The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘I know nothing about growing oranges.’

  ‘We could learn. I’d work like … anything. It might be even better for your health than Sleedon.’

  The situation would have been farcical had it not been so pitiful. Although the strain was telling upon David, he tried to keep it within bounds.

  ‘I thought you wanted to see France.’

  ‘That was just for a holiday.’

  ‘And this would be for good?’

  She nodded, and was about to speak, when a sudden spasm prevented her. All along, in the effort to be natural, she had been trying to force down some food. Now her stomach revolted; she choked in a fit of nausea, coughed, reached for her glass of water, and burst into tears.

  He went over to her. All his resistance broke down. He knew he should not put the question, but he could hold it back no longer.

  ‘For God’s sake, Cora, what is the matter?’

  What he had dreaded happened: she refused to tell him.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.’

  ‘There must be. You’re so upset.’

  ‘No, no.’ Somehow she managed to stop crying. ‘It’s just one of these days when everything goes wrong.’

  He looked down at her rigidly.

  ‘It’s more than that; someone is annoying you, … this fellow Nye.’

  ‘No, no. It’s nothing, nothing. I don’t know him. I never knew him. He’s nothing to me, less than nothing …’

  ‘Then why did he come here this morning?’

  ‘He came to ask about your book.’ She was almost hysterical. ‘I swear to you, David … that’s the truth. Before today I never even spoke to him in my whole life.’

  By this time David was himself in such a state he could barely speak.

  ‘If he’s trying to hurt you he’d better look out. I’ll go and have it out with him.’

  ‘No, no … there’s no cause for you to go. We shan’t ever see him again.’

  ‘There must be something I can do.’

  She took both his arms and pressed them hard. He felt her body trembling. His own nerves were at breaking point.

  ‘Just stay with me, David. And don’t let nothing come between us. And it won’t either … you’ll see … you’ll see.’

  Chapter Seven

  Meanwhile Nye had made his way back to Hedleston. He went slowly, for he had some adjustments to his plans to think over and the gentle flow of air occasioned by the movement of the car was conducive to concentration. His interview with Cora, the fearful agitation and wretchedness he had caused her, gave him not the slightest concern. He had long ago learned the realities of the business and could dishonour himself daily without a qualm.

  The journey occupied just under an hour, and by half past eleven he had turned in the car at the garage and was back at the Lion. He found Smith in the deserted lounge, not sitting in his usual corner, but marching up and down by the window. Nye felt rather well pleased with himself and the way things were working out, but it was not his style to show any feeling. He merely said:

  ‘Right. It’s exactly as I told you. She’s the one.’

  ‘Yes … yes,’ Smith said, staring straight through Nye as if he were thinking about something else.

  ‘What’s the trouble? I tell you Cora is our bird.’

  ‘I know. She telephoned me five minutes ago.’

  Nye sat down and looked at him. Why the hell had she done that? Smith was restless and disturbed, couldn’t stand still, kept on with his pacing, his big hands bunched in his side pockets.

  ‘She told her husband she had to go shopping and ran to the village phone booth. She was so upset I could scarcely make her out. You must have used her very hard.’

  ‘Smith,’ Leonard said, ‘I was gentle as a lamb.’

  ‘It’s a dirty business.’ He shook his head, like a retriever shaking off water. ‘A nasty, dirty business. I tell you straight I’m having nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Nye said. ‘We have them exactly where we want them.’

  ‘No. I won’t do it. I’m an honest man. At least, I’ve always lived decent … tried to, anyhow.’

  ‘Don’t talk such melodramatic crap. You’d think you were back in the old Lyceum. We’re only offering a quid pro quo. We’re not going to pressure Page; the choice is up to him. In any case, who cares?’

  ‘I tell you I won’t.’

  Leonard had never seen him so jittery; he had known for some weeks that his nerve was going and now it seemed gone. He thought: When a slob like Smith cracks up, it shows a mile wide. But he could handle him.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘She begged you to leave her alone. Let’s be a couple of gentle Jesuses and do it, so help me God, amen.’

  ‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,’ Smith interrupted, almost with a shout. ‘ I won’t have it. You’re … you’re an irreligious dog, Nye.’

  ‘We’ll pack our bags,’ Leonard went on affably, taking no notice, ‘and go back to Somerville. I’ll resign. You’ll be fired … thrown out, right on your fat behind … for keeps. After this botch – all the money you’ve lost up here – you’ll never get another job. And I mean never. Your name’ll stink all over Fleet Street. You’ll be finished.’

  Smith stopped his pacing and sat down on the edge of a chair. Leaning forward and biting at his thumb nail, he was trying not to look at Nye. His collar stud had come undone at the back and the collar itself had worked up his neck. At last, he said:

  ‘Greeley would never go along with a thing like this. He’s a strict man. He sticks to the law.’

  ‘And so will we … we won’t put a foot wrong. Anyhow, Greeley’s on holiday, digging up ruins. He always goes to Italy this time of year. And Challoner, who looks out for him, is a pushover. When Greeley comes back it’ll all be tied up. He’ll be delighted.’

  ‘But, Leonard,’ Smith protested, ‘ even if we did … what you suggest … and persuaded Page to sell, how do we pay him? Somerville is really hard up … he’s taken a lot of punishment from Mighill lately. After all the money that I’ve – I mean, that we’ve– had to spend here, he’s not in a position to produce further capital. He’d never do it.’

  ‘What a babe you are, Harold.’ Nye smiled coolly but in a companionable manner. ‘Don’t you see that an outright sale is off the menu now, period? And not only for the reason you mention. A wholesale appropriation of the Light would set the entire town against us all over again. No, no, what we’ll propose is a friendly amalgamation on a fifty-fifty basis. We’ve made up our differences; each paper will contribute its goodwill and plant – don’t forget we still have the printing hall – Page will retire, and be paid off with a percentage of the net receipts every year. We don’t put out a penny of capital.’

  As he stared at his companion, carried away by this latest ingenuity, Smith’s actuarial eye glistened.

  ‘Why … that way we’d be fair enough … yet make a most advantageous deal. We’d allow for equal amortization, then calculate Page’s percentage on a present-day basis. When the atomic plant comes in, sales will go up … No, no’ – he recoiled sharply – ‘I can’t see myself doing it.’

  There was a pause. Nye lit a cigarette, making no attempt to break the silence, then, almost pensively, he said:

  ‘I thought you were ambitious, Harold … that you wanted to make a position for yourself, on your own home ground.’

  Smith didn’t answer, he swallowed several times. Nye went on persuasively.

  ‘And haven’t you family reasons for wanting to succeed … your wife …?’

  ‘Yes, yes … there’s Minnie. I won’t disguise it from you. I’d do a lot to get her back. But this …’ He was still biting his nail, down to the quick. ‘ It still doesn’t sound right to me.’

  Nye saw that he was weakening. He hardened his tone.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, be a realist. What is this game anyway but a bloody cut-throat affair. Mighill’s at Somerville’s throat. Jo
tham’s at Mighill’s. And Vernon would give his eye-teeth to get his knife in either of them. It’s kill or be killed. You can’t blame yourself. You offered Page a damn sight more than his paper was worth. He should have taken it. But no, he had to fight us. And he mucked us up properly. And now when I make you a present of a certainty for turning the tables on him, you sit there moping like a sick cow. Have some guts, man. I tell you straight, if you pass up this chance you’ll regret it all your life.’

  Smith’s eye slid away, then came back to Nye again. He wet his lip, hesitated, then said:

  ‘This thing has got me down, Len. I could do with a drink. Do you think it would hurt me?’

  Stretching out casually, Nye pressed the button on the wall beside him. The waiter brought two double whiskies. Smith took his, sipped it at first, then drank it in a quick gulp – like he’d just crossed the Sahara, thought Nye.

  ‘I needed that.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve not been quite myself lately. And now this … so hard to decide … it’s bowled me over.’

  ‘Have another.’

  ‘Later … well, if you insist.’

  Nye told the waiter the same again. He brought them.

  ‘You know, Len,’ Smith reflected, in a tone that had begun to mellow, ‘the trouble with me is that at heart I’m still religious. I taught Sunday school all the years I was in Australia. My poor mother brought me up very strict. As a boy I was well grounded. Before I was eleven years old I could recite the whole of the Thirteenth Chapter of First Corinthians. But when I take another look at the situation. I see it from a better angle. We needn’t be too rough. We’ll be diplomatic. Page really ought to retire – he’s a sick man.’

  ‘You’ll be doing him a good turn.’

  ‘As for Cora …’ He broke off.

  ‘Nothing,’ Nye told him quickly. ‘Nobody’ll know a thing outside the family. The jerk loves her. He’ll forgive and forget.’

  ‘Get me another drink. The way you put it, I can’t see we have any alternative. It’s justifiable … that’s the word. What d’you suggest as our first move? Phone Page?’

  ‘No. Send a letter by hand. Ask for an appointment.’

  Smith thought for a minute, stroking his chin with the back of his hand.

  ‘One thing … important. We’ll need your friend Haines. You better phone him at once.’

  That, Nye told himself, is a smart one for a man, religious at heart, who could formerly recite the Thirteenth Chapter of Corinthians.

  ‘I’d already thought of it,’ he said. ‘ He’s still with Mighill. But first the letter.’

  He waited while Smith finished his drink, then they got up and went into the waiting room.

  Chapter Eight

  At half-past two that afternoon Henry Page left the Northern Counties Club and set out at an easy pace for his office. He had just lunched with Wellsby, who had wanted to discuss details of the coming testimonial dinner now fixed for September 25th. It had been a cheerful meeting and Henry, gently stimulated by the excellent Chablis which his host had insisted upon, was in the best of spirits. He smiled to himself, reflecting on the adroit manner in which Wellsby had announced his Parliamentary intentions – well, Sir Archie would not make a bad candidate; at least as a solid Northumbrian he would, in the local idiom, stick up for the North.

  Turning the corner at Park Street, Henry took the shortcut through Rimmer’s Lane. As he did so, his eye was caught by a piece of china in the window of Bisset’s second-hand shop. He drew up, recognizing it at once as a rare example of his favourite Staffordshire, a beautiful salt-glaze Pecton shell, white in colour and ornamented with size gilding. It was early, too – he could tell at a glance – almost certainly by John Elers, the senior of the Elers brothers who settled in Burslem in 1690 – and the price on the ticket was only five pounds ten.

  What a find! And one which might mark the start of a new collection to replace the prized bits and pieces he had sacrificed at the Tynecastle Auction Mart. Of course, Henry could not resist it. He went in, and after some genial bargaining with Bisset, secured it for five guineas. Back is the office, he unwrapped the treasure and was admiring it on his desk when Moffatt came in, bringing a note which she said had just been delivered by hand. She submitted, with an air of humouring him, while Henry explained the design and markings, even put a few amiable questions that indicated a qualified improvement in her opinion of him – although no doubt, in her own mind, she was convinced he had survived only by the merest fluke. Then she left for her own room.

  Absently fingering the lovely shell, encouraged by the processes of digestion, Henry fell into a pleasant reverie. After weeks of strain and almost insupportable anxiety, his victory in the struggle forced upon him was an unimaginable relief. A great moral principle had been upheld; his paper could now continue unmolested, stronger, indeed, and more secure than before. At home, too, the others had shared in the general upsurge. Dorothy seemed to show a glimmer of regard for him, even casual signs of respect. And he had hopes that his relations with Alice might be entering a more equable phase. When he saw how much she looked forward to her long-anticipated reception on Thursday and to the public dinner and the testimonial he had consented to accept next week, he blamed himself for his past indifference to this aspect of her life. The naïveté with which she pursued such activities was part of her nature; he had his own peculiarities, why should not he indulge hers? By so doing he might at least promote in her an answering tolerance towards Cora. If only he could create an enduring sense of family unity, his satisfaction would be complete.

  At this point he recollected the letter Moffatt had brought in. He took it up, opened it and read it. Then, after a moment with an exclamation of distaste, he tore the sheet up and threw the pieces in the wastepaper basket.

  Once in a while the Light was the target of an abusive, scurrilous, or threatening letter, almost invariably anonymous. This was not anonymous – it was signed by Harold Smith – yet Henry could not have believed him capable of so stupid or so spiteful a parting shot.

  Dismissing the thing as beneath contempt, he got down to work – for the next day’s issue he had planned an economic feature on the proposed European Agreement, which, in the light of the recent conferences in Paris, seemed full of promise. But his thoughts would not flow; they kept winging back to this extraordinary letter which, the longer he dwelt upon it, became more inexplicable. He was alone in the office. Almost against his will he bent down, took the torn scraps from the basket, and with some difficulty fitted them together. The very form of the repieced sheet gave to it an air that was vaguely sinister.

  My dear Mr Page,

  There has come to our knowledge something of very considerable moment which may seriously affect you. In your own interests I advise you to give my colleague and myself an appointment at your earliest convenience so that we may discuss it with you. The matter is urgent and important.

  Believe me, with all regard , Yours very faithfully , Harold Smith.

  Henry drew a sharp breath. What on earth were they driving at? The vagueness of the phrasing, which suggested careful composition, was in itself enough to create uncertainty and alarm. A sense of insult burned in Henry. Why was the cliché ‘something of moment’ used – as though hinting at future disclosures of a damaging nature? And didn’t these three ambiguous words ‘I advise you,’ conceal the implication of a threat? But no, he couldn’t permit himself to lapse into this train of conjecture. He knew that Smith and his associate were on the point of leaving Hedleston. The letter was no more than a final thrust and, like the last sting of a crushed wasp, was charged with venom. He decided firmly to ignore it, crumpled the scraps and threw them back into the basket.

  For the next hour he concentrated well. Then Malcolm Maitland came bustling in to say goodbye. He was having a couple of days off to go down to Nottingham for the Autumn Horse Fair, hoping to buy a young trotter there.

  ‘I’ve had my eye on a good one for some time,’ he told Henry. �
�A smart little mare by Spitfire out of Arabian Night. She’s a beauty.’

  Ever since the Light had come out on top he’d been in unusually good form, and he added with a chuckle:

  ‘Now we’re solvent again, I feel I can afford it.’

  More than ever Henry had become attached to Maitland. Over the past year he had drawn largely upon his knowledge, experience, and accumulated information, as well as on his sincere and vigorous character. Privately, he had often sought his advice, and with the thought of the letter still at the back of his mind, he had a momentary impulse to speak of it to him. But Maitland was, for once, full of his own affairs and eager to be off. Henry had not the heart to impose himself upon him; be decided to let him go.

  ‘Have a good time, then, Malcolm.’ He held out his hand, adding feelingly, ‘You know how I’ll miss you.’

  Page’s sentimentality bothered Maitland – it was the difference between the two men – and he would no more have dreamed of displaying his own deep regard for Henry than he would of embracing his horse.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he said dryly, his lips puckered. Then a smile illuminated his ugly face. ‘Keep the presses buzzing while I’m away.’

  By four o’clock the article was finished and Hadley – plump, timidly smiling, running as usual about his business – came in with the photographs that were to go with it: some interesting views of new Continental housing developments, airports, bridges, and modern factories. After he had gone, Henry was about to ring for Moffatt when he heard a quiet tap on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  Glancing up, with a queer sense of something unexpected, he saw Cora standing there.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  She was wearing a new brown dress he had not seen before and the string of pearls he had given her for Christmas two years ago. He had never known her to look prettier; her eyes were especially brilliant. She went on, a trifle hurriedly, as though excusing herself.

  ‘I had an errand in the town … for David, it was … I couldn’t think to go home without looking in. But if you’re busy, I’ll just be off.’