocket and spreading it before us. All drew their chairs around and stared, fascinated, at the strange, unfamiliar map of the new earth. Even I myself edged a little nearer.

‘This is known as “The British Plan”. It was submitted to the International Council at The Hague last May, and was given a friendly, sympathetic reception.

‘We proposed that the territories of the moon be divided amongst the nations of Europe according to each nation’s size. Britain itself was prepared to forgo its full share on condition that we were given this “corridor” of territory, ten miles in width, which would give us direct communication with Gibraltar, and thereby to the Atlantic and Mediterranean. By running a railway down this corridor our communications with our Dominions and Colonies would be re-established.’

‘An excellent scheme,’ said Dr Cranley. ‘You say that the other nations agreed?’

‘They appreciated our vital need of access to the sea.’

‘Then what’s the trouble?’ I asked in a sharp voice, for I could not help feeling that the Major was making a great deal of fuss about nothing.

‘The Muller-Henderson report is the trouble,’ returned the Major. ‘When the nations agreed to our “corridor” to the Mediterranean the moon was generally believed to be barren and useless rock. All that they requested were certain rights of way across our corridor to their own slices of the moon so that in course of time they could explore and possibly develop. We naturally agreed to that.’

He folded the map and put it carefully into his pocketbook.

‘But today, I am afraid, the situation has completely changed. The moon, instead of being worthless, is now proved to be immensely, immeasurably rich in precious minerals, and I repeat that the cataclysm has not altered human nature.’

‘I completely fail to see why this alters the British Plan to divide the moon fairly and evenly,’ I said. ‘In fact it seems to justify this dividing up.’

The Major turned to me with a smile of pity.

‘There are one or two little details that possibly you haven’t realised. The moon is not a cake with currants evenly distributed in each slice. The scientists report that the oil is all in the northern area of the moon – the area allotted in the British Plan to Sweden. Germany and France will not agree to that: they want the oil themselves. Italy demands the coalfields. Every nation in Europe demands a bigger slice than what the British Plan suggested for them. In fact I am afraid there is not nearly enough moon to go round.’

‘But this is ridiculous! – childish!’ I cried. ‘You surely don’t suggest that the nations are going to quarrel about a gift! Surely they can agree!’

‘They all agree upon one thing: they emphatically, fiercely agree that Britain must not have its corridor.’

‘A ten-mile corridor!’ exclaimed Dr Cranley. ‘Surely that isn’t asking much!’

‘It may only be ten miles wide,’ returned the Major, ‘but it happens to cut off other nations from direct communication with their own slices of the moon. We have agreed to give them freedom to cross our corridor without hindrance, but they declare it will give us too strong a strategic position: they fear we might fortify our corridor and cut them off at any time we wished to. They even declare we might, eventually, by means of our “strategic corridor”, take the whole moon for ourselves. They say that the British Empire is not above doing that. They are resolutely against us. The whole of Europe.’

Silence fell. Pat and Robin and Peter and Joan had scarcely said a word: they had scarcely moved except to strain forward over the map when Major Jagger had spread it upon the table. To me the whole evening had assumed a dreamlike unreality: we were playing a game of make-believe that had no kinship with real things.

‘What is happening now?’ enquired the doctor. The ruddy glow had passed from his cheeks: the old man looked tired and spiritless. Even his question seemed to lack demand for a reply.

‘What is happening?’ The Major shrugged his shoulders. ‘Deadlock. We refuse to give in. If we are robbed of our corridor and denied a clear open road to the seas, then the British Empire is finished.’

There was a knock: the butler entered and handed the Major a slip of paper. I watched him read, and raise his eyebrows.

‘You must excuse me, Doctor. A message from the Government. I must drive back to Oxford tonight for an urgent session.’

We stood at the front door to see him go. For a moment the coachwork of the big car gleamed in the light from the hall, and then it was gone. I was never to see the man again – but how many times was I doomed in days to come to hear that horrid, strident voice, booming its ‘messages’ over the radio!…

‘I think perhaps we should be going, too,’ I said. It seemed impossible to revive the gaiety of the party now. There was something ominous in Jagger’s sudden departure: almost as if he had been called away to defend our very shores from invading foreigners.

Dr Cranley made no attempt to detain us. I think that he felt, as I did, a longing to be alone – to think and to try and understand.

Even the night had changed in concert with our mood: the stars were gone and a slight drizzle had set in. While Pat and Robin were raising the battered old hood of the car I had the opportunity of a last word with Dr Cranley.

‘Was Jagger serious about all this?’ I asked. ‘I mean… it seems – impossible.’

‘He’s serious,’ replied the doctor. ‘Dead serious. In his way he is a great man. He is leading a new opposition party against the Prime Minister. He told me about it before you came in. The Prime Minister wants compromise. He has a plan for giving up all claim to that “corridor” to the Mediterranean. By establishing touch with Canada across the northern area of the moon we could reach Australia – possibly India. That would mean peace with Europe but the end of half our Empire – the end of Gibraltar and the Sudan – Africa and the West Indies…’ He paused for a moment, his face was hard and pale. ‘We can’t do that – we can’t desert and betray thousands of our people. We must have our corridor.’

‘So you are on the side of Major Jagger?’ I said, ‘on the side that opposes a “peaceful compromise”?’

‘Yes,’ replied the doctor after a long silence. ‘I share your personal dislike of Jagger: he’s not my sort of man, but I am with him in preserving our Empire. With him heart and soul.’

The drizzle turned to a silent, ceaseless rain. It was intensely dark and the lights of our car were feeble and uncertain. Robin, straining over the wheel, was peering intently through the tarnished windscreen at the rugged, difficult road and Pat sat up beside him to watch for pitfalls.

I sat in the back seat alone, trying to believe that two hours ago we had driven this same road without a care in the world.

I wondered whether increasing years had made me a coward. I remembered how I had faced the cataclysm without a shadow of fear: how I had even exulted, at times, over the fierce excitement and danger of it. But now I was afraid – miserably, despicably afraid.

I tried to fan within myself the spark of a new adventure – a flame of patriotism – a grim determination to face this new menace as I had faced the approach of the moon: to give up all that I had achieved in Beadle Valley: to take a gun, if necessary, and fight for freedom.

But it was useless. I had survived the cataclysm: by superhuman endeavour I had rebuilt my life. It was too much to ask of any man that he should face a second ruin and rebuild again.