The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  Chapter Six

  Shortly after Smith and Nye had gone, Henry left the office and drove directly home. His wife and Dorothy were out – they had gone with Mrs Bard, Hannah informed him, to the new film at the Odeon – and, after a pretence of eating, he went upstairs to his study, a converted attic room looking out on the back garden, which housed his books and his bits and pieces of Staffordshire pottery. For the rest of the evening he sat there, turning over all that had taken place and striving, despite a certain heaviness of mind, to adjust himself to a situation that must radically change the settled pattern of his life, which presaged, at the very least, a future clouded by uncertainty. He tried to tell himself that the threat to establish an opposition paper was an empty one. But no, he knew they had meant every word. The senior, Smith, who acted as spokesman, a heavy, clumsy, ready-made figure, with a full-moon, serious face, struck him as a reasonable man, not particularly intelligent, though probably good at his job and, allowing for a certain smugness of manner, fundamentally well meaning and honest – the sum was not altogether unfavourable. The other, unfortunately, seemed a more dangerous personality: smooth, yet sharp, with a barbed tongue and a veiled, probing eye, he had the look of a man who lived by his wits – Henry felt instinctively that of the two, he was the stronger and by far the cleverer, most likely the one to be feared.

  The realization that he had actually formulated that word ‘fear’ struck Page suddenly as so absurd that he swung back sharply to a firmer and more balanced frame of mind in which the trouble seemed less, the outlook clearer. Solidly established, his paper had the support, yes, even the affection, of the town. How could it be supplanted by some upstart sheet sponsored by the least reputable of London tabloids? The Light had lived through other crises in the past. This also it would survive.

  Next morning Henry reached the office in good spirits, prepared for any eventuality. He was not long left in doubt. Moffatt, when she had said good morning, proffered a handbill of the ordinary give-away type, heavily smudged, still damp from the press. She said:

  ‘They have bought the Mossburn Chronicle.’

  It was a possibility he might have foreseen. In Mossburn, not more than twelve miles distant, Herbert Rickaby, the ageing proprietor of the Chronicle – a weekly devoted to local news in the agricultural area it served – had for some time been anxious to sell. While the opening was undoubtedly limited, it at least provided a base for immediate operation and expansion. Glancing through the leaflet, Henry saw that it was an announcement of the purchase, with the statement that in future the paper would be known as the Daily Chronicle and would be widely distributed in Hedleston and district. There followed an exaggerated forecast of the merits of the new publication.

  Moffatt was watching his expression.

  ‘They’ve half a dozen men from the labour exchange giving these away by the hundreds. And a row of sandwich boards parading outside the station.’

  ‘Well,’ Page said, ‘ at least we know where we are.’

  His first thought was to get all his staff together and make some sort of address, but the idea, distastefully theatrical, was so foreign to his nature he dismissed it. Instead, he waited until ten o’clock and went along the corridor for his morning news conference in the usual way. The five department heads were already assembled and became so suddenly silent as he entered and took his seat that, although he felt far from gay, he had to smile.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, it appears we are going to have some opposition in the town. I gather you’ve all seen this.’ He held up the handbill.

  ‘You can’t miss them. All over the place,’ Horace Balmery, the advertising manager, said. ‘And on Halley Brothers’ hoardings too, After the business we’ve given them. It’s too, bad.’

  ‘Somerville’s money is as good as anybody’s,’ Maitland said bluntly. ‘And apparently he means to spend it.’

  ‘I wonder how much they paid Rickaby?’ Poole speculated, and as no one answered, he added, ‘Little enough, I’ll bet. The old boy was dying to get out.’

  ‘But how they’ll do anything with that plant!’ Balmer shrugged, so that his stiff cuffs with the heavy links shot over his knuckles. ‘Fenwick tells me it’s a single-roller, stop-cylinder Wharfedale. The circulation was never more than six thousand.’

  ‘They’ll manage, don’t you worry.’ Maitland alone seemed to treat the matter with proper seriousness – the others, puzzled, curious, even a trifle jocular, were certainly far from being disturbed. He went on: ‘And if you think they’re going to keep on printing fat stock prices, farm weather reports, and the prospects for spuds and swedes, you’re a long way off the mark.’

  ‘I agree with Malcolm,’ Henry said. ‘ We’re in for a long, hard struggle. These people will have all the Gazette’s special features, syndicated articles, exclusive foreign-service reports, all fed to them from the London office. In addition, they’ll play up local events to the limit, try every trick they know to capture circulation. I believe they’ll fail. I’ll go so far as to say they must fail. But we have to be on our toes, more than ever, and all the time. For that reason, if anyone has any suggestions I’ll be glad to hear them.’

  Glancing round the table, he saw that Poole, the sports editor, sitting with his hands bunched in his pockets and his long legs stretched out, wanted to speak. He was a tall, lanky fellow with an orange handlebar moustache and a rather scornful manner, both of which he had brought out of the commandos, together with a mania for physical fitness which regularly made him rise at six in the morning to run five or six miles, stop watch in hand, before coming to work. At times inclined to be difficult, he had a little of the ex-officer’s sense, of being ill used by the postwar world, one of those angry young men who get angry with everyone but themselves. Yet, for all his moody assertiveness, Henry liked him and knew that he could be absolutely relied upon. Now, in his challenging style, he said:

  ‘I think we ought to play them at their own game. Brighten up the paper a bit. Put more bite and punch into our news.’

  ‘I would question that,’ Henry said. ‘At this time, above all, we must maintain the character of the Light. We stand or fall by what we are.’

  There was a murmur of assent from the others.

  ‘Still, you have to admit … well, I don’t say this because it’s my department, but the customers do like sport. And some days we don’t give them more than a couple of columns. Let’s have fuller reports on the Northern League games and the boxing at Tynecastle. And more racing news.’

  ‘That won’t sell advertising,’ Balmer objected.

  ‘They’ll do it.’

  ‘If we come down to their level,’ Maitland said abruptly, ‘ we’re done for.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Poole said, in a put-out tone, adding under his breath, ‘ We could do with some gingering up.’

  ‘Would a Saturday pictorial supplement be likely to prove appealing?’

  This came from Lawrence Hadley, a small, plump, apologetic man of fifty, with a rosy, polished bald head, who ran the photographic department with such unobtrusiveness that no one seemed to notice him until he appeared with his tripod camera to ‘take the groups’ at the annual picnic.

  Maitland gave a short laugh.

  ‘If we all look at this from our own special angles well never get anywhere.’

  ‘Only a suggestion,’ Hadley murmured.

  ‘Yes, Lawrence,’ Page said soothingly. ‘But for another time perhaps.’

  A pause followed, then Maitland spoke again, pulling thoughtfully at his lower lip, his flat brick-red, porous face sunk down on his chest.

  ‘The way I see it is this … and I know from experience that it is so. Someone in the Gazette outfit, probably Somerville himself for some reason of his own, had the brainwave … to grab the Northern Light. Now, nothing is left to chance in these big organizations … it’s all gone into very thoroughly in terms of cold-blooded finance … plans are made, a time schedule drawn, men picked and – this
is the all important point – a specific sum of money allocated for the job. This amount is available to the last penny, but mark my words, once the limit is reached, not another farthing will be forthcoming, the whole scheme is disowned, washed out, lopped off like a dead branch – or whatever you like to call it – and the men who have bungled it are lopped off too. Now, this being so, we’ve only got to keep our heads, sit tight, and continue getting out the paper. They may hurt us a bit, but it’s going to cost them money, scads of it. I won’t guess how long it will take, but one of these days, maybe with luck in twelve months, or, say, eighteen, the cash will run out and our friends will fold their tents and silently depart.’

  It did Page good to hear this calm and practical summary of the situation, particularly since it came from Maitland. He made a sign of agreement, then said:

  ‘Just one thing more – our general attitude towards them. I feel we should ignore them.’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ Maitland nodded. ‘Behave as if they didn’t exist.’

  ‘But hadn’t we better put a man on to them?’ Poole asked. ‘We ought to know what they’re doing. And they’ll certainly be spotting us.’

  Henry didn’t care much for the idea; it held implications of spying; and, after all, Smith had given assurances that their conduct would be ethical.

  ‘Let’s leave it in the meantime.’

  ‘We’ll hear from them, all right,’ Maitland said dryly, as the meeting broke up. ‘Just wait for their first edition.

  – During the next few days, this was the event that everyone, in the Light office kept looking for with an increasing sense of tension. Not until the paper appeared would they know exactly what they had against them. Reports and rumours were not wanting – Nye, who had taken over fee campaign, was shooting them out, giving emphasis on the speed and efficiency with which his arrangements were being completed. Already a considerable staff had arrived from London – amongst them Tina Tingle, a woman reporter, known nationally for her femininist articles in the Gazette – and had immediately gone about seeking lodgings both in the town and in Mossburn. This was followed by a further publicity barrage, at first through the medium of posters on the hoardings, then on Saturday afternoon, March 16th, a parade of men went through the town carrying boards with the splash headings:

  GREAT NEWS FOR HEDLESTON

  THE DAILY CHRONICLE

  HERE MONDAY NEXT

  That weekend was not an easy one for Henry. It rained heavily and the gloomy, dripping skies were in key with his state of mind. Always a poor sleeper, it was doubtful if, altogether, he had more than half a dozen hours of rest. Monday morning came at last. As he drove to work, his eye was nervously alert for signs of unusual activity in the streets and, sure enough, opposite the Northern Savings Bank a pack of newsboys were picking up supplies from a new bright yellow Chronicle van. Mounting the steps to his office, he felt his heart pumping hard against his ribs. Moffatt, he knew, would have the paper – yes, it was there laid out on his desk beside the vase of flowers she brought from her cottage garden at the beginning of the week. He gave it a quick, almost surreptitious glance, then, arrested, caught his breath.

  Half of the front page was given over to a striking futuristic picture of a plutonium separator, and beneath, in 72-point type on a red and white panel:

  NUCLEAR REACTOR PLANT FOR HEDLESTON

  UTLEY MOOR SITE OF NEW ATOMIC TOWN

  A great new atomic centre is to be built together with a vast supporting housing scheme at Utley on the outskirts of Hedleston. The Chronicle in its first issue is proud to present to its readers this exclusive statement revealed by an official high on the Atomic Research Board. This carefully guarded secret, now divulged, must, apart from its national importance, prove of immense benefit to the welfare, prosperity and economic future of the community …

  Henry broke off and looked helplessly at Moffatt. Yes, it was news of the first importance, one of the biggest things that had happened to Hedleston in the past half century, and not only had he missed it, they had got it.

  The sequence of events was now clear as day. From the very outset, foreknowledge of this scheme with its immense potential for development of the district and not, as he had been led to believe, a special regard for his paper had been the determining factor in Somerville’s approach. Aware, in advance, of the prosperity and increase, of population that must inevitably ensue, Somerville had not been deterred by his refusal to sell – he would come in at all costs. Although the information leaked to him was undoubtedly secret, he had not hesitated to use it and had turned it to account, with perfect timing, to launch his drive against the Northern Light.

  Henry thought of his own main news offering this morning: a full report of the Spring Agricultural Show at Wooton, an event of annual significance, no doubt, yet how must it compare with this other! And for the first time, as he stood transfixed by these painful reflections, a consciousness of the power, unseen and resourceful, behind this calculated strategy bore down on him like a weight.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Young Lewis entered, with a dejected and contrite air.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, for not getting on to this N.R. U. thing,’ he began. ‘If only I’d guessed the U. stood for Utley …’

  Page seldom lost his temper. He liked. Bob Lewis, a promising, hard-working youngster who had attended the grammar school with Dorothy and, in fact, occasionally called at the house to ask her to go out with him. But, at this moment, the sight of him, in his callow inexperience, which seemed to typify the utter provincial inadequacy of the Light’s resources, made Page flare up. He gave Lewis a thorough dressing down and sent him away.

  Controlling himself, he turned to Moffatt, who, seated as though ready to take dictation, was in reality watching him, assessing him yet again in terms of his father, the man whom she had idolized, slaved for, who, of course, would never have found himself in this dilemma.

  ‘It wasn’t Bob’s fault,’ she said. ‘ He had no contacts on the Research Board.’

  Page already regretted his action, but he ignored the remark.

  ‘I want to know how many copies of this’ – he couldn’t bring himself to name the Chronicle – ‘were sold. Ask Mr Maitland to send out a man.’

  ‘There’s no need. Fenwick sent up a memo fifteen minutes ago. Not a single copy’s been sold.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Ten thousand came in at six o’clock this morning. Another ten thousand expected at nine. All for free distribution. They wanted readers and they have them.’

  A silence fell upon the room.

  ‘Well,’ Henry said firmly, ‘a bad beginning is a good ending. Let’s get to work.’

  As he moved to his desk, he heard old Tom Gourlay – the blind newsvendor who, since Robert Page’s time, had made his pitch outside the building – calling the Light. At that moment, it seemed a thin and solitary cry.

  Chapter Seven

  The blow delivered in that first edition of the Chronicle proved less damaging than Page had feared. The people of the town, even if they did not object to the manner of its presentation, were resentful of the news itself. Apart from some commercial interests, no one wanted an atomic pile on Hedleston’s doorstep, nor a sprawling new suburb which must certainly deface the natural beauties of Utley Moor. And when, a few days later, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary announced that work would not begin on the project until the following January, the much vaunted sensation seemed to have fallen flat.

  Even so, the pressure on the Light had begun, and it was continued with hectic intensity. Never had Henry imagined that so many shoddy devices could be put to use in the effort to sell a British newspaper. ‘Giveaway’ days with special numbers entitled the recipient to sets of cutlery, china, and other household articles; free plane rides – flips, they were called – to Whitley Bay and back; competitions with cinema tickets for prizes; a bathing-beauty contest, still in being, to discover and
crown Miss Hedleston of 1956; there was no end to the blatancy of the campaign or the ingenuity of Nye, who directed it.

  The paper itself was in full cry, saturated with the Gazette’s sensationalism and supplemented by the inimitable contributions of that female reporter whose striking pseudonym, Tina Tingle, disguised the fact, dryly revealed to Henry by Maitland, that she had been baptized Elsie Kidger. This lady was, indeed, a remarkable figure in the staid streets of the northern borough. What met the eye were a green Tyrolean hat set upon a cropped head, mustard-coloured tweeds tight on a mannish figure, and a virile carriage which, with heavy, tongued brogues, vaguely suggested a one-time champion of the links. Every day she produced a feature article which, since her subjects ranged from the pains of childbirth to the pangs of the menopause, was presumably intended for her own sex, although Henry gathered that it made choice reading for the youths who frequented Antonelli’s billiard saloon. In addition, with indomitable energy she conducted a question-and-answer agony column of nauseating intimacy entitled ‘Tina Tingle’s Tribune,’ wherein the queries fell automatically into one of two categories: the first anticipating the bliss of the married state, the second bemoaning its miseries.

  In the face of this, it was difficult to maintain calm and to hold a fixed policy of detachment. Henry’s only consolation was the thought that, without question, Nye and his colleague were spending money like water. Yet he, on his side, was losing circulation, not, so far, to any desperate extent, but steadily, every week some hundreds less, and the growing worry at the back of his mind was how far the loss would go.

  This morning, after a news conference that had not been noteworthy for its cheerfulness, he sat gloomily skimming the pages of the Chronicle which Moffatt never failed to place on his desk. Miss Tingle, he noted with aversion, was in superb form. In answer to the panting inquiry which began, ‘Dear Tina, my boy friend, with whom I am going steady, sees nothing wrong with intimacies before marriage …’ she gravely replied, ‘My dear Gladys, your boy friend only wants to use your body for his own sexual satisfaction. Just take him aside and say to him quietly, “ Thou shalt not commit adultery.” Your girl friends who do “ that sort of thing” and laugh at you for being morally strong and healthy will probably develop guilt neuroses. You will have the laugh of them in the end.’ And again, responding to the plaint, ‘ Dear Miss Tingle, for twenty years my husband has been bawling at me as the result of his fiendish bad temper …’ her tone was equally uplifting: ‘My dear, your husband is emotionally sick but despite your tragic difficulties stick lovingly to him and you will know the joy and satisfaction of duty done. You never know what deep meaning may be found in situations that appear hopeless. Ear plugs might help. And cultivate a hobby. Singing, or the piano.’