by A. J. Cronin
‘Isn’t it pretty?’ Moffatt said, in an indescribable tone. ‘ It would look nice on our front page.’
Although Moffatt was easily put out and alarmingly ready to take offence, Henry didn’t know what had come over her. He had to stop that nonsense. He gave her back the paper.
‘Take dictation,’ he said sharply.
When he had dealt with the correspondence she went next door to her machine and he passed along the corridor to the pillared Adam room where, every morning at ten, he held conference with his staff to plan the next day’s news coverage and features. Malcolm Maitland, his chief assistant editor, was already there, talking with Hartley Slade, who managed the art department; and as he entered, Poole, the sports editor came in behind him with Horace Balmer, the advertising manager.
As they sat down at the long polished table, Henry had a sudden impulse to mention the Somerville affair, but feeling this to be weakness on his part, he refrained. They began to discuss the format of the paper, going through Maitland’s news schedule item by item, deciding what should be passed and what discarded.
The policy of the Northern Light had long been summarized in the phrase which, in modest pica type, could be found at the head of page one: ‘All the news that’s fit to read.’ Set inflexibly against sensationalism, the paper had built up, over five generations, a reputation for integrity, fair-mindedness, and sound news presentation. It had become more or less a tradition in the district. Today, inevitably, the main news interest centred in the Middle East. Page and his staff went into this at length, worked through the national and county issues, came down finally to that subject of perennial interest – the weather. Heavy floods had occurred overnight in Lincolnshire and a reporter was sent out on this assignment with the chief photographer. There were, of course, local events to be reported, and various staff dispositions were made on these. Bob Lewis had already gone out on the N.R.U. assignment. Within an hour, after they had all spoken freely, an agreement was reached and it was possible to give some definite shape to the papers.
While the others went off, Malcolm Maitland walked along the corridor with Henry. Exceptional in ability and character, a staunch, hard-headed Northumbrian, Maitland was a man whose opinion Page profoundly respected. Son of a working ‘shot-firer’ in the small colliery village of Bedlington, he had been born in a typical miner’s row. Entirely by his own efforts, he had educated himself at Durham University, where he had won two scholarships and, in his final year, the Whittingham Prize in Political Economy. At first he took up teaching in Tynecastle, where, in his spare time, enthusiastic for social reform, he started a night school for the local shipyard lads. Twice, later on, he stood for Parliament in the Liberal interest at North Durham, but was beaten narrowly on both occasions. Then, compelled by economic necessity, having lost a few of the illusions of his early days, but not his sense of humour, he abandoned a political career and took to journalism. Ruddy, ill-favoured, and walking with a limp – the result of an accident on the coal tip when a boy – he made no appeal to the eye, but rather to the mind and heart. He lived alone, a natural bachelor, in an apartment in Wooton and managed, as he put it, to ‘do for himself’ pretty well. Like a good northern apple he was hard, but sound all through. Even in his hobby, a life-long passion for trotting ponies, fostered no doubt by a lasting affection for the pit ponies of his youth – he actually boarded out a couple of old-timers at Mossburn Farm – the down-to-earth wholesomeness of the man was revealed. He was closer to Page than anyone else in the office.
‘There’re so many problems.’ They were discussing a topic for the leading article, and Henry spoke irritably, depressed and more than usually on edge. ‘So many things to be said and so little time to say them.’
Maitland nodded. ‘It seems we’re deeper in the hole than ever.’
‘If only we could get rid of our cursed apathy. People don’t seem to care any more so long as they get free physic and the football pools. Look at West Germany, how they’ve pulled themselves up by their bootlaces. When I saw that country lying in rubble in ’43 I swore they were done for … that they’d never recover. But they have … magnificently … now they’re on top of the world.’
‘Don’t forget they had one advantage. They lost the war.’
‘That’s not the answer, Malcolm. They’ve done it themselves by guts and sheer hard work, while we’ve been drifting, a ship without a rudder.’
‘Ay, we’re in a bit of a mess, all right. But we’ve been in worse ones.’
‘If only we had someone to take charge … a real statesman … Disraeli, for example …’
Maitland paused outside Page’s door, gave him a side-long glance, touched with understanding humour.
‘You’ve got your leader there. And your headline – ‘ If Disraeli Were Alive Today.”’
As he left he glanced at his watch and said dryly:
‘Don’t forget our man of God has an appointment at eleven.’
It was almost that now, and before Page could get down to the advertising department for his routine conference, Gilmore, the rector of St Mark’s, came in. He shook hands, a brisk, well-shaved Christian, exuding an aura of good-fellowship.
‘Good of you to see me, Henry. You’re a busy man, like myself.’
He had come about the St Mark’s steeple, which in January had begun to slant. Death-watch beetle was the trouble and, since the old spire was beautiful and a landmark, Henry had opened a fund in the Light for its restoration.
‘I’ve had the final estimate,’ the rector went on, rustling his papers. ‘Much more, I’m afraid, than we anticipated. Fourteen thousand pounds.’
‘That’s a large sum of money.’
‘Indeed it is, my friend. Especially since contributions to your fund are less than five thousand.’
Henry did not care for that, at all. The paper’s effort was purely voluntary, and although he was no Croesus, he had started off the fund with a hundred guineas of his own. However, he merely said:
‘These are hard times for our country; taxes are high, and this is not a charitable time of year. Wait until next Christmas and we may do better.’
‘But, my dear Henry, the need is urgent.’
He continued for some time in this strain, while Page’s exasperation grew. Didn’t he realize that all unnecessary projects and personal interests, all this eternal crying out for more, and still more, must be suppressed before the country came to ruin? Yet Page tried to bear with him, listened, discussed ways and means, promised him space on the middle page, but he was glad when the other finally got up. As Gilmore went out he slid a sheet of typescript, with a conscious air, on to Page’s desk.
‘Forgive me, if I leave you these few Easter verses, Henry. I trust on this occasion you may find them worthy of insertion.’
As the door closed behind the rector, from force of habit Page picked up the sheet. His eye was on the first deplorable line – ‘A lily, fairest blossom of them all’ – when the phone rang. Miss Moffatt screened his calls from the switchboard downstairs, and her voice came through.
‘It’s London again.’
‘Not Somerville!’ he exclaimed involuntarily, and was immediately ashamed of himself.
‘No. It’s from Mighill House. A Mr Jones.’
After an instant’s pause he said:
‘Put him through.’
‘Mr Henry Page? How are you sir?’ The voice had, a Welsh intonation. ‘This is Trevor Jones, Sir Ithiel Mighill’s confidential secretary. I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, sir, though I hope I may soon. Mr Page, Sir Ithiel would like you to meet him in London … or at his country house in Sussex. At your earliest convenience.’
Instinctively Henry guessed what was to come.
‘I’m afraid I can’t spare the time.’
‘Sir Ithiel would be happy to send his personal plane to fetch you.’
‘No, it’s impossible.’
‘I assure you, Mr Page, it would be to your advantage t
o come.’
‘Why?’
‘For obvious reasons.’
‘I asked you why.’
‘Sir Ithiel understands that the Northern Light is on the market. He particularly wishes you to do nothing until he has talked with you.’
Henry’s throat tightened with sudden anger. He cut the connection abruptly. What on earth was it all about? Why should two of the most powerful press magnates in the country suddenly turn their eyes towards a small provincial paper? Although, in his concern, he probed every possibility, he could find no reasonable answer to either question.
With an effort of will he threw off the vague sense of alarm that was settling upon him and forced himself to begin the leading article. Suddenly the phone rang again. Henry almost started from his seat. But it was Dr Bard’s receptionist reminding him of his noon appointment for his monthly check-over. Normally this interruption would have irked him; today he welcomed it; he wanted to get away from the office. Concentrating, he got his article into its first shape and rang for Moffatt.
She came in, bringing his letters, and when he had signed them he gave her the rough draft.
‘I shall want to see this again when you’ve typed it.’
‘Very well.’
From her tone, which was chilly, Henry saw that she had not forgiven his earlier brusqueness. While Moffatt did not actually indulge in huffs, she managed to punish his occasional transgressions in her own way.
‘Do you wish your coffee?’ she asked. ‘It’s past noon.’
‘No, I’m going out. Back at two o’clock.’
‘You’d better see this before you go.’
Impassively, she handed him a telegram.
FOLLOWING MESSAGE SOMERVILLE THIS MORNING BEG TO ADVISE YOU I SHALL BE CALLING ON YOU NEXT TUESDAY. ANTICIPATING THE PLEASURE OF OUR MEETING, SINCERELY, HAROLD SMITH.
By this time Page was beyond surprise, but his fingers, holding the buff slip, were tense.
‘I wish to God we knew what was in their minds.’
Neither her expression nor her reply brought him any comfort. She said briefly:
‘We’ll know soon enough.’
As he did not speak she went out.
Alone, Henry raised his eyes and found himself frowning at the daguerreotype on the opposite wall of the Light’s founder, his great-great-grandfather, old Daniel Page, seated, black garbed, in a stiff pose, one hand inserted beneath the lapel of his frockcoat, the other, forefinger extended, supporting his brow. In his disturbed fancy he seemed to discern an added gravity in that serious commanding face. Hurriedly, he took his hat and left the room.
Chapter Four
The plane landed at the airport on time – twelve forty-five by Smith’s Y. M.C.A. presentation watch, which he always kept accurate to the second.
‘Take both the bags,’ he told the porter. ‘ There’s a car ordered for us. The name is Mr Harold Smith.’
The flight up had been agreeable and, expanding his chest in the keen air, he felt glad to be in Tynecastle again. A handsome black Daimler drew up with a uniformed chauffeur. They put the baggage in the boot, he tipped the porter ten shillings, noted the amount in his expense book, then got in with Leonard Nye.
‘It’s a long time since I was here,’ he remarked, as they moved off. ‘Fifteen years.’
Nye was lighting another cigarette: he was a chain smoker, a habit which, in Smith’s opinion, never did any one any good. He answered, finally:
‘They should have met you with the town band.’
Smith frowned slightly. Although Nye could lay on the charm when he wished, he had an unpleasant tongue, and was scarcely the colleague Smith would have chosen for this undertaking. But he tried not to take offence. A large, though flabby, man physically, he considered himself ‘big’ in every other way. ‘My motto,’ he would often say, ‘is to look for the best in everyone and keep on good terms with my fellow men.’ Besides, today he had every reason to be pleased with life. He made no comment as they drove along Harcourt Street, but actually they were not half a mile from the poor apartment where his mother, widowed when he was only seven, struggled and sacrified to let him take his articles as a qualified chartered accountant. And now, within sight almost of that mean neighbourhood, he was returning – to the opportunity of his career.
When they had passed through the city he leaned forward and unhooked the speaking tube.
‘What do you call yourself, my man?’
‘Purvis, sir.’
‘No, no. Your first name.’ He made a practice of being on friendly terms with anyone who worked for him.
‘Fred, sir.’
‘Good. Well, Fred, don’t take the direct road to Hedleston. Cut off at Bankwell and go by Utley Moor.’
‘That’s a long way round, sir. And the road’s none too good.’
‘Never mind, Fred. Take it.’
This was Smith’s home ground. He’d never cared much for London, although he had done well there since he had come back from Australia in ’49. If one owned a fine house in Curzon Street, like Mr Somerville, with an estate in the green belt by way of a change, there was something to be said for London life. But a suburb such as Muswell Hill, where he resided, was less agreeable, especially since Minnie had left him … but he wouldn’t dwell on that now since, with God’s help, the remedy was not far distant.
They were drawing near to Utley. Nye had his eyes half closed, his bare head – he never wore a hat – sunk down in his camel-hair coat. He had been on the town the night before and, except at lunch time, had slept all the way in the plane. Unobserved, Smith studied him, acknowledging his good figure and smart appearance – the light brown hair, marcelled, and with one bleached strand, the well-manicured hands, the severe dark suit which came from Poole’s, worn with a fine fawn Shetland vest the plain grey tie and black pearl pin, the narrow-bracelet wrist watch, and the signet ring with the crest he’d fancied and calmly appropriated from Burke’s Peerage – he was a dandy, all right, and good-looking enough, except for his rather fill lips and greenish protuberant eyes under which a few fine lines made him seem older than his thirty-two years. From his manner, polished, confident, and easy, his air of elaborate indifference, his expensive tastes, his carelessness with money, and the air he could so well assume of not having a care in the world, one would never have suspected his irregular origin, which to Smith, with his evangelical morality, would have been, almost insupportable. Yet you had to hand it to him. While he had neither depth nor genuine emotion, there was a sharpness about him, and a look of experience which, although he was difficult to get along with, made you feel that in an emergency he would not be a bad person to have on your side.
‘Wake up, Leonard. We’re on top of Utley.’
Smith wanted to stop the car but thought the driver might wonder at their interest in this remote spot. It was all very well to be agreeable, yet you had to keep these fellows from knowing your business. However, they were moving slowly, jolting over the potholes, and the lie of the land was plainly visible, a big open sweep of bracken and heather, broken only by low stone walls, real North Country moorland.
‘Well, there’s the site,’ he remarked in an undertone. ‘Pretty as a picture postcard. It seems a shame what they’ll do to it. Chimneys and prefabs all over the place.’
‘Who cares? It’s good for nothing else. And it’s bloody cold up here. Tell Frederick to get a move on.’
‘It’s only one-fifteen. Page won’t expect us until the afternoon. Before we see him we’ll register at the hotel.’
‘I suppose it’s the usual provincial dump?’
‘No, it’s a Trust House. The Red Lion. First class.’
‘It’d better be. I’ve a feeling this business is going to take longer than you think.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Smith said. ‘It should be easy now Mighill isn’t competing.’
‘I wonder why he dropped out so quick,’ Nye said, with sudden thoughtfulness. ‘It’s out of character for old
Ithiel.’
‘His new Sunday illustrated is costing him too much; he can’t match the figure we’re prepared to spend.’
‘That’s too simple. Mighill and Vernon love each other like a mongoose and a rattlesnake. As for money, Vernon himself isn’t too flush these days.’
‘He’s made us a handsome allocation.’
‘You know why?’
‘He wants the Northern Light.’
Nye looked at his companion as though he’d said something foolish.
‘You mean he needs it.’
After that, there was a silence, while they began to descend the hill. Beneath them, in the valley, clear and shining in the rain-washed air, lay the slate roofs of Hedleston, offset by the green dome of the town hall and the delicate grey spire of St Mark’s. A white plume of steam rose from an engine standing in the station.
‘That’s our town, then,’ Smith commented. ‘It’s a fine one. They have full employment, and two good clean industries – the Northern Machine Tool Company and Strickland’s Boot Factory.’
Nye was not impressed. As they drove through the out-skirts he kept throwing off sarcastic remarks, some of which Smith had to admit, were extremely amusing. Smith didn’t speak till they drew near the Red Lion. Then he said:
‘Look, Leonard, that early lunch they gave us on the plane, it was pretty light. How about another bite when we get in?’
Nye’s expression became even more sardonic.
‘What an eater you are, Smith. It’s pathological. Because the world rejected you as a kid.’
‘It doesn’t reject me now.’ Smith smiled, but he was hurt – like most self-made men he took pride in his obscure beginnings, which he exaggerated in conversation.
At the reception desk he told the clerk they wanted two good singles with a sitting room between.
‘Shall you gentlemen be staying long?’
Nye looked him over.
