Роберт Шеррифф - The Hopkins Manuscript

That would be three months before the end. What purgatory had those three months in store for us? I squeezed up my eyes to suffocate the contemplation of it.

The adjournment to the ante-room was horrible in its silent, oppressive gloom. Only a few attempted a display of normal conversation to reassure the round, puzzled face of Mrs Ayling behind the coffee urn. As I took my cup of coffee she asked me ‘What was up with them all?’ I replied that grave difficulties had arisen over the construction of our new observatory at Hampstead, and her face immediately lit up with reassurance and happiness. She was against the telescope from the beginning, for she lived at Sidcup, and the journey to Hampstead would have been a long and tedious one for an old lady.

Upon this evening the news of confirmation was broken to seven other scientific societies in London. Just before midnight a man named Dr Burgoyne, a teacher of physics at a provincial university, went mad, and ran along Regent Street shouting: ‘The world is ending! – the world is ending!’

He was arrested by a policeman on point duty at Piccadilly Circus, certified insane and sent to Walthop Hill Asylum. It was not reported in the press.

A few days after that wretched meeting of the British Lunar Society the Prime Minister made a remarkable speech in Parliament.

The headlines in the newspapers startled me. They announced: ‘DUGOUTS FOR ALL’ and for a moment I thought the Secret was out. But as I read the speech I realised what a clever move had been made.

The danger of air attack by foreign enemy, said the Prime Minister, was at last to be given vigorous attention and every town and village in Great Britain was to have its dugout for the protection of its citizens against bombs and gas.

Every community was immediately to set up its ‘Dugout Committee’ and work was to begin at once under the supervision of local engineers, who would receive full details and specifications from the Ministry of Defence.

The work as far as possible was to be done by voluntary labour and the newspapers put the scheme over in such a fascinating way that no sensible citizen could withhold his enthusiasm for a long-delayed necessity. Extracts from the official directions proved how skilfully the real purpose of the dugouts had been disguised. Modern bombs, it was announced, had such deep penetrating power that the dugouts should be thirty feet deep. Hillcrests and valleys were to be avoided and the sites selected should be upon hillsides protected as far as possible by the natural folds of the ground. This, it was explained, was to give security from aircraft observation and at the same time to place the dugouts out of reach of poison gas which naturally accumulates in the valleys. I knew, of course, that hillcrests and valleys were to be avoided because of hurricane in the one case and flood in the other.

It was evident that immense preparations had been under way for some months, for the Government announced that large quantities of oxygen cylinders and steel doors were already available and would be delivered immediately the local authorities announced the completion of their dugouts.

Personally I was delighted with this vigorous and sensible move. It meant that preparations would proceed in an orderly manner, free from the risk of panic, and when the truth had to be told the dugouts would be so far advanced that the news would act solely as a stimulus for completion.

It also made my secret infinitely more exciting and important, for everybody in Beadle would be talking about the impending disaster without actually knowing about it. I personally would be the only man in the village who knew the real reason for all this activity, and I could undoubtedly assist (without divulging the secret) by suggesting the best place to put the Beadle dugout.

Our village lay in the rural district of Makleton and Dr Hax was our local Member upon the Council. I accordingly went down to see him directly after breakfast and was lucky to find him in his surgery on the point of departing upon his rounds.

Dr Hax was a big, dusty-looking man with a flat white face and a clumsy, ambling walk. He was respected in the village but not greatly liked. He always carried a shabby little black bag of imitation, shiny leather which looked to me a perfect hotbed for germs. A stethoscope generally dangled out of his pocket and his bedside manner was poor to say the least of it. He had a habit of abruptly turning his back upon his patients that annoyed them but often cured them. He also had a small private income that was resented by old ladies with nothing the matter with them because he was sufficiently independent to tell them they weren’t ill.

‘Morning, Doctor!’ I said. ‘Seen the papers? – The Government’s waking up at last!’

He looked at me vaguely for a moment, then began stuffing his unsavoury little bag with cotton wool.

‘The great Dugout Scheme?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Yes – most important! I hear the Germans are organising a big attack on Beadle Gravel Pit to put it out of action.’

‘Is that the way to treat a vital move towards national safety?’ I sharply rejoined.

‘Volunteers to build dugouts,’ he jeered. ‘If they got volunteers onto bringing some of our waste land under potatoes and wheat they’d be talking sense!’

I was appalled by this despicably narrow but typically ‘local’ attitude.

‘I came to offer my services as a good citizen with a respect for the safety of England!’

He looked at me curiously. ‘Sorry, Hopkins. Didn’t mean to offend. I’m a good citizen, too – or I hope I am. What d’you want to do?’

‘I thought,’ I replied stiffly, ‘that I could be of service upon the Dugout Committee. I’m not exactly a yokel. I’ve knowledge of geology – particularly of these parts – I might be able to advise upon a suitable position for the Beadle dugout.’

He shut his bag with a snap. ‘That’ll all be dealt with by the Makleton Council,’ he said. ‘They’ll be responsible for the villages in their area. There’s a meeting on Thursday week and I’ll know more about it then. They’ve got to discuss a big new drainage scheme but maybe they’ll bring up the dugouts if there’s time. Come along down and see me in a fortnight. Maybe I’ll have some news and you can come and dig and bury yourself. Now I’ve got to get over to Horley Farm to bring a baby into the world.’

I was too astonished and appalled to make a reply. I stuttered something and watched him drive down the lane in his ramshackle little motor car. Thursday week! – and they might discuss it if the Drainage Scheme gave time! How ghastly the whole thing was! – Here were a hundred good honest Beadle folk, frittering away precious moments upon sweeping roads and ploughing fields and playing darts when they might be doing something to save their lives and save humanity! – and there went that pitiful fool of a doctor to bring a baby into the world! – might as well bring a dewdrop into a blast furnace.

I was determined to arouse the public conscience, and strode down to the Fox & Hounds. Murgatroyd was there, lounging behind his bar, and he was naturally surprised to see me after so long an absence.

‘Morning, Mr Hopkins – glass of sherry? You haven’t been in for quite a while.’

‘I was in a few days ago,’ I replied shortly, annoyed that the barmaid had not recognised me and reported my previous visit.

There were two or three men lounging by the bar, including Mr Bewdley who kept the grocery store, and I was pleased to find that they were discussing the ‘Dugout Scheme’.

‘Where’s ours to be?’ asked Mr Bewdley.

‘I’ll let ’em have my cellar,’ said Murgatroyd. ‘Turn the air raids into a nice little business boom for the Fox & Hounds – beer’s better than oxygen tubes when it comes to keeping alive!’