The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘Suppose you wait and see, chum. Which way is the bar?’

  As Nye strolled off, Smith went up to his room. It was clean and smelled of floor polish. There were fresh towels by the wash basin and the springs didn’t sag when he pressed the bed. He unpacked, put his clothes neatly away, then placed a leather framed photograph of his wife on the chest of drawers. This was an enlarged snapshot, taken some years before, of a pretty, commonplace young woman with an edifying expression and an anaemic air, dressed in her Sunday best and holding a Bible in her gloved hands. Smith gazed at it fondly, then, satisfied with his arrangements – he was a methodical person and liked to have everything in order – he rang the bell, ordered a double ham sandwich and a glass of milk. He wasn’t too worried about Nye drinking; he could put away any amount and never show it. Leonard Nye was smart, and no mistake, perhaps too smart – Smith decided he must find an opportunity to make it clear that Mr Somerville had put him in charge of their joint enterprise.

  He ate his snack in large appreciative bites, had a wash and a brush-up, then inspected himself in the mirror, going over in his mind the line he meant to take with Page. All the facts and figures were in his head – he had been working on them for the past three weeks – and he was optimistic. He knew the power of money. And even if an outright purchase, failed, their alternative course of action had been planned at the head office in a series of conferences that covered every contingency. He wasn’t ‘one of your intellectuals’ – Smith often proclaimed this a trifle smugly – but when it came to business he knew what he was about. Indeed, how otherwise would he have overcome the great misfortune that almost ruined his career?

  After the death of his mother, seeking opportunity in the colonies, he had booked passage in the Orestes from Liverpool to Melbourne. On the voyage he fell in with a Mr Glendenning, an Australian business man, mainly in the dried-milk trade, but with many other interests – he owned several sheep stations, an evening newspaper called the Melbourne Echo, and a beach club at Bondi Beach outside Sydney. The night before they docked he asked Smith to go to Bondi and look into the position at the club.

  The young accountant found it badly run down, the books in a dreadful state, and the manager so openly dishonest that his first gesture was to offer the newcomer a bribe. This was indignantly refused, and Smith set to work to straighten the place out, with such good results that Glendenning sold it eighteen months later at a handsome profit and, as a reward, moved his protégé into the office of the Echo. The urge to get on made Smith learn fast, and at the end of three years he was promoted to business manager of the Melbourne paper. It was at this time that he married the daughter of a lay preacher, Minnie Langley, whom he had previously met at a picnic of the Victoria Christian Association, in which he had now become a leading figure.

  For the next nine years he worked successfully on the Echo: it was his suggestion that started a weekly coloured supplement which grossed an annual twenty thousand pounds; profit for the paper. He had begun to feel that his partnership could not be long delayed when, quite suddenly, Glendenning died, the paper was sold to the rival Mercury combine, and, within a period of weeks. Smith was left high and dry, without prospects or position, not even mentioned in the old man’s will, a cruel blow which affected him ‘in a certain way’ – unable to recollect his lapse without a sense of deep humiliation, he never phrased it otherwise.

  Some three months later he decided to return to England with his wife. Amongst the passengers on the boat was Vernon Somerville, who had just bought the Gazette. To the chastened Smith it seemed like fate, as if the frayed thread of his destiny might be repaired by another shipboard contact. Although Somerville kept much to himself, one evening after dinner Smith managed to approach him on the promenade deck. At first he was impatient, almost rude, but as Smith went on with his little prepared speech he kept looking at him sideways with increasing curiosity; finally, with a peculiar smile, as though he had observed something which demanded further study, he handed him a card to see him in London.

  Smith’s start in the Gazette office was relatively unimportant, but by persistent application over the past seven years he had improved his position until he was second only to Clarence Greeley, Somerville’s general business manager. As a result, he had this priceless opportunity to take over and manage the Northern Light. He did not mean to let it slip.

  It was time for him to go downstairs. Standing erect, he closed his eyes and, with clasped, hands, petitioned the Lord for success in his coming meeting with Henry Page. He found Nye in the bar finishing a pint of beer and talking with the barman.

  ‘It’s nearly three. Don’t you want to freshen up?’

  ‘What for?’ Nye said. ‘The natives can learn to love me as I am.’ As they went out he added, ‘I pumped something out of that yokel. Page has a social wife who seems an altogether foolish and pretentious person, a kid daughter who likes to dance, also a dope of a son who won’t work on the paper.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Smith said simply. ‘I’d have gladly kept the young man on when we take over.’

  Nye threw him a sour look.

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ he said

  The car was waiting, Fred saluted, and a moment later drove off in good style. Smith meant to be calm, but as they went along Queen Street the perspiration began to break on the back of his neck and the palms of his hands. He was naturally a heavy sweater, and the nearer he drew to the interview ahead, the more vital it seemed. Nye, on the other hand, wore an air of complete indifference. In five minutes they were at the Northern Light building, and without being kept waiting – a courtesy which appeared to hold a happy augury – they were shown up to Page’s office.

  Chapter Five

  As the two men entered, Henry dismissed Moffatt, who was filing the subscription returns, and asked them to be seated. Smith, unbuttoning his coat, his briefcase held between his knees, took a quick glance at Page and was at once favourable impressed by the appearance of the owner of the Northern Light. He saw a smallish, thoughtful-looking man with a quiet manner, just of an age when one begins to get a trifle thick in the waist and a little thin on the top. His eyes were dark brown, the colour of the suit he had on, with warmth in them and good-natured lines at the corners. Encouraged, Smith sat down, cleared his throat, began with a few pleasant remarks, then tactfully came to the point.

  ‘Mr Page,’ he said, ‘may I say that we approach you in the most cordial and friendly spirit. You know, of course, the reason of our being here. The Somerville group is sincerely interested in your publication.’

  Henry seemed to reflect for a moment.

  ‘What I cannot understand is why there should be this interest in the Light.’

  Since Page was apparently ignorant of the proposed N.R.U. scheme, Smith felt it no part of his duty to enlighten him. He merely said, with perfect truth:

  ‘We are anxious to expand. Also, we know the reputation of your paper, Mr Page.’

  ‘You believe that to be good?’

  ‘We do, sir.’ This was an opportunity for a compliment. ‘We consider the Northern Light absolutely first in its own class.’

  ‘Then why should I sell it?’

  ‘I will tell you, Mr Page.’ Smith leaned forward, speaking slowly and impressively. ‘So far, owing to exceptional circumstances, you have been able to stand off the competition of the big London dailies. But that state of affairs cannot last.’

  ‘I disagree. We are more than holding our own. Our latest figures show an increase of four thousand over the corresponding period last year. Our circulation is eighty thousand, whereas I question if in this area you sell more than nine thousand of your Gazette. As for Mighill’s Globe, fewer than seven thousand come in and a good many of them are returned.’

  ‘Granted. We know you’ve done well, Mr Page; we’re not belittling your achievement in holding the fort. But times are changing very fast. What with our immense technical advances, special train and air transport se
rvices and, above all, our fixed determination to expand, competition is going to be much fiercer. There are only half a dozen independent papers of your type left in the provinces, and I promise you, within two or three years they will all be absorbed.’

  ‘They may be, but not the Northern Light.’

  ‘Naturally you are confident, Mr Page. But while I won’t go into ancient history, you surely haven’t forgotten the year when in the Midlands alone five provincial papers were all wiped out.’

  ‘And hundreds of workers, including more than a hundred journalists, were flung on the scrap heap.’

  ‘Precisely, sir. Then take Hanbridge, for instance. Only three years ago it had a morning paper, two evening papers, and a weekly. Now they are all gone, except for one evening paper, and that isn’t owned, as it used to be, by the local people.’

  ‘Hanbridge is not Hedleston.’

  ‘Mr Page, be patient, and you’ll see I am really on your side. You remember the case of the West Country Bulletin last year.’

  ‘Only too well. It was iniquitous.’

  ‘Of course you recollect it was the Jonathan group, not us, who were responsible. But it was a very sad affair … a small paper trying to fight off a great wealthy London organization, people losing their livelihoods, the local shareholders being ruined, and all because a little common sense was not employed in the first place. Now, it seems to me that any reasonable man would hate to see that occur again.’

  Henry looked straight at Smith, who thought that perhaps he had gone too far.

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘My dear Mr Page,’ Smith said quickly, ‘nothing could be further from the truth. I am merely trying to point out how very favourable this present situation could be for your good self. Now, if I may have your attention.’ He opened his briefcase and, taking out a sheaf of papers, ran through the figures he had compiled from various sources over the past three weeks on the value of the plant, machinery, goodwill, and miscellaneous assets. Then he said, ‘We estimate that the entire property is worth seventy-five thousand pounds. Naturally, our first offer to you was purely tentative. I am now authorized to double the original amount and to make you a firm offer of one hundred thousand pounds for the Northern Light.’

  Henry didn’t answer immediately. He kept looking from one to the other until Smith felt sure he was going to accept. Then he said, moderately:

  ‘I’ve no quarrel with you, gentlemen. You are only doing your job. Still … your must realize what’s happening to our press today. A few powerful groups, bent on extending their empire at all costs, are reaching out for every paper they want, with no higher objective than increasing circulation and outselling their rivals in the cut-throat competition that now exists.’

  Smith was about to interrupt when Henry went on.

  ‘We all of us know the power of the press … for good or evil. It’s incalculable. It can make or break an individual, create or destroy a government; it may even, heaven help us, start a war. It’s the application of this power, without restraint or responsibility, towards ends that are entirely unworthy, by certain papers with enormous national coverage, that is the curse of our country today and may well be its ruination tomorrow.’

  While Page was talking, Nye had become increasingly restive. Aware that the financial presentation of the offer was Smith’s affair and highly sceptical that Page would immediately accept it, he had so far deliberately said nothing, lounging in his chair with his coat collar turned up and a detached expression. But now he suddenly broke in.

  ‘I suppose you exempt your own lily-white product from this ruination business.’

  ‘I do,’ Page answered calmly. ‘In its own limited sphere it follows those great papers that have maintained their principles – papers that lead and educate the people, and try to create intelligent citizens, rather than a nation of gaping primitives reared on a mixture of sex, sensation, and scandalous gossip.’

  ‘You don’t seem to like sex.’

  ‘Not when it’s thrown at me, day after day, in a brassiere and bikini.’

  ‘Come now,’ Smith said hurriedly, trying to smooth things down. ‘There’s no need for argument, gentlemen.’

  But Nye had begun to sit up.

  ‘Let me inform you,’ he said, with a sneer, ‘ since it may not have penetrated to your chaste and sheltered nook, that some of our citizens like to see little floosies in bikinis; they like to dream of going to bed with them instead of with their fat old woman. Sex and money are the two main objectives of the human race. Why run away from it? You ought to know that nothing sells a paper like a damn good adultery. Let them have it. What do you think a working man wants with his forning cup of tea at six o’clock on a foggy morning? Not the smarmy, soapy sermon that you serve up, but the bit of snap and spice we give him in the Gazette’

  ‘Indeed. So you brace him up as you did last Monday with three blood-stained corpses.’ Page had turned rather pale and the vein in his neck was beating fast, but, as he took up some clippings from his desk, he still was calm and restrained. ‘You’ve honoured me by doing some research on my publication. I, on my side, have collected some excerpts from yours over the past four days. Here are just a few of the headlines: MONTMARTRE NUDES ENTICE LONELY TOURISTS. BLUSHING BRIDE EXPOSED AS BIGAMIST. SMART TEDDY BOYS TAKE TO PERFUME. STRIP TEASE ARTISTE TO ENTER CONVENT. WOMAN OF SIXTY GIVES BIRTH TO TWINS. ATTACKED NURSE FAILS TO EXPLAIN ABSENCE OF BRUISES. MALE SEX MANIAC RUNS AMOK. WHITE SLAVES OF THE HAREM. THE BLONDE SPY WHO SEDUCED A KING. SPINSTER CLAIMS DAUGHTER WAS VIRGIN BIRTH – I NEVER HAD A LOVER SAYS MISS TOMPKINS. MARRIED MAN CHANGES SEX AND BECOMES WOMAN. I won’t go on with your pernicious drivel. I merely tell you outright, even if I were desperate to sell, I would never do so to the Gazette.’

  ‘Now look, Mr Page.’ Smith, on the edge of his chair, was really anxious; everything seemed to be going wrong. ‘Don’t let’s be hasty. Take a few days to think things over.’

  ‘No, my decision is final.’

  ‘Then,’ Nye said, ‘we’ll have to see that you get a little extra competition. And believe me, it will be hot and strong.’

  ‘I’m afraid you are making a grave mistake, Mr Page.’ Smith threw Nye a look in a belated attempt to shut him up, ‘We are quite determined to establish ourselves here by fair and legitimate means. We offer to buy, make you a most generous price. You refuse. Therefore we are forced to start an opposition paper. It’s a free country. You admit we have a perfect right to come in.’

  ‘You have the right,’ Henry said, more slowly than before, ‘but you will never succeed. In the first place, our population is not large enough to support two papers. And in the second, the Light is so firmly established nothing will supplant it. Don’t you realize that we go back to 1769, when the paper was founded by Daniel Page, the man who fought with Wilkes for the liberty of the press and the right to publish parliamentary reports … and that James Page, my great-grandfather, led the struggle to repeal the iniquitous newspaper tax – the tax on knowledge, he named it – and was prosecuted for it? No, no, you’ll never do it. I advise you not to try.’

  ‘You wait and see,’ Nye said. ‘If you want to bet I’ll lay you two to one you’re out of business in eighteen months.’

  ‘I don’t bet. And you can’t frighten me. You’ll never start a paper here from scratch.’

  ‘You’re a trifle wrong there, Mr Page, I regret to inform you,’ Smith said. ‘We have ways and means that I’m afraid you are not aware of. Do change your mind, I beg you.’

  ‘No.’ Henry shook his head.

  There was a pause. Smith let out a long breath and stood up.

  ‘Well, sir, it deeply grieves me that we’ve failed to reach an agreement and must come into conflict, for, if you will permit me to say so, even though our meeting has been short. I like and respect you. And I will promise you one thing – that we fight you fair and square, with everything open and above-board. May I offer you my hand on that, sir?’

  S
mith held out his hand, and when Page extended his, shook it firmly. Nye, of course, offered no such civility. He lit a cigarette, dropped the spent match in the corner waste basket, and preceded Smith through the door.

  As soon as they were in the car he let out a few polite oaths.

  ‘I told you he wouldn’t sell.’

  ‘You didn’t help,’ Smith said sharply. ‘You only put his back up.’

  ‘He never would have in any case. He’s an obstinate old fool who’ll insist on holding on, partly from sentiment, partly from vanity. We’ll have to break him. Mealy-mouthed hypocrite, with his service to the public. What an outfit! It belongs in the Stone Age. Not a lift in the entire dump. Did you spot the old girl in the background? Like the ghost of Hamlet’s mother. And the bearded ancestors on the walls … and the foxed lithograph, “ Opening of the Manchester Ship Canal, 1894,” over the desk …’

  Smith let him run on. He had his own thoughts. Naturally he was deeply disappointed – instead of a quick result they would have months of work and heavy responsibility – but he was not discouraged. There would be greater opportunity to prove his worth to Somerville.

  Immediately they reached the hotel he went into the telephone booth and called the head office. He made his report to Mr Greeley, his own particular chief. After a long conversation which confirmed the instructions he had already received, he rejoined Nye.

  ‘We’re to go ahead … exactly as planned. Don’t worry, it may take a little longer, but we’ll do the job together.’

  ‘We!’ Nye said. ‘From now on we’re just a couple of puppets. They’ll pull the strings in London. And we’ll stay here and stand the racket.’

  ‘No, we’re on our own now. Greeley just said so.’

  ‘Have it your own way. But God help us both if we don’t come through.’

  Smith looked at his watch – past four o’clock – and although he felt like sitting down to a good North Country tea, this was not the time for delay.

  ‘Let’s get out to Mossburn right away. The sooner we take up our option there, the better.’