The Hopkins Manuscript

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I am in no sense of the word a politician. I have always preferred to leave politics to those who had no poultry farm or other keen interest to claim their attention, and I am fairly convinced that if it had not been for the politicians I would not now be struggling against increasing weakness to write the last tragic chapters of my story in the lonely twilight of a dying world.

Perhaps I am too hard upon the politicians. I may be judging them all upon the foul creatures that arose to destroy us. I admit that it was necessary to have some kind of Governing Body to lead us from the ruins of the cataclysm; and I also admit that our leaders performed wonders in the first two years.

But a strange thing happened, and it happened not only in England, but with uncanny similarity throughout the whole of Europe.

The first Parliaments to be elected after the cataclysm consisted with few exceptions of hard-working, level-headed, modest men. It seemed as if the survivors of the disaster turned instinctively to this quiet type of man to lead them from the brink of famine and disruption. There was no thought of election campaigns – no time for pedantic speeches and gimcrack theories. When the people were told to select a man from amongst themselves to represent them in Parliament they turned towards men of proved character and mature judgment – the country gentlemen – the local professional men – men who for the most part had been Mayors of Towns or Chairmen of Local Councils.

These were the men who set their countries upon the road to recovery and established international harmony of thought and ideals. These were the men who established the International Council at The Hague and were planning the United Parliament of Europe at Vienna when disaster overwhelmed them.

Disaster came through that fatal scientific report upon the riches of the moon. If these sane, level-headed men had remained in power I am convinced that they would have reached agreement and divided this lunar wealth fairly and peaceably to the immense and lasting benefit of all.

But the strange thing is this. The news of the fantastic, ownerless wealth within the moon was the signal for a horrid swarm of political upstarts to appear in every nation of Europe. Some were fanatics devoid of all powers of reason and common sense, but most of them were worthless adventurers, greedy for wealth and power, their only claim to attention a loud voice and endless cascades of words.

These nasty creatures would swoop down upon peaceful, hard-working communities, upon people intent only upon rebuilding their shattered fortunes and living in quiet happiness. With clever, impassioned speeches they declared that their cowardly Governments were allowing other countries to seize the lion’s share of the moon’s wealth. They frightened bewildered people into believing that if they did not arouse themselves and ‘stand up for the rights of their country’ they would soon be living in poverty, slaves to a foreign power.

The quiet, hard-working men of the original Parliaments, exhausted already by their incessant labours, were no match for these maniacs and noisy upstarts. One by one, in different ways, the Governments fell, and with their passing the doom of Europe was sealed.

But I am wandering into the very trap that I have resolved so firmly to avoid. I am speaking of politics, and politics are no part of my story. Even had I the ability, I have no inclination to unravel and describe the network of intrigue – the cesspits of political chicanery that marked the Years of Decline.

I resolved, from the beginning of my narrative, to tell the story of these days as I saw them with my own eyes and I shall do so until the end.

When I awoke on the morning after Dr Cranley’s party I found myself living once again the emotions of an autumn morning two years ago. My reactions were very similar to those after the meeting of the British Lunar Society, when the approach of the moon was first made known to me.

Once again I was drowsily, uneasily conscious that something unpleasant had happened: once again I tried to persuade myself that it was no more than a dream, and then, when at last reality forced itself upon me, I began to persuade myself that it was just a silly scare and that nothing serious would happen.

But this new menace was so different – so sordid compared with the menace of the approaching moon. Despite the horror of it, the news that Professor Hartley gave to our Society upon that other night was too fantastic to be sordid: it had carried a spice of romance with it: a breathless excitement – a secret and a mystery that had chilled and yet enthralled me. The approaching moon had been so remotely beyond human control that it drew humanity together in a bond of ennobling courage.

But what thrill was there in the menace that stalked us now? – the menace of human greed and suspicion? The thin, brittle crust of prosperity that we had built over the ruins of the cataclysm would never stand the weight of human strife. Under the strain of war it must collapse in unspeakable chaos and misery.

I feared my fellow creatures far more than I ever feared the moon. The crisis of the cataclysm had been calculated to a definite day: a definite hour. We knew that by the 4th of May it would all be over one way or another: that we should die or live. But who could measure the suspense – the awful possibilities of war with every nation at the throat of its neighbour? – a war that could only end in the slavery of all to the tyranny of a solitary victor?

As I dressed in the pale sunlight of that autumn morning I whistled a tune from The Mikado: I whistled away the menace of the previous night and ran cheerfully down to breakfast determined that Major Jagger and his mad stories of approaching violence should be treated with the contempt that they deserved.

At breakfast Pat and Robin were quiet and thoughtful: it was natural that their young and impressionable minds should be affected by what they had heard, and I wasted no time in debunking Jagger with a vengeance.

‘The fellow’s a menace!’ I declared. ‘If he goes about talking as he did last night he ought to be locked up! Does he imagine anybody’s mad enough to fight over a gift from God? – there’s tons of moon – millions of tons of it: more than enough for everybody!’

Pat murmured agreement and poured out my coffee, but Robin was unconvinced.

‘Of course, it’s mad to think about fighting one another when we’re all just getting on our legs again. But it’s difficult. I never realised how difficult it was. I’ve been thinking about it all night.’

‘You’ve allowed a thing like this to keep you awake?’ I exclaimed.

‘I should have thought it would keep anybody awake,’ retorted the boy. ‘Look here…’ He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and I saw that it was a sketch, drawn from memory, of the map which Jagger had shown us on the previous night. To my alarm I noticed something of Jagger’s voice in Robin’s as he spoke: something of Jagger in the abrupt, decisive way in which the boy laid his map upon the table.

‘England, Spain and France are the only countries with a direct contact with the moon. Norway and Sweden might get to it around the north of Scotland, but how are the central European nations going to do it? How can Germany and Poland and Italy get to their provinces on the moon without passing through France and Spain? D’you suppose France and Spain will allow that?’

I had not thought of this. I looked at the map with a sudden loss of appetite.

‘How can they do it?’ demanded Robin.

‘The big question at the moment,’ I replied, ‘is how we shall get our wheat and potatoes to Mulcaster Market. Shall we hire the Municipal lorry and do it in one journey, or run it over in half a dozen journeys with the old Ford?’

I was afraid the boy would be angry at this bold and impudent change of subject, but instead his eyes lit up, and he laughed.

‘You’re right, Uncle,’ he said. ‘Let the politicians look after the moon and we’ll look after the farm.’

I went out to my morning’s work, happy and reassured. Even if men were mad enough to fight about the moon, their insanity could never harm us here. The air was fresh and keen: the first frost of autumn was sparkling in the meadows and the threat of danger, remote though it was, acted as a spur to my pleasure in the happy scene before me: to my pride in our achievement. The threat of danger gave me a fierce, triumphant determination that, come what may, our little estate would stand inviolable.

I thought of this valley as I had seen it in the grey dawn that followed the cataclysm: the hideous wastes of slime and destruction: the hopeless ruin of it all – I looked upon it now with renewed wonder.

The muddy silt of the tidal wave had given new heart to the land, and in the spring the grass had broken through richer and more verdant than ever I had seen it. The hillcrest, swept bare by the hurricane, was already speckled by stripling trees sprung from the shattered roots of their fathers. Stretching for two broad acres beyond the house lay my vegetable garden with its strong green ranks of cabbages and leeks, celery and turnips, with its reddish haze of sturdy rhubarb in the background.

We now employed a boy named Jim: a good, willing boy who gave alternate days to me in my vegetable garden, Robin in his rabbit and fish preserves and old Humphrey in the farm beyond The Manor House.

We were far more than self-supporting now. We sent regular and increasing supplies to Mulcaster Market and were accumulating a nice little credit with the new National Bank that opened in the summer. From this credit we bought new houses for my poultry farm, also our most prized possession of all, a cow and a calf. Humphrey had cleaned out and repaired the old dairy of The Manor House and Pat became expert at butter making. She was even experimenting, under Humphrey’s direction, in the art of making cheese.

Robin had taken advantage of the lack of clothing materials to build up a thriving little business in rabbit skins for coats. For my own part I sent an average of five dozen eggs to market every week and I have already referred to the eager and increasing demand for ‘Beadle-Hopkins’ pullets.

We were a happy, vigorous little community, made happier by our increasing friendships in the town of Mulcaster. As the days drew on and the winter came, my belief in the emptiness of Major Jagger’s scaremongering fully justified itself. The scientific report upon the wealth of the moon was duly published, became a seven-day wonder in Mulcaster and was quickly forgotten. The town was far too busy with its reconstruction plans: far too engrossed with its growing prosperity to concern itself overmuch with the problematical riches in the bowels of the moon.

‘Steel’s what we want,’ said old Mr Wilkins the Market Manager. ‘Steel and cement to build our houses – and a bit o’ good timber thrown in. There’s plenty of that in old England – let them that wants gold and platinum go digging up the moon.’ And Mr Wilkins expressed the sentiment of the whole of Mulcaster.

By Christmas the cement began to come from the Portland Quarries and by early spring a start was made upon the roads. Mulcaster was to be rebuilt in ten years upon a fine, inspiring plan. Broad avenues, with each house in its own half-acre of land.

Although I lived eight miles from the town, the prosperity of my farm and the fame of the Beadle-Hopkins pullets had made me a man of considerable importance in Mulcaster. My opinion was sought upon all serious poultry matters and we began to entertain upon a scale that would have astonished me in my old pre-cataclysm days.

Dr Cranley and his son and daughter were frequent visitors to dinner and the growing friendship of my ‘children’ and his was a source of pleasure to both of us.

The days of loneliness that I had feared had not materialised, for frequently, when Pat and Robin were going to a dance, they would take me with them and I would dine with some prominent people in Mulcaster and stay there until Robin was ready to drive me home.

Most of the people were still living in temporarily repaired houses: some even in wooden huts, pending the rebuilding of the town, and everybody continued, voluntarily and cheerfully, to give two hours of each day in service to the community.

The first of January 1948 was the greatest day since the cataclysm: the Official Opening Day of the Ten-Year Rebuilding Plan throughout the whole of England. Luckily it kept fine. It was just like a Jubilee Day in Mulcaster and we took a full day’s holiday from the farm, driving in early to enjoy the celebrations.

At eleven o’clock the whole town assembled in the Market building, which used to be the old Town Hall. A platform had been specially arranged at one end, decorated with flags; a big cardboard shield, brightly painted with the town coat of arms, hanging in the centre.

Mr Ponsonby, the Mayor, opened the ceremony with a remarkably good speech – quite inspiring, and not too long.

‘We shall build a city,’ he concluded, ‘which will immortalise us here this morning to generations of Mulcastrians to come: a city that will stand for all time as a monument to the self-sacrifice, courage and craftsmanship of all of us in this Hall today. A hundred years hence the citizens of this town may build a monument in the public gardens which we shall lay out for them: a monument with a simple dedication: “To those heroic Mulcastrians who survived the cataclysm and built this noble town”.’

The speech had a wonderful reception, and the Mayor was followed by Captain Weeks, the Borough Architect, who unrolled a large coloured plan of the new Mulcaster and explained it in a most interesting way.

The new city was to be built on slightly higher ground to the west of the old town, and the old buildings were eventually to be pulled down to make a public park beside the river – all except the old Town Hall, which was to remain as a Museum.

The plan of the new city was bold and simple: a fine wide main street was to lead to the Market Square with the Town Hall and Public Buildings grouped around it.

‘Never again,’ declared Captain Weeks, the architect, ‘shall the people of this town be herded together in stuffy rows of houses. Every dwelling, large or small, will have half an acre, in some cases a full acre of land attached. Mulcastrians will no longer be forced to walk a mile beyond the town to their vegetable allotments. Every man will have room in his own garden for all that he needs!’

When the meeting was over we formed a procession and marched with quite a lively little brass band to the site of the new city, where the Mayor cut the first square of turf from the place where the new Town Hall was to stand.

The sun shone gloriously over the happy scene and everybody was in wonderful spirits. By one o’clock we were back in the Market building where trestle tables had been rapidly laid for a celebration lunch. In the old days, when Mulcaster numbered 3,000 people, only the most important persons could have sat down to a lunch of this kind. Today the whole town – every one of the 436 survivors of the cataclysm – was able to sit down together, with 83 children in a big tent nearby. It is hard to realise what a difference this meant in the spirit of the town: everybody had a place at the table: everybody an important job – none were useless – none were unemployed. Distinctions of class were gone for ever and I sat with Mrs Smithson, the wife of a plumber, and Miss Bingham of the drapery store, talking to them almost as if they were my equals.

When Mr Ponsonby, in his after-luncheon speech, announced that there were twenty-three little newcomers to the population of Mulcaster since the cataclysm (eleven boys and twelve girls) the cheering nearly lifted the old patched roof of the building!

Life began afresh in Mulcaster that day. All the suffering and privations of the past were forgotten in the glorious promise that lay ahead. I try not to remember those happy, excited faces as we rose to drink the toast: ‘To Mulcaster! – to the new city!’ The memory of them overwhelms me. In that moment of silence a vision came to me: the vision of broad, tree-girt avenues and clean white houses upon the green hillside beyond the Hall: of happy children in the shady Parks: fresh air – warm, friendly houses – peace – purpose – happiness…

We drank the toast in the first cask of ale from the new-built Mulcaster Brewery. Even that was a symbol to conjure with!

In the afternoon I took advantage of the unusually big gathering to do a little business. I received orders for two dozen Beadle-Hopkins pullets from gentlemen desiring to start small farms of their own. I discussed with Mr Johnson Betts, an old poultry acquaintance of mine, the possibility of reviving the Mulcaster Poultry Show in the spring. He considered it an excellent plan to stimulate the aesthetic interest in poultry, as distinguished from the purely commercial viewpoint, and I readily accepted his suggestion that I should act as Organising Secretary for the first show.

What a delightful evening I spent when I got home!

Far into the small hours I sat, all my old books and papers spread before me as I revived old memories of past triumphs! I drafted preliminary announcements: a list of events and classes: a guide to judges in view of the inevitably poor quality of the first exhibits. I even conceived a new and novel departure – a veterans’ competition! I determined to show my dear old Broodie, now almost five years old. How wonderful if Broodie, at her age, could win another prize! – her fifty-first First Prize!

A cock crew from the distant hillside: I glanced at my watch in astonishment – three o’clock! I went to bed in a drowse of happiness.

I pass to another evening, three months later. A grey, April evening of scudding cloud. It had rained all afternoon, but at sunset the sky cleared for a while, and we ate our dinner, for the first time that year, in the last rays of the sun.

Robin and I had decided to walk down in the twilight to the rusty old King Lear to see if we could rig up one of the saloons as a ping-pong room for our friends. The Shipping Company had made no effort to take the liner away, and I saw no reason why we should not make use of it. As the liner lay upon its side it would, of course, be necessary to use the saloon wall as the floor, and the floor and ceilings as the walls, but Robin was very keen on fixing up some novel kind of amusement for our friends when they came to dine with us and I agreed to go with him to see whether we could cover up the windows to avoid players falling through them as they ran about.

I had put on my coat. I was filling my pipe, preparing to light it.

‘Let’s just hear the news before we go,’ said Robin.

He switched on the radio – I remember it so clearly – I was searching the mantelpiece for a match to light my pipe, but my pipe was never lit that night. I found it when I went to bed, forgotten in my pocket, for as my fingers ran along the mantelpiece the voice came through: the voice that spoke the end of all our strivings – that spoke the prelude to the last chapter of our days.

‘This is the National Station of Britain. At five o’clock this evening the Government issued the following Bulletin:-

‘In ten minutes’ time the Prime Minister, who returned from The Hague this evening, will explain the position of the British Government. In view of the vital importance of his message you are requested to warn all those within reach of you to listen.’

There was dead silence in the room – broken long after the announcer had finished by a whisper from Pat.

‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

I was bewildered by the news: numbed by a fear out of all proportion to the meagre and casually delivered announcement, but from my bewilderment rose one dreadful conviction: ‘It has come! – it has come… I knew that it would come!’

My memory rushed back to the party at Dr Cranley’s house three months ago – to Major Jagger. I saw it all once more as vividly as if it had happened an hour ago – and yet I had striven with all my might to drown it in reassuring thoughts of future happiness. I knew now what, despite myself, I had striven to ridicule. I knew that every word that Major Jagger had said that night was true… desperately true…

I should have known it, long ere this, had I tried to understand. I should have read through the guarded newspaper articles: I should have seen through the veiled references in broadcast speeches: the hurried comings and goings of Ministers to The Hague – the urgent meetings of the Cabinet, always ending with ‘negotiations are proceeding well’. ‘There is no question of serious disagreement’ – ‘the matters involved are naturally very complicated and need further discussion’. Always the note at the end: ‘All is well – all is well!’

Deep within me I had known the truth: in the depths of the night I had known it.

‘This is the National Station. The Prime Minister.’

I had not heard John Rawlings speak before. He had risen from a solicitor’s office in a small country town to a minor post in the Government before the cataclysm.

The new Parliament had voted him Premier as a result of some good work he had done in organising the City of Oxford as the provisional seat of government. The choice had been justified, but while John Rawlings proved himself an excellent administrator of home affairs it was whispered at the time, and loudly proclaimed afterwards by his enemies, that he was a weak negotiator and no match for the greedy opportunists who seized power abroad directly the wealth of the moon became known. And now his voice came to us, thin and desperately tired.

‘It is vitally important that every citizen shall understand the crisis in which the British Empire stands today.

‘The moon’s position in the Atlantic Ocean has blocked our sea routes and isolated the British Isles from its Colonies and Dominions. Unless we have free passage across the moon to the Atlantic and Mediterranean, Britain is doomed. Without that corridor to the Ocean we shall be dependent for all time upon bringing our vital supplies through the lands of foreigners who can cut them off and starve us at their will.

‘Before the moon’s wealth was known to Europe, no nation raised objection to our corridor: all recognised it as our lifeline, and agreed to make it British territory. But new leaders have risen abroad – irresponsible adventurers who crave for the lion’s share of the moon in order to enhance their prestige. They deny our right to a corridor: they reject our guarantee to preserve its neutrality and our promise to give them freedom to cross it, on the grounds that we might fortify it and one day claim the whole moon as our own.

‘Britain stands today at its greatest crisis: either we must submit to the greed of others, forgo our right to the corridor and take the road to servitude, or we must stand firm and assert ourselves, if necessary, by force of arms. No citizen of this proud, free country will hesitate in his choice: any sacrifice is better than servitude… I and my Ministers are working day and night in our search for an honourable and peaceful solution… we do so in the knowledge that every man and woman of Britain will support us… will give their lives, if need be, in the sacred cause of freedom…’