The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  Now that the issue was beyond doubt, a faint mist had diffused across that aspect of consciousness, replacing acute emotion with a sort of dulled blackness. But the thought of Sleedon came like a brightness in the prevailing gloom, and he was taken by a sudden longing to be there, less perhaps to see David, who, after all, knew nothing of events, than to be with Cora, dear Cora, to end her anxiety and restore her peace of mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Hedleston that same Wednesday afternoon, just at the hour when Henry was returning to his hotel, Leonard Nye stepped off the train from Tynecastle, where, with considerable pleasure and apparent profit, he had spent most of the day. In the morning, unaware of Page’s departure for London, he had said to Smith, with complete assurance:

  ‘Look, Harold … it’s a certainty that Page’ll phone you some time this afternoon. When he does, go round, soap him up, and get his signature.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Use your head, man. You know I only put his back up. You’re the one he’ll want to deal with. Besides, I have to go to Tynecastle.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I have a couple of calls to make. Besides, I need a haircut and a manicure.’

  Despite this cool show of imperturbability, an attitude upon which Nye particularly prided himself, he had been on edge most of the day, and now as he walked towards the office in the Prudential Building he experienced a tightening of his nerves, which he endeavoured to counteract by pausing to light a cigarette and reducing his pace to a leisurely stroll.

  The lift took him to the third floor. Unconsciously, he hurried along the passage to his office.

  ‘Any messages?’ he asked Peter – whenever he got in.

  ‘Mr Smith’s been on the line several times from Mossburn.’

  ‘Get him.’

  Peter went to the phone and plugged in to the private line. For a moment there was no answer. Nye crushed out his half-smoked cigarette, lit another, and took a few quick draws. While he was waiting to get through, Peter said:

  ‘There was a caller, too, Mr Nye. I think it was young Mr Page.’

  ‘So he dropped in?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Nye. Looked very queer indeed.’

  ‘Doesn’t he always? Let me know if he shows up again. I’ll deal with him.’

  ‘Very good. Hello. Hello.… You’re through, sir.’

  Nye took the receiver.

  ‘Smith … Nye here.… Any word?’

  ‘Word!’ Smith’s voice came back charged with suppressed feeling. ‘I should think there is.… Page left for London last night. He’s been in with Somerville this morning. What’s happening, I don’t know. Greeley’s away, Somerville’s got a meeting in the City. I’ve been on and off to head office all afternoon. It’s too bad … the way you ran out on me. Everything seems at sixes and sevens.’

  Nye’s expression had changed at this unexpected news. He said sharply:

  ‘Haven’t you anything definite?’

  ‘Challoner’s the only one who seems to know anything. It seems that Page has promised to let them know today. Challoner thinks it should be all right, but he can’t be sure. In the last hour I’ve done nothing but hang on the wire, waiting for the decision. It’s getting on my nerves.’

  Nye bit his lip, angered by his own miscalculation and by Smith’s recriminating tone. But there was no point in starting a row at this juncture. He reflected for half a minute, frowning at the opposite wall.

  ‘Why don’t you come here?’ he said. ‘We’ll stick it out together.’

  From the way Smith jumped at the idea Nye guessed accurately the state he was in.

  ‘I’ll tell them to switch the call to you, Leonard. Don’t move from the phone. I’ll be along in twenty minutes.’

  Nye turned to Peter.

  ‘You can go now. I shan’t need you any more today.’

  He waited until the lad had gone, then went into his room and sat on the edge of his desk, harassed by uneasy thoughts. It took Smith half an hour to get over – he had been obliged to wait for a taxi – and when he came in, Nye saw that his impression had been correct. Smith was in the jitters and, from his patchy flush and fruity breath, had needed a little help to keep himself going.

  ‘Nothing yet?’ He read Nye’s expression and sank into a chair with his leather briefcase on his knees. ‘I can’t stand this much longer.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Leonard said. But he wasn’t feeling too easy himself; his nerves were screwed up about as tight as they could go. This business had finally got to such a pitch they simply had to come through – not for Somerville or the Gazette, but because he had to win or he’d never look himself in the eye again. Now they had come to the last ditch, the final showdown, it must work out the way he intended, he just couldn’t bear to miss.

  They were both listening for the phone call. Nye lit another cigarette – he’d been chain-smoking all afternoon. Smith broke the silence.

  ‘What do you think, Len?’

  ‘For God’s sake, shut up,’ Nye snapped at him. ‘We’ve been over it all before. Talk of something else. The weather … women … gipsy violinists … your favourite laxative.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Did you get much done in Tynecastle?’ Smith asked, subdued.

  ‘I damn well did. I went round to all the advertisers, sowing the good seed, saw Spencer at the local office of the Northern Mills, called in at the Echo and had a long talk with Harrison. He’s a sub-editor there, and I used to know him on the Enquirer. Everything was working out at last, I told them all; we were hoping for an amicable settlement with Page. I admitted he’d had rather the better of us, but now, because of his health, he wanted to get out. I tell you, I sweated to put it across – it’s important. We don’t want any suspicion of bad blood; it would hurt us when we take over … or should I now say, if we take over?’ He drew viciously on the cigarette. ‘That’s my story. What’s yours?’

  Smith drew out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead.

  ‘Well, I was on the wire all day … as I told you. But in between … I wrote a long letter to Minnie, asking her to join me. I’ll post it if all goes well.’ He must have caught Nye’s expression, for he shook his head heavily. ‘ It’s not so funny. I can’t pick up with women, like you; the way you get off with them is a crime. I’ll bet you weren’t on business all day in Tynecastle. I’ve … I’ve suffered.’

  Suddenly, before he could continue, the phone rang. Simultaneously they started up. Nye got to the switchboard first.

  ‘Hello … hello … yes, Nye here.… Put him through.’

  The message from Challoner was brief and to the point. Nye didn’t look at Smith until he laid down the receiver. Then, turning with a blankly expressionless face, he gave him a full minute in which to suffer before he said:

  ‘Page is coming up on the night express. He’ll sign tomorrow … whenever he gets back.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Smith sank into a chair. He fumbled for his handkerchief again, failed to find it, and with the back of his hand wiped his damp upper lip. ‘You gave me quite a turn there.’

  Leonard smiled and put his hand on the other’s shoulder, filled, through his own elation, with sudden amiable pity for the poor clot, who couldn’t take it either way.

  ‘You need a drink,’ he told him. ‘Come on down and I’ll buy you one.’

  ‘No, no … I’m off it from now on … for good. I gave my word.’

  ‘Your word? Who to?’

  Smith hesitated, then, with a half-defiant glance:

  ‘I promised … that’s all … if the Lord let us come through.’

  It showed how good Nye felt – he didn’t even laugh at this compact with Heaven.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he said. He did feel good, real good; he was bubbling inside like a magnum of champagne; he could even be friendly with Smith. ‘We’ve got to celebrate. This is a big night for us. Don’t be a dog in the manger. We’ll have fun together.’

  �
�Well …’ Smith wavered, his face warming – he wasn’t hard to convince. ‘Since it’s the last time.’

  They closed the office, descended in the lift, and walked along Park Street to the hotel. It was a sweet evening, the pavements dry, birds singing in the gardens, the air soft and cool. The last of the sun, shining through a row of copper beeches, which still had not shed their leaves, lit up the street and put a burnished sheen upon the buildings. Nye did not usually notice these things, but now he did. Hedleston wasn’t such a bad spot after all; he had misjudged it in the beginning, but now he conceded its good points. Convenient for Tynecastle, too, where he had established that nice discreet connection. He kept feeling better and better, as though he owned the town. Perhaps he would one day. He was pretty sick of bumming around the globe. At thirty-five he wasn’t the juvenile lead any longer, and he was getting a little tired of playing the angles, of walking the tightrope between one job and another. There might be something in this settling-down idea. An incredible wave of magnanimity swept over him as he considered that he might get Aunt Liz to sell the shop and come up and keep his house – no matrimony for him, leave that to Smith. Suddenly he saw himself as mayor, with a chain round his neck, opening … what? … well, say, a home for delinquent girls. He even heard himself making the speech, and parodied it instinctively: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends and fellow citizens of our royal borough of Hedleston, the worthy purpose of this home is to keep these delinquent girls … in fact, to keep them permanently delinquent …’ He felt like laughing out loud.

  When they got to the Red Lion, Smith took his letter from his inside pocket and posted it carefully in the mail box, noting the time of the next collection. The letter was a fat one – he’d written reams in the last few weeks. Nye believed that if he hadn’t been there Smith would have kissed it.

  They went into the lounge and found a couple of arm-chairs by the window.

  ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘Well, if you insist, double Scotch.’

  Smith still had the briefcase; he put it down tenderly, beside him. Nye felt sure he’d go to bed with it.

  ‘I’ve brought the triplicate contracts from Mossburn; I had the seals put on this morning; in fact, I’ve been carrying them around all day. In spite of everything. I must have had a premonition he’d sign,’ Smith said.

  ‘He will, Harold … he will.’

  They had their drinks and Nye signalled to the waiter for the same again. When he came back he brought the menu. Leonard ordered the dinner and a magnum of Pol Roger, to put on ice.

  ‘You know,’ Smith said solemnly, ‘ it’s wonderful the way we’ve come out on top, in spite of everything. Yet I can’t somehow get Page out of my mind … that look in his eyes … I like the man.’

  Nye hadn’t had much lunch, only a snack at the station bar, and the Scotch, on an empty stomach, was giving him a lift, too. He extemporized:

  ‘You like little Page,

  His coat is so warm,

  But we haven’t hurt him;

  He’ll come to no harm.’

  ‘No, seriously, Len.’ Smith eyed the other censoriously. ‘It’s not a joking matter. I mean … well … if it had come to the bit, I don’t believe I’d have gone along with you …’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Printing the dirt.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Nye looked at him, realizing that he was a bit over the eight – he must really have been soaking it up all day – still, it was sickening to hear him try to exonerate himself. ‘Don’t you know that’s what we live on … dirt … sensation … murder … sudden death. It’s like feeding the animals at the zoo. We’ve got to serve the meat red, raw, and tainted. Haven’t you ever in your sweet life heard the newsboys shout? “Horrible murder in Holloway … girl raped and strangled.” That’s news, brother. “ Gor blimey, ’e ’ad it, before she ’ ad it.”’

  ‘Still’ – Smith blinked at Nye owlishly – ‘I think Page had a point. We need to improve the eth – the eth – uh, excuse me – the ethical standards of journalism.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Some sort of board of control.’

  ‘You can’t control the freedom of the press – not in a democracy. Damn it all, that’s censorship. Besides, if the people don’t want what we offer them, why the hell do they buy it? Who is it wants to know whether the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast? There was an electrocution at Sing-Sing when I was in New York, Jesus Christ, you should have seen what appeared in one of the tabloids … their reporter had smuggled in a microfilm camera and there was a whole spread of pictures of the poor bastard strapped to the chair in the death cell, with the electrodes on him, being officially bumped off. Next year the same bright newsboy won the Homer Gluck Prize for his pictures of a lynching.’

  ‘Horrible, Leonard, frankly horrible. It proves my argument. We have to edu … teach the masses.’

  ‘And go right out of business? Don’t talk inflated drivel. The people need their daily dose of opium these days; otherwise this bloody world – which is going to be blown to smithereens in any case – is too tough a place to live in. We’re the real humanitarians, not those would-be do-gooders like your friend Page.’

  ‘All right, all right, Leonard. No offence, not the slightest. I’m only glad I’m on the business side. You know me. I have feelings … deep. You understand. I feel deeply … love my wife … a family man. To do your stuff, it would cut me to the heart.’

  ‘Oh, go fry an egg,’ Nye said. ‘You can’t have a heart in this game. I learned my lesson early. When I was a young reporter, green and innocent, if you can believe it, with an American syndicate, they gave me an assignment to cover a stunt parachute jumper, a young Austrian, Rudi Schermann, the Human Eagle, they called him. He went around doing his act at country fairs and such like, and I went with him. He was a simple sort of fellow blond, clear-skinned, with a nice wife and kid, and as brave as they come – I needn’t tell you his stunts were as dangerous as hell. I got to like him – I still could like people in those days – and I sent in photos and snippits until he had quite a build-up. I knew the risks he was taking and kept telling him to get out while he was still in one piece. So did his wife. But he would smile and shake his head. He wanted to make enough to retire to a little farm in the Tyrol, with some ducks and chickens and a cow – he was just that simple.

  ‘Well, one day it happened. Rudi took off at ten thousand feet, let out his smoke signal amid the “oohs” and “ aahs” of the crowd of mucking bumpkins in the field below, and prepared to soar. But something went wrong. He didn’t soar. He began to plummet. He pulled his first ripcord, but the parachute didn’t open. I saw him struggling with his tangled harness. He couldn’t free it. He was down now to fifteen hundred feet. He tried his second chute, real desperate now, but it was caught in the tangle too. It opened slightly, but not enough. He hit the ground not thirty feet from me, with the most sickening goddam awful thud. He was alive and no more when I picked him up; I’ll never forget the way he looked at me. He died a few seconds later, in my arms. I had feelings in those days. Yes, it’s a laugh all right, just to think of it, but the tears were running down my cheeks. Somehow I got to a phone booth. I phoned my editor. I was shaking all over. Do you know what the S.O.B. said? “ Fine,” he said. “We’ll give him the whole front page. I want all the wordage you can let me have and lots of photographs. Be sure and get a good one of the body.”’ Nye looked at Smith and took a long drink. ‘If you want to know, that’s when I lost my journalistic virginity. Where the hell is that waiter? We’ll have another round, then we’ll go and eat.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The knocking on his door finally roused Smith. Dimly, through the muddle of sleep, he heard the boots’ voice.

  ‘It’s seven-thirty, Mr Smith. You wanted to be called, sir.’

  Smith opened his eyes with difficulty, then hurriedly closed them. The light, filtering beneath the blind, hurt him. His lips were sticky and gummed together
and there was a pounding in his head. But he managed to say:

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Your hot water’s outside. And your shoes. Quite a nice morning.’

  When the man had gone, Smith lay for a while with his arm across his face, overcome with remorse for having allowed Nye to persuade him into the celebration on the previous evening. He couldn’t recollect how much they’d drunk, but from the way he felt now, it had been too much. When he gave way, awakening next morning was the worst of it – not just the headache and the foul taste in the mouth, although these were bad enough, for liquor never did suit him, but the sick sense of self-reproach that made him blame himself for a weak-kneed fool. Now, as he forced his eyes open, he felt especially bad. That champagne, he thought with a shudder, trying to break wind. Yet perhaps there was some excuse for him. These last few days, with all the strain and uncertainty, he’d had to keep himself going somehow. Now that it was settled, he swore he’d keep off the stuff for good.

  He rolled over in bed, struggled into his bathrobe, and rang for his morning tea. When the maid brought it she seemed to look at him in a queer sort of way, but perhaps that was only his fancy, he wasn’t seeing things too clearly yet. She was a pert little piece whom he didn’t approve of at all – he’d often, heard her giggling with Nye in his room. When she’d drawn the curtains he had the impression she wanted to say something, but he took no notice. The tea made him feel better, but when he got on his feet again he was still inclined to be shaky, so he went to the wardrobe, where he kept an emergency bottle of Scotch, and took one short drink to steady himself. That, he told himself, is positively the last.

  It took him longer than usual to dress; his things were scattered all over the place, and he had trouble getting on his elastic stockings. Smith was sensitive on the point and never spoke of it, but he suffered from varicose veins, and when he indulged the swelling became worse. However, he was ready by half-past eight. On the way to breakfast he looked in on Nye. As he’d expected, Leonard was still asleep. Although Smith shook him several times, he couldn’t rouse him. Last night in the lounge he had been very intemperate, and cynical, too – Smith hadn’t liked it at all. He left him and went downstairs.