The Hopkins Manuscript, page 2
‘Lovely evening, Barlow,’ I said (for I believe in being affable at all times with the honest folk of the village).
‘Lovely indeed, Mr Hopkins,’ replied Barlow. ‘Lovely sunset – but rusty again.’
Our heads turned towards the glow that fretted its way through the ancient beeches of The Manor House, and for a while we were both held in a strange silence.
‘Rusty again.’ It was the first time I had heard expressed in words the strangeness which I had felt towards eventide on several occasions in the past few weeks …
‘I never seed that rusty colour in all my life afore,’ added Barlow.
I nodded in silent agreement, but could not dismiss the phenomenon so easily as Barlow did, as a mere freak of nature. There was no difference in the actual appearance of the sun, nor in the shape of the little clouds that surrounded it as it sank gently behind the trees. But, as it passed, it left a great sombre tarnish in the sky – a feverish glow of poisoned blood that had no beauty in it – that oppressed and disturbed me.
The newspapers, so quick to note and record all oddities of nature, had apparently overlooked the phenomenon, nor had the village folk done more than pass a casual remark across the bar of the Fox & Hounds.
But my keenly developed astronomical eye had led me to an observation of this strange phenomenon more close than that of my neighbours. At first I had noted it with curiosity and scientific interest – and then, as it persisted, I was drawn each evening into my garden with an increasing sense of wonder and a growing disturbance of mind.
Upon one evening in particular I returned to my house with a genuine sense of fear. The sky, upon that night, was overcast, and the sun, since midday, had been lost to view. But as I watched the sky beyond the beeches I saw the same rusty glow appear – indistinct because it was swathed in cloud – and yet it seemed to pulsate behind its covering like some horrid, festered wound beneath a dirty yellow bandage.
I felt so uneasy that I sat down after dinner and wrote a letter to The Times. I registered the letter next morning, but I watched for its appearance in vain. And then for a little while the phenomenon had disappeared and the sun had set once more in its old, friendly gowns of gold and crimson. I had begun to believe that the strangeness had been, after all, a mere passing illusion: I had ceased to search the sky at evening – I had almost forgotten it – and now, here it was, ‘rusty again’, as old Barlow so aptly put it.
‘It disappeared three weeks ago,’ I said. ‘It’ll disappear again.’ I took my letters, bade the old man goodnight and closed my gate.
Halfway up my hillside path lay an arbour shaped from fine old yews. It was a favourite resting place of mine with a lovely view across the countryside, and upon clear days I could glimpse a silver strip of sea.
I paused at my arbour and sat down to read my mail. There were three letters that night. The first was an invoice for £18 12s 3d covering the new poultry houses I had recently purchased from Haggard & Jackson of Winchester. The second was an invitation card to the Annual Prizegiving and Latin Play at Portsea Grammar School – an invitation I always appreciated and frequently sacrificed important engagements to accept. The third contained the letter that ended my days of peace: happy days that have never since returned, and never will again.
Often, in the past seven dreadful years, I have looked back upon that evening: often I have lived again the last hour of happiness that I was ever to know upon this earth: that peaceful stroll to the village – my quiet chat with Mr Flidale, the carrier, in his cottage by the bridge – a moment’s pause to watch the boys at football on the green – the country sounds; the smell of the hay – the peaceful stroll home and chat with old Barlow at my gate; the last hour of my life – the last hour in which I was to know the meaning of repose …
I have that letter in my pocket-book today, worn and battered by the dreadful misfortunes that I and my personal belongings have suffered. I copy it down in its entirety: –
THE BRITISH LUNAR SOCIETY
Secretary:76 Barbara Street,
Humphrey H TugwallWC1
18th September 1945
Sir,
I am instructed by the President and Committee to summon you to a special meeting of the British Lunar Society to be held at the Society’s headquarters on the 8th October at 6 pm.
As the subject of this meeting is of the most highly confidential nature, no guests will be permitted, and members are requested to keep both this notice and the matters announced at the meeting most secret and confidential.
Yours faithfully,
Humphrey H. Tugwall
Twilight came, and I sat without moving with the letter in my hands. The invoice for the poultry houses, the invitation to the Prizegiving, fluttered to the ground, forgotten.
I felt suddenly cold and sick, for the thing that I had secretly dreaded for the past six months had apparently happened.
In the spring of that year Professor Hartley, our President (a brilliant astronomer and a charming man), had put before the members of the Society a bold proposal.
In his opinion, he said, the Society should not be content with a monthly meeting for reading papers and discussing lunar topics. The Society should possess its own observatory and its own telescope.
In a simple but masterly statement of finance he explained that a lease could be obtained of the roof of a tall radio factory upon high ground at Hampstead. The rental would be £90 a year: the cost of the observatory £800, and the price of the telescope, instruments, etc., £750: an outlay of £1,550 and a yearly rental.
Our existing inadequate premises cost £120 a year and subscriptions from our 109 members at two guineas was £230. We had a satisfactory balance of £194 in the bank, and as the observatory was certain to lead to a large increase in members we could confidently look forward to a higher revenue.
He explained a sinking fund to defray the cost of installation, and as I listened I was thrilled by the courage and enterprise of the scheme.
I shall never forget my growing anger as member after member rose to his feet to tear the scheme to pieces with ridicule, cowardice and spiteful criticism. Their sluggish little brains were content with what they had: their timid little minds dreaded the dangers of expansion. They didn’t want a telescope! Apparently they were content to read about the moon and listen to cleverer men than themselves lecture upon it. To study it for themselves would be too big a call upon their intelligence! They disguised their cowardice by enlarging upon the financial risks and predicting bankruptcy for the club.
Neither shall I forget the part I played upon that historic evening.
With a surge of white-hot anger I rose to my feet and spoke as I have never spoken before. By nature I am a quiet, retiring man, too prone to allow men with louder voices and lesser intelligence to have their way. But as I sat there watching our President’s brave, patient face as his carefully made plans were ridiculed and destroyed I became as a man beside himself.
In a loud, firm voice I accused my opponents of rank cowardice, narrow-mindedness and base disloyalty to our fine President. I dwelt vigorously upon the untold advantages of possessing our own telescope. ‘We call ourselves the British Lunar Society,’ I said, ‘and yet we do nothing but listen to strangers who tell us what we should see with our own eyes!’
Well do I remember the stupid, ironical laughter that became fuel to my ungovernable passion. Well do I remember the voice that shouted: ‘Who’s going to pay the bill if the scheme’s a failure?’
And never shall I forget my reply. ‘I will!’ I shouted, crashing my clenched fist into the palm of my hand. ‘I am not afraid to face the consequences of enterprise and courage!’
I was too angry to realise what I was saying, and in the next moment could have bitten my tongue off for its rashness.
There was a moment of silence and then a burst of vigorous, sincere applause from the members present. Before I realised what was happening Dr Willoughby, an old and highly respected member of the Committee, was standing up, addressing the meeting.
It was an inspiring moment, he said, when a wealthy member of a society came forward as sponsor and guarantor in the noble cause of science. Personally he considered the scheme a risky one for a small society, although he applauded its courage. Now that those risks had been so generously covered by Mr Edgar Hopkins he looked forward with a restful mind to the completion of the scheme.
I had come out in a cold, clammy sweat, but what could I possibly do? Around me sat the men who had tried to kill the scheme – who were angry with me for saving it. If I were to stand up again and say that I did not mean what I had said, what would be the reply of the men whom I had accused of cowardice? I should be discredited and laughed out of the Society.
I am prepared to admit that it was my inexperience in public speaking that had led me into this rash outburst. Had I been a rich man with money to spare the position would have been different. But I was not a rich man. After purchasing my house and poultry farm I had £9,000 of invested capital that produced an income of £400 a year. It was just sufficient to meet my modest expenses but gave me not a penny to spare.
What might be the consequences of this reckless outburst of mine? The failure of this observatory scheme might throw the Society into debt to the tune of £2,000! The loss of so much of my money would mean the end of my present home – the end of my cherished poultry farm. It was more than I could bring myself to think of. I sat in my chair, the hero of the evening, but limp, bewildered and helpless, applause ringing in my ears. I could not draw back now if I were to retain a vestige of pride and respect amongst these men around me.
I heard, as through a disordered dream, the voice of our President, thanking me for my generous guarantee: I heard him put the scheme before the meeting and I saw a sea of hands lifted in favour of it. The scheme was carried by forty-seven votes to nine.
How I summoned the strength to walk to the ante-room I do not know. I vaguely remember someone handing me a cup of coffee and biting a sandwich which seemed like dry cotton wool in my mouth when I tried to swallow it. I remember my hand being shaken – I remember smiling faces and words of praise.
And as I went out into the night to catch my train, my teeth were chattering in impotent misery.
The scheme was put in hand without delay, and it was as if an evil spirit had cursed its progress.
Everything seemed to go wrong. It was not until the Committee had purchased a seven-year lease that the borough architect inspected the premises and pronounced the roof unsafe in its present condition for an observatory.
The Committee was ordered to strengthen the roof at the additional cost of £217. Hardly had the shock of this blow abated before the telescope makers announced an increase of 10% upon the telescope and instruments owing to the rise in the cost of materials.
I was not upon the Committee at this time, although I was assured that my generosity would gain me a seat at the next election. I therefore only heard what was happening through my old friend Dr Perceval.
My enemies – the opponents of the telescope – naturally heard of these troubles and did not conceal their malicious pleasure at our monthly meetings, but one evening Dr Perceval told me in confidence that the Committee was struggling bravely against its difficulties and was doing its utmost to achieve success without calling upon my financial support. He told me that if the scheme failed a General Meeting would be called and that I could consider no news as good news.
How I prayed that the scheme would overcome all troubles and succeed! Not only for the sake of my own fortune and my own future, but for the sake of the triumph over my enemies!
How I would smile upon those fools at the brilliant opening ceremony! How I would chuckle as the British Lunar Society went from strength to strength as a result of its splendid observatory – the result of my courage and the generosity that despite my opponents had not been called upon!
Every day that passed meant greater assurance that the scheme was succeeding, and during that summer I achieved a serenity of spirit and happiness that I had never known before. I felt the joy of a gambler whose gamble had succeeded – the joy of being a man of courage – the satisfaction of feeling that my friends believed me to be a very wealthy man …
And now, like a bolt from the blue twilit sky of that autumn evening, had come this fateful letter.
‘We shall call a General Meeting if the scheme fails.’ Dr Perceval’s words beat upon my ears like totem drums as I sat in the arbour upon the hillside of my garden.
What else could the letter mean? Private – Confidential – Matters of the highest importance.
For the last time I seemed to see my beloved poultry farm as my own: that deep green meadow and those olive, aged yews. I could scarcely look at my home as I walked up the hillside with a heart of lead. That little house, no longer mine, was so beautiful, so infinitely friendly in the twilight that a glance at it would have been insufferable.
I had no appetite for the excellent sole and cheese soufflé prepared for me by Mrs Buller, my housekeeper. After toying with the food I went into my library and mechanically picked up a new book that I had so eagerly received that morning – The Craters of the Moon by Professor Herman Parker of Harvard. I opened it, then flung it aside with repulsion. I strode to the window and wrenched the curtains together to conceal the thin, silver crescent that was rising placidly and smugly above the meadows. I loathed the moon: it was the cause of my ruin. I hated the moon and everything to do with it.
I heard the gloating laughter of my enemies: I heard the tap of the auctioneer’s hammer – knocking down my poultry at pitiful prices. For a moment I thought of running away – absenting myself from the hateful meeting on the 8th October, but even as the thought came I knew that it was unworthy of me. I determined to attend and face the consequences. Better to be a pauper and keep my honour than live with my money in shame.
I went to bed, and saw the dawn come without closing my eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
The reader can well conceive the misery I suffered during those weeks of suspense before the fateful Meeting.
One morning, no longer able to bear the cruel uncertainty, I telephoned to Humphrey Tugwall, the Secretary of the Society, and asked him to tell me in the strictest confidence the nature of the meeting.
Tugwall replied curtly that the matter could not be discussed and cut me off with an abruptness that told its own story.
For the next ten days I was drenched in a gloom that nothing could dissipate. On the 7th October, my hen Broodie won the Egg-Laying Contest for two-year-olds at Little Bramble Poultry Fair, but the triumph was a hollow mockery. I received the diploma from the Hon Mrs McNaughton and accepted the Challenge Egg Cup with a smile that needed all my courage to produce. I expect those country bumpkins in the audience attributed my pale face and haggard eyes to the drawn-out anxiety inevitable to a poultry owner during an egg-laying contest. How little they suspected the truth! – How little they knew that upon the morrow, in the great City of London, I was to face a hundred men of science and receive my dreadful sentence – to be stripped of my small fortune as a disgraced officer is stripped of his sword.
The horrible part of it was that I had no idea – no conception of the sum that I should be forced to pay. Too late I realised that I might at least have compromised by limiting the extent of my guarantee. I had failed to do so, and a hundred tragic possibilities loomed like spectres before my sleepless eyes on that last night before the meeting.
Supposing the Committee had become involved in some hideous law-suit? Supposing, in the course of altering that building for the observatory, the roof had collapsed, killing men beneath and causing untold damage? The liability of the Committee was my liability: I visualised claims running into thousands and a sickening twist of my brain suddenly presented an even more terrible fate than financial ruin. If my whole fortune failed to meet the heavy claims I might be convicted of false pretences and imprisoned, for fifty honest witnesses could be brought forward to prove that I had guaranteed the Society’s losses without limit!
The loss of my fortune seemed now a little thing compared with this new, ghastly possibility. I think I was near to madness upon that awful night. I truly believe that I should have lost my reason had nature not stepped in to give me a few hours of restless stupor.
So dawned that Thursday: that fateful day of 8th October – the day that was to end everything of tranquillity and happiness that life had given me.
It was a lovely autumn morning, filled with a pale, crisp sunlight. Frost sparkled the meadows and rimed the hedgerows as I dragged my weary limbs down the hillside to feed my pullets. Now that the day of the meeting was upon me I felt a curious repose – a philosophy that gently dethroned my worldly troubles and prepared me to face my fate with dignity.
To retain my peace of mind I clipped the yew trees of my arbour, although within my heart I no longer thought of those sturdy trees as mine. At midday I returned to the house. I dressed myself with care in the blue suit which I kept for business occasions, ate a light lunch of sweetbreads and braised celery and walked to the station to catch the 2.14.
As the train ran through the familiar, sunlit countryside, I recalled many a happy journey to past meetings of the British Lunar Society and sadly reflected that this might be my last. If, as I now felt certain, the observatory scheme had failed, I knew that I could never again face those jeering men who would say: ‘I told you so.’ I recalled hot summer evenings with the Society’s windows wide to a twilit sky and the drowsy hum of traffic floating up to us – and evenings when the big fire blazed behind the President’s table and I had trudged home through the snow – happy evenings that would never come again.
I was too restless to make my usual visit to a cinema theatre when I arrived in London. I walked up Regent Street and along Oxford Street, blind to the happy, home-going crowds of London workers. Although the night was cold I sat for a while upon a seat in Hyde Park, hunched grimly in my greatcoat, counting the minutes that hung like lead.
