The Lost Manuscript

An extract from Barnhill A Novel by Norman Bissell

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In June 1944 George Orwell sent the manuscript of Animal Farm to T.S.Eliot at the publishers Faber and Faber with a covering letter which read in part “This MS. has been blitzed which accounts for my delay in delivering it & its slightly crumpled condition, but it is not damaged in any way.”

The stairway from his office had seen better days. George rushed down two stairs at a time and almost tripped near the bottom. He stepped out into the Strand and was instantly dazzled by the sunlight. The street throbbed with life. Crowds of people going about their business, war or no war. Despite his troubled mood, he couldn’t help but think of the ghosts of Carlyle, Dickens and Burlington Bertie. Many a time he’d smiled at the idea of himself as a latter day Bertie, rising at ten thirty, living on plates of fresh air and sauntering around like a toff. But today the world seemed a bleaker place.

He hurried into Kingsway, taking in the boarded shop windows, heaps of sandbags and makeshift air raid shelters. War weariness was everywhere, not just in the damaged buildings but on the anxious faces of young soldiers. In Oxford Street he came upon women queuing up outside a baker’s and a butcher’s. He admired their patience and fortitude as he hurried on. Old English values at their best.

He reached Fitzrovia, familiar territory. How many times had he sampled its watering holes? These days he seemed to be getting more and more drawn into literary circles and the bohemian lifestyle that accompanied them. He must do something about this. He entered Regent’s Park and suddenly he was in a different world. Women were pushing prams, couples strolling hand in hand, signs of summer in the very fabric of the place. Funny how life went on in spite of the war. He became aware of the vastness of the sky, the huge, moving clouds.

Rushing on, he came upon empty zoo cages. The animals had been evacuated, along with many of the city’s children. He sniffed the fetid remains of animal fodder, held his nose and started coughing. Why didn’t they clean this place up? He sometimes thought that the world might be a better place if the humans were behind bars and the animals were allowed to roam freely. They wouldn’t be at war for one thing.

At the other end of the park he crossed into a street of blitzed buildings, some still smouldering, their inhabitants’ lives exposed to the world. Torn wallpaper fluttered in the wind, furniture protruded from half-demolished floors. Amazingly, a canary in a cage had survived in one of the houses. It sang sweetly from a wrecked room on the ground floor as a woman, face blackened and bleeding, was carried on a stretcher into an ambulance. George stopped, stunned by her glazed, grim look. He reached for her outstretched hand but she was whisked away by two stretcher bearers before he could comfort her. On a nearby wall, a poster with Churchill’s bull head and clenched fist caught his eye. They asked for Total War. Let us make sure they get it! It amused George no end that a phrase about the war that he had once written had been taken up by Goebbels and Churchill in turn. Perhaps he should invent some more phrases?

Gasping and wheezing now, George entered the shell of a partially destroyed house in Mortimer Crescent. The roof, ceiling and some of the walls had fallen in, but it was still familiar. Was this all that was left of his home? He stood blinking amongst the rubble, noticing family heirlooms amongst the debris, recognised his wheelbarrow. Would it still be there or had it been burnt to a cinder like much of the place? The thought spurred him on. He started to hunt amongst the debris and uncovered book after book. Left Book Club political potboilers, Bleak House by Dickens, his old favourite Gulliver’s Travels. He dusted them down with his handkerchief and put them in the wheelbarrow. He came across a bundle of seaside postcards. He picked one out and chuckled at the sight of a fat, red-faced man with a hankie on his head sitting on a beach deckchair grinning at a scantily clad, big bosomed girl and two rounded sand castles. That’s a nice pair! the caption read. He blew the dust off and carefully placed them in the barrow on top of the books. It made him cough and spit up some phlegm.

He uncovered a large heap of left wing pamphlets, including some by the Duke of Bedford and Leon Trotsky. He wiped and added some of them to the growing pile in the barrow. Becoming more and more desperate, he cleared away broken shelves and a cupboard. Nothing. He was about to try somewhere else when deep under a shelf he came across a pile of crumpled paper. Frantically he flattened it out. His eyes lit up. The front page said Animal Farm by George Orwell. His face beamed, overjoyed at finding his lost manuscript at last.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder. He swivelled round defensively, then relaxed, laughing in recognition. It was Eileen in a grey trench coat and headscarf.

‘Ah, you’ve found it! The girls at the Ministry will be pleased.’ Excited, she gave him a big hug.

‘They’re not the only ones.’ He felt a huge sense of relief as he gently disengaged from her.

She surveyed the ruins of their home. ‘It wasn’t a bad billet, you know… But this could make all the difference to us.’

‘I know… if I can find a publisher… At least now I’ve got something to send out.’ He gripped the manuscript tightly, the safe return of an old friend. He tried not to let political doubts spoil the moment. He knew it was the best thing he’d ever written and was determined to get it published one way or another.

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Barnhill A Novel by Norman Bissell is published by Luath.