The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  One evening he heard someone address him – the first person unconnected with his illness who had spoken to him for three months. He raised his head and saw a girl, tall, rather poorly dressed, very pale, and ridiculously thin, staring down at him with big hazel-dark eyes. Something in her expression, a look of settled sadness, made him sense instinctively a hopelessness equal to, if not greater than, his own. He made some reply, trite enough, but such as it was, enough to induce her to sit down on the bench. The sense of her presence, the slight contact of her thin arm under the cheap cotton of her blouse sent a faint stir through him. He asked her nothing about herself. Nor had she any of that tactless curiosity that might have been expected from a chance acquaintance. They simply accepted each other without question, as might two lost souls meeting in some lonely corridor of the damned. They talked very little and only of the most banal things, but there was comfort in what was said. When it was time for him to leave he hesitated, tonguetied, then something broke through: he asked her to meet him in the same place the following evening.

  They met and continued to meet; soon they were together every evening, also on Wednesday afternoon when she had her weekly half holiday. He began to feel a lifting of the darkness and to see the world with altered vision. Under the unspoken endearment of her clasping fingers, his senses reawakened. Objects for so long curiously remote drew near, colour reappeared, he felt the sun again, the dew on the grass, the sweetness of summer rain. It was as though life had been restored.

  Dr Evans kept watching his progress with a genial knowingness that was hard to bear. He had been told of these meetings with Cora: in the early days of David’s freedom he had instructed an attendant to follow him, fearing that he might ‘ do something stupid’ – a cheerful euphemism which he applied to suicide – that dark cloud that had long hung over young Page’s mind. But David had no need of this indirect encourgement to amuse himself – indeed, he resented it. In his own strange way, he was in love with Cora. He had in regard to her no illusions, seeing her as she was, with all the limitations of upbringing, her lapses of grammar, simplicities, and undeveloped mind. And yet something within him found in these apparent drawbacks the very qualities which put him at ease in her society, freed him of his complicated tensions and, above all, of those doubts, embarrassments, and personal misgivings which had previously afflicted him when he thought of other women. She restored his confidence with her tenderness, built him up again with her devotion, so that, still fearful of the future, he could say to himself, ‘Here is someone who will help me.’ A fortnight before he was due to return to Hedleston they were married at the Scarborough Registry Office.

  All this flickered through David’s mind with a new intensity as he lay awake, vainly trying to find in their beginnings some clue to Cora’s present behaviour. Towards morning he had perhaps an hour of sleep. He awoke to find that Cora had gone downstairs. When he joined her they had their coffee and toast in the kitchen alcove, and, although to outward appearance she was as usual, he knew her brightness was unnatural. Their conversation somehow seemed forced, and neither made any reference to her remarks of the previous evening.

  After breakfast he could not bring himself to sit at his desk. When he told Cora he would take a walk to the breakwater, he could have sworn she looked relieved. The more he thought of it, as he tramped down the cliff road, the more he became tormented by the certainty that for some reason she had wanted him out of the house. An impulse took hold of him to turn back and have the matter out with her. But no, he could not do it. She must speak first, must open her heart to him. And why … why did she not do so?

  The circuit of the breakwater became a dragging penance. Consumed by a restive impatience to know what was happening at the cottage, he still would not allow himself to hurry. At the harbour end he stopped, according to custom, to exchange a word with Martha Dale, the old woman who kept the news stall opposite the store. At last he turned back, began to walk up the hill. Then at a bend of the road, almost at his own gate, with a sudden sickness of heart he drew up short, his worst suspicion confirmed.

  Chapter Five

  That same Monday morning Nye, having breakfasted, and run through his mail, telephoned the Victoria Garage for a drive-it-yourself car. Then, just after nine o’clock, he took off for Sleedon. He had purposely waited overnight to give Cora time for meditation, which he thought would help to make her more amenable. Besides, there was no need for undue haste; he had managed to convince the head office that something of real importance was about to break and, as he’d assured Smith over a second cup of coffee, the thing was as good as in the bag.

  It was a fine autumn day, the sun already burning off the early mist and gilding the groves of beeches on the Eldon hills. Above the dunes, sand martins were darting and wheeling, with shrill, piping cries. Outside Sleedon Nye stopped the car and parked it off the road by a deserted barn – he saw the need for discretion, up to a point – then he walked into the village. It seemed to him no more than a ragged, run-down little dump that stank of fish and rotten seaweed, with a few blistered old tubs drawn up on the beach. There was a stone pier with a broken-roofed kiosk selling papers, Kodak films, and confectionery, but no promenade or bandstand, and only one shop; in fact, nothing to look at but the sea. Not much like Blackpool, he told himself, not by a long chalk.

  The house was easy to find – it wasn’t much either – surely old Page, as the big-hearted philanthropist, might have done better for his son. Leonard gave it the once-over, then went up the garden path and rang the bell. He felt himself in top form. He had plenty of bravado and, in his own phrase, didn’t give a damn for anybody – not once in the past ten years had he had an assignment that made him bat an eyelash. As there was no answer he rang the bell again – it was of the homely pull-and-chance-it variety. Then he heard the sound of footsteps. The door opened. It was Cora.

  ‘Good morning.’ He gave her a bright smile. ‘Mrs Page, I believe. I’m Leonard Nye, representing the Daily Chronicle. I wonder if you could spare me a few moments.’

  At the sight of him her face did not greatly change. He could tell that she was frightened, but she had been expecting his visit and had braced herself to meet it.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He had his patter ready; it went with the smile.

  ‘I understand your husband’s writing a book. That’s always a matter of public interest. I’d be glad of a few details.’

  ‘My husband is out at present.’

  ‘Then I’m sure you will oblige me, Mrs Page.’ He whipped out his notebook, the eager-beaver touch. ‘Now, what is the title of the proposed work?’

  ‘You must ask my husband,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, we want none of your sort here,’ and she pushed the door shut.

  At least she would have shut it if Nye’s shoe had not been in the jamb – he was too old a hand at the game to be caught napping. As if nothing had happened, he turned on the charm, affecting a playful air.

  ‘At least, Mrs Page,’ he said, ‘tell me something about yourself. You are recently married, I believe?’

  She did not answer.

  ‘And before your marriage you were, I understand, a Miss Cora Bates.’

  Her face was drained of colour now and her dark eyes had a hard look. Something in that look told him how much she’d been through in the past.

  ‘You know a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘Well’ – he smiled – ‘it’s our job to know a few things. You were in Blackpool, weren’t you, in August three years ago?’

  ‘What if I was? You ain’t got no hold on me.’

  ‘You admit it.’

  ‘No, I don’t; it’s a lie. I was never near Blackpool, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Strange.’ Nye shook his head as if puzzled; he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I’d have sworn you were one of the hostesses at the Alhambra Palais de Dance.’

  ‘You mean one of these mis’rable girls what gets pushed about by the likes of you at a tanner a t
ime?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Leonard said, as though he were pleased. ‘You put it rather well.’

  ‘You was never in the Palley at Blackpool. Not on your life, you wasn’t.’ Cora, since her marriage, had begun to speak much better, but now in her anguish she reverted to the language and the accents of her youth.

  ‘I’m not a dancing man,’ Nye said. ‘I just happened to hear you were there.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Does a rat like you have friends?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Leonard laughed, as if she had paid him a compliment. ‘I’m a pretty low type. Nobody loves me. This was more of a professional acquaintance. By the name of Haines. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It don’t mean a thing.’

  ‘Oh, well, no matter,’ Leonard said carelessly. ‘It’s just that I happened to be with him in court when the judge sentenced you.’

  He had saved the punch line for the last. It knocked her cold. All the time she had been hoping, hoping that he knew just a little, not everything. Now all the fight went out of her. She leaned against the door post, her eyes big and dark, darker than ever in her white face, which seemed all at once to have got smaller.

  ‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’ she said at last, so low he could scarcely hear her. ‘ I have my feelings, haven’t I, the same as anybody else? Why d’you have to come and poke into people’s lives?’

  ‘I’m a reporter, dearie.’

  ‘And that means you have the right to show up all human weakness, mis’ry, and suffering? Oh, you’re great, you lot, on morals, but what about your own?’

  ‘Now, Cora, there’s no harm done … not yet.’

  ‘I’m happy, for the first time in my life … here … with a husband to look after…’

  ‘Then he’s a lucky man. I don’t mind telling you I envy him.’ He gave her a look, but she seemed not to take it up. She didn’t speak for a long time, then, in a low, indistinct voice, looking at him fixedly, she said:

  ‘What do you want?’

  Just for a second Nye felt tempted. She was a damned fetching piece, the house was empty, and the fact that she loathed him made it interesting. But no, he wasn’t taking chances – this wasn’t pleasure, but business, and important business, too.

  ‘We only want your help, in a manner of speaking, with old man Page,’ he said, very easy. ‘ Just own up when the time comes and that’ll be enough.’

  Very slowly she said:

  ‘You wouldn’t have the face to tell on me, not you.’

  ‘Come now, Cora. It may amount to nothing, in the long run. If we keep our heads, nobody’s going to get hurt too badly.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, in an indescribable tone. ‘You’re real good, you are … real good.’

  There was a long pause, then with her eyes lowered she turned away and slowly shut the door. This time Nye made no effort to stop her. He stood for a moment, almost expecting her to reopen it, but as she did not, he put his notebook in his pocket and went out through the gate. He hadn’t taken a dozen paces down the road when he ran straight into young Page. Instinctively David retreated a step, staring at Nye, with his head thrown back.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ He found his voice at last.

  ‘Taking a walk,’ Nye answered coolly.

  ‘You’ve been in my house.’

  ‘I wish I had. But it’s all been in the open. Never mind. The doctor said sea air was good for me.’

  ‘Now look here’ – David’s cheek had began to twitch – ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but I won’t have you hanging around.’

  ‘It’s a free country.’

  ‘You’re not free to annoy my wife.’

  ‘Who annoyed her?’

  ‘You did at the concert yesterday.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Nye said, ‘ I never even spoke a word to her.’

  ‘I’m not going to bandy words with you, sir.’ David’s voice went up two octaves; his thin figure, pathetic in the buff corduroys, broken-down shoes, and turtle-neck sweater, was shaking all over. ‘I merely tell you that if you interfere with my wife I’ll … I’ll break your neck.’

  ‘Look out for your own neck, chum,’ Nye told him, then, with a gesture of contempt, he walked away. There was no point in taking the situation further: Leonard did not profess to be a virtuoso of the offensive arts and there was just the chance that in his worked-up state, this young fool might be dangerous.

  Chapter Six

  David’s heart kept on beating like a hammer as he stood there, overcome, unable to move, watching Nye descend the dusty cliff road.

  This sudden meeting had stunned him; Nye had been to the house and Cora had expected him. Beyond that, he could not think clearly; his mind was in a ferment. Awareness that in the face of the other’s brash insolence and callous flippancy he had given a poor account of himself – although physically there was no violence he would not have done him – intensified his bitterness and anger.

  But at least part of the mystery was solved: Cora and Nye had known each other in the past, and their association must necessarily have been close. How otherwise explain the extent of Cora’s emotion, the promptness with which an assignation had been made, Nye’s smug assertiveness towards him? He felt all his body tighten with a cold, sick jealousy. Why did she not take him into her confidence? Her unnatural silence, this pitiable pretence that everything was as it should be dismayed him most of all. Someone less morbidly sensitive would, he knew, have demanded an explanation. But he was not shaped in that normal mould, and the inner voice, which he often heard, forbade it. If Cora did not wish to speak, he would not force her to do so. He must give no sign of having met Nye, must accept and echo her pretence, until she, of her own free will, opened her heart to him. With this intention, he went slowly towards the house.

  She was seated by the window that overlooked the garden, gazing into the distance, her features sharpened by the hard light. At first she did not see him, then she started slightly and, with a quick intake of breath, collected herself and got up.

  ‘You had a good walk.’ Although her back was towards the light he saw that her eyes were swollen. ‘Are you going to work now?’

  ‘I think I shall.’

  There was a silence. As though excusing her inactivity, she said:

  ‘I’ve got nothing done this morning, not a thing.’

  ‘You weren’t in the garden?’

  ‘No. At least, not that long.’

  Another pause. She averted her eyes.

  ‘I’m even behind with your lunch. So now I shall have to run down to the store.’

  ‘Something you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me get it for you.’

  ‘No, no … I’d like a breath of air. I shan’t be no more than a minute.’

  He noticed that in going out she took her purse from the drawer of the Welsh dresser. Since they had a monthly account at the store he was at once aware that she had gone to telephone. The transparency of her action, betraying such ineptitude in deceit, heightened his distress.

  He began to pace up and down the room, realizing, for the first time in many months, how completely he depended upon Cora. With his patronizing attitudes and studied indifference he had fallen into the habit of taking her for granted. Now the threat of losing her reawakened all his first feeling for her, with redoubled intensity. She was his … his … no one must come between them. Yet he must be calm, both for Cora’s sake and for his own. Hadn’t Dr Evans warned him against any emotional crisis, against allowing a sense of grievance to get hold of him? But how could he suppress his bitterness against Nye? A hard throbbing went through David’s head, turned him so giddy that for a moment he had to shut his eyes and grip the edge of the table for support. Striving for control, he went upstairs to the attic, from force of habit put on a record. But immediately he had to switch it off. Today there was no comfort in his f
avourite Berlioz, only an incitement to greater agitation. He could not even look at the manuscript on his desk. His book, upon which he had built such hopes, now seemed utterly without importance.

  He sat down and listened for Cora’s return. After what seemed an interminable time the front door opened, the sound of her footsteps came up to him from the hall. Then she went into the kitchen and from time to time he heard her movements as she prepared lunch. Ordinarily she rang the little hand bell punctually at half past twelve, but today she was late and did not summon him till past one o’clock.

  Downstairs, he saw that she had freshened her face; her eyes were no longer swollen, but her pallor was more marked – she looked ill. Yet with a sort of desperate persistence she still strove for a note of animation, almost of propitiation, false and quite unlike her. At first her remarks were inconsequential, then, not very cleverly, she brought the conversation to the subject she had raised last night.

  ‘You must have thought me silly, David … when I spoke of us going away.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He had to reply on the same level of pretence. ‘ It’s very natural to want a change.’

  ‘But you couldn’t because of your book?’

  ‘The book isn’t everything. If you really wished it, I suppose we could go.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’ Before he could answer she went on, with a little rush. ‘ I was reading in a magazine the other day about a man who went out to California and grew oranges. The climate was wonderful, warm and sunny. He made a lot of money, too. Couldn’t we do something like that, David?’