The Hopkins Manuscript: A Novel

by R.C. Sherriff, Lameece Issaq

Genres: Classics; Literary Fiction; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi

Synopsis

A stunning speculative novel about a small English village preparing of the end of the world.

Edgar Hopkins is a retired math teacher with a strong sense of self-importance, whose greatest pride is winning poultry-breeding contests. When not meticulously caring for his Bantam, Edgar is an active member of the British Lunar Society. Thanks to that affiliation, Edgar becomes one of the first people to learn that the moon is on a collision course with the earth.

Members of the society are sworn to secrecy, but eventually the moon begins to loom so large in the sky that the truth can no longer be denied. During these final days, Edgar writes what he calls “The Hopkins Manuscript”—a testimony juxtaposing the ordinary and extraordinary as the villagers dig trenches and play cricket before the end of days.

First published in 1939, as the world was teetering on the brink of global war, R.C. Sherriff’s classic science fiction novel is a timely and powerful missive from the past that captures human nature in all its complexity.

Release date: January 17, 2023

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

I am writing by the light of a piece of string which I have pushed through a fragment of bacon fat and arranged in an egg-cup. I shall write by night, partly because I can no longer sleep through these ghastly, moonless chasms, and partly because by day I must search for food, and the days are short.

It is hard to believe that this is Notting Hill, and the inky, silent void beneath me is London. There was a time when I could see a million lights from this window, with the Bayswater Road and Oxford Street piercing the heart of London like a blazing, jewelled sword. There was a time when the roar of the traffic would come up to this window like a lulling sea beneath a dying storm, but now I seem to be suspended in this broken wooden chair between unheavenly darkness and unearthly silence.

An owl was hooting just now in Ladbroke Square, but it stopped abruptly as if suddenly ashamed, like a man who has laughed in a cathedral.

Earlier this evening I saw a few fitful little yellow lights beneath me—flickering and disappearing as people in their ruined houses tinkered with their gimcrack home-made lamps and gave them up in despair. Only a few still try to fight these horrible black nights with their feeble home-made lanterns. The majority have turned into savages and crawl into their sleeping-holes at sunset, and lie there in a kind of stupor until dawn.

I wonder what they think about as they lie there—for most of them are quite alone and none of us has any hope. We are all just waiting for the end.

A man I met yesterday in Kensington Gardens as I was drawing my bucket of water told me that there were only seven hundred people alive in London now, and every one of us can own a streetful of houses if we want them.

An old lady who used to live opposite me at No. 10 Notting Hill Crescent has gone to live in the National Gallery. She heard that it was empty, and wanted to gratify her love of art and lust for possession during the last days that remain to her.

I went to tea with her today. She lives upon the pigeons that fall dead from the Nelson Column in Trafalgar Square. She cooks them over a fire which she keeps blazing with Dutch masterpieces upon the stone floor of the entrance hall. She dislikes Dutch masterpieces and enjoys the fire as much as the pigeons.

After tea she took me around the galleries to show me her collection of Turners, Constables, and Gainsboroughs. She had grown tired of one or two and tore them down for her fire that evening. She gave me a little medieval panel worth £5,000. I accepted it as politeness suggested, but threw it away upon my walk home. Nobody disputes her possession and I am glad there is one happy soul in this dying city.

But there is no time for anecdote. I must write my story, plainly and simply, while I have the strength, and sufficient light to see by. The idea of writing my story has given me quite a lot of happiness. I alone, of all these hopeless people, shall die with the knowledge that I leave something behind that may one day be found and valued as highly as the Rosetta Stone or the priceless manuscripts of Egypt.

In those happy, peaceful days before the Cataclysm I spent much time in searching for the relics of people who lived before history began. History has ended now, but one day it may begin again—one day my story may be found and I shall stand amongst the immortals. Tacitus, Ptolemy, and the Venerable Bede produced work that lit the dark ages of the past. My story may be the solitary torch that lights the dark age that followed the Cataclysm, for when it is finished I shall screw it tightly in my thermos flask and conceal it behind the bricks of my fireplace.

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I am a bachelor, aged fifty-three. My name is Edgar Hopkins and I come of an old and honourable family of Worcestershire squires. The fortunes of my family have declined somewhat in recent years, and in 1912 my father sold our old family estate at Stoatcastle to the Victrix Sand and Gravel Company and retired to Chislehurst.

I was educated at Winchester and Jesus College, Cambridge. Upon taking my degree of Bachelor of Arts, I accepted the position of assistant arithmetic master to Portsea Grammar School, a post which I held, I think, with distinction for twenty-three years until the death of my father at last provided me with a small but sufficient legacy upon which to retire.

I have always taken the keenest interest in poultry breeding. For three successive years I carried off first prize for Rhode Island Pullets at the Portsea Poultry Show, and my brochure upon “The Successful Breeding of the Domestic Fowl” was very favourably reviewed in the Poultry Gazette. A carping and small-minded criticism in Our Feathered Friendsdid not dismay or surprise me, for jealousy is unfortunately as rampant amongst poultry breeders as it is amongst metallurgists, in whose grudging world I also, I might say, ranked as an expert.

My retirement afforded me the opportunity of gratifying my interest in poultry breeding to a wider extent. In the summer of 1940 I purchased a small but charming estate upon the outskirts of the village of Beadle in Hampshire. It was known as Beech Knoll and consisted of a nice little house upon the summit of a small hill 580 feet above sea level (a fact to which I owe my life). The terraced gardens, rich in old hollies and yews, sloped pleasantly down to a well-drained, sheltered meadow of five acres—a veritable paradise for poultry.

I brought my best hens from Portsea, secured six excellent cockerels from a good breeding farm in Kent, and settled down to a life of simple but vigorous purpose.

Nature has provided me with a happy gift for friendship, a witty but not unkind tongue, and, I think, a restful, pleasant personality. I soon became well acquainted with my neighbours, from whom I selected Dr. Perceval and Colonel John Harrison as my most intimate friends. I spent many happy evenings with these two gentlemen, discussing my poultry until long past midnight, and it was a great regret to me when both of them decided to go and live farther away.

But before he left, Dr. Perceval engaged my interest in a hobby which was destined to play a remarkable part in my life, and without which I should never have gained the knowledge and authority to write this story.

Dr. Perceval was a keen amateur astronomer, and had constructed a small observatory in the summerhouse of his garden. My eager imagination was quickly stimulated by my first glimpse of the moon through his magnificent telescope. I was fascinated by that brilliant, crater-pitted little world of rock-strewn silence, and I spent many hours with my eye fixed to the telescope as the old doctor patiently explained to me those far-off mountains and awe-inspiring chasms.

Within a few months I became, through the doctor’s influence, an associate member of the British Lunar Society—a learned body devoted entirely to the study of the moon.

The Society’s headquarters were at 76 Barbara Street, Covent Garden, and consisted of the whole top floor. There was a large lecture room, a small office for the Secretary, and a refreshment room that quickly became famous for its sandwiches composed of chicken supplied from my estate.

On the second Tuesday of every month we met to hear a paper read by a distinguished visitor or member of the Society. A stimulating debate would follow, and the evening would close with a pleasant, informal adjournment for coffee and sandwiches in the anteroom. So easy and happy was this final half-hour of the evening that the distinguished visitor would frequently unbend and almost become one of us. Upon one occasion I engaged Professor Rolleston-Mills of Greenwich Observatory in conversation for nearly twenty minutes. I explained to him that the unusual whiteness of the chicken meat in the sandwiches and their exceptionally delicate flavour was due to a deliberate inbreeding of a selected strain of Wyandotte. We had a hearty laugh when he described me as a “man of many parts”!

This monthly meeting of the British Lunar Society became the most looked-forward-to event of my peaceful life. Upon the second Tuesday of each month I would rise especially early, complete the necessary attentions to my chickens as quickly as possible, snatch a hasty lunch, and catch the 2:14 train for London.

This train reached Waterloo at 4:23 and gave me the opportunity of attending a cinema theatre before our meeting began at 6:30. We usually departed at about eight o’clock, and there was time for me to dine quietly at a pleasant little Soho restaurant before my train left for home at 9:52.

It gave me a “night out” which I enjoyed the more because I had become rather a “country cousin” in the past few years, and I never failed to return home with a sense of mental well-being.

I am afraid old Police Constable Wilson used to look askance at me as I strutted up Burntash Lane towards my home at well past midnight, and perhaps it is an understandable vanity that made me cock my hat at a jaunty angle and swing my umbrella with a touch of abandon as I wished him goodnight.

I not only gained stimulating mental refreshment from my monthly visit to the British Lunar Society; I also secured a new respect from the “locals” by being “a bit of a lad”!

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My story really begins upon a summer evening, seven years ago. Can it only be seven years? It seems an eternity, but careful calculation proves it to be true. Even the words “summer evening” come haltingly from the pen and look strange upon paper in a world from which summer evenings have long since sped.

There are no evenings—no twilight in a land from which the sun plunges in one ghastly, blood-red torrent. It is burning yellow day—then suddenly black, utter night.

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I remember, upon that summer evening, that I had walked into the village after tea to see Mr. Flidale, the carrier. I had been to discuss with him the transport of my three outstanding Wyandotte cockerels to the Brigtree Poultry Show, and it was arranged that he should collect them next evening after sundown. It is my firm belief that a finely trained domestic bird should never be transported except at night, when its drowsy condition prevents that undue excitement and concern which actuates so seriously against a bird in a highly strung condition, and prevents it from looking its best next morning.

As I reached the turn of the lane upon my homeward journey, I saw Mr. Barlow, our village postman, about to enter my gate. It was a steep climb up the path to my front door, and as Mr. Barlow was an elderly man I called out to him that I would take the letters myself and save him unnecessary exhaustion.

Mr. Barlow was grateful, and we stood for a few moments, chatting by the gate in the mellow light of the sunset.

“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.

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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 pocketbook 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: Humphrey H. Tugwall

76 Barbara Street WC1 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 p.m.

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 anteroom 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.

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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 percent 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. ...